"What you got to do—you do," he panted slowly under his breath, frowning at the compass and trying in the darkness to see which way that faithful little needle turned. Once, twice, he looked fearfully up toward that grim building.
Then he decided, as best he might, which direction was southeast and dragged his aching legs that way until presently he was stumbling in the water again.
Surely, he thought, the river ran almost north and south, and southeast must lead on into the mountains. But perhaps he had not read the compass aright or perhaps he was on the edge of a deep bay, which would mean water extending still westward. Or perhaps he was on the Alsatian shore.
For a moment he stood bewildered. Then he tried to read the compass again and started forward in the direction which he thought to be west. If he were on the Alsatian shore, this should take him away from that black, heartless Teuton ruin.
But it only took him into a chaos of broken, shiny rock where he stumbled and fell, cutting his knee and making his head throb cruelly.
And then Tom Slade, seeing that fate was against him, and having used all the resource and young strength that he had, to get to the boys "over there," gave up and lay among the jagged rocks, holding his head with one bruised hand and thinking hopelessly of this end of all his efforts.