"Now get up and make no noise. Two men are lying in the scrub behind that fellow across the chasm. I am afraid they have grenades…. Are you ready, Yellow-hair?"
"Ready, dear."
"Go eastward, swiftly, two hundred yards parallel with the precipice. Make no sound, Yellow-hair."
The girl cast a pallid, heart-breaking look at him, but he lay there without turning his head, his steady pistol levelled across the chasm. Then, bending a trifle forward, she stole eastward through the forest dusk, the pigeon in its wicker cage in one hand, and on her back the pack.
And all the while, across the gulf out of which golden vapours curled more thickly as the sun's burning searchlight spread out across the world, the man in Swiss uniform stood on the chasm's edge, as though awaiting some further word or movement from McKay.
And, after awhile, the word came, clear, startling, snapped out across the void:
"Unsling that haversack! Don't touch the flap! Take it off, quick!"
The Swiss seemed astounded. "Quick!" repeated McKay harshly, "or I fire."
"What!" burst out the man, "you offer violence to a Swiss officer on duty within Swiss territory?"
"I tell you I'll kill you where you stand if you don't take off that haversack!"