Cunningham went with them. He had no choice, but it is doubtful if he would have done otherwise had he been able to.
Again the weary people settled for a little rest. Yells sounded faintly, far to the right. A red glow began and grew larger and became a house burning with a crackling noise in the wilderness. Cunningham saw an old man rise on one elbow and peer at the flames. His face was apathetic. Then he lay down again.
“That was my house,” he said quietly to the man nearest him, and was silent.
Again came runners, panting. One man was sobbing in rage and humiliation, begging leave to plunge into the mob and die fighting—alone, if need be.
Stephan refused him gently.
“I think we die,” he said grimly, “but he”—Stephan pointed at Cunningham—“has promised that help will come. I do not believe it, but we can miss no chance. We have women with us, and children. We must hold ourselves for them. While the least chance remains, we must live.”
Once more came the order to move. And once more the weary march began. It had no object and it had no hope. But beneath the full moon the Strangers plodded on and on, until the baying of dogs set up behind them.
“They’ve sent down in the valley and got dogs!” raged Cunningham in a blend of fury and sick horror.
Stephan stroked his chin and gazed at Cunningham.
“What now, my son?” he asked.