Buck turned and looked out over the desolate plateau with troubled eyes. She followed his gaze. Strangely she had little fear, even with that trouble in her lover’s eyes.
The plateau was desperately gloomy. It was hot, too, up there, terribly hot. But Joan had no thought for that except that she associated it with the hot wind blowing up from below. Her observation was narrowed to a complete dependence on Buck. He was her hope, her only hope.
Suddenly she saw him reel. Then, in a moment, she saw that both men were down on hands and knees, and, almost at the instant, she, herself, was hurled flat upon the ground beside the body of her aunt.
The earth was rocking, and now she understood more fully her lover’s trouble. Her courage slowly began to ebb. She fought against it, but slowly a terror of that dreadful hill crept up in her heart, and she longed to flee anywhere from it—anywhere but down into that caldron of fire below. But the thought was impossible. Death was on every hand beyond that hill, and the hill itself was—quaking.
Now Buck was speaking again.
“We’ll have to git som’ere from here,” he said.
The Padre answered him—
“Where?”
It was an admission of the elder man’s weakness. Buck must guide. The girl’s eyes remained upon her lover’s face; she was awaiting his reply. She understood, had always known it, that all human help for her must come from him.