The man set the butt of his gun against his shoulder and took aim. Dorothy leapt forward and flung herself at the stone which stood up behind him and with the impetus of her spring and all her weight behind her outstretched hands, shoved it. It was badly balanced, gave at the shock, and toppled over, closing the excavation like a trap-door of stone, crushing the gun, and imprisoning the man in the blouse. The young girl got just a glimpse of his head as it bent and his shoulders as they were thrust down into the hole.
She thought that the attack was only postponed, that the enemy would lose no time in getting out of his grave, and dashed at full speed to the bottom of the fissure at which she arrived at the same time as Saint-Quentin.
"Quick ... quick!" she cried. "We must bolt!"
In a flurry, he dragged down the rope by one of the ends, mumbling as he did so:
"What's up? What d'you want? How did you know I was here?"
She gripped his arm and tugged at it.
"Bolt, idiot!... They've seen you!... They were going to take a shot at you!... Quick! They'll be after us!"
"What's that? Be after us? Who?"
"A queer-looking beggar disguised as a peasant. He's in a hole over yonder. He was going to shoot you like a partridge when I tumbled the slab on to the top of him."
"But——"