“Launa, it seems as if it were cutting us off.”
They were in a winding road, a crosscut. He started Micmac at a gallop. If the fire were before them! There was a long hill to climb.
The trap swayed and jolted, for the road was bad. They were tearing along; the wind was behind them, and they could hear the crackle which was getting nearer, rising to a hideous roar. A river crossed the road below the hill—had they time to get to it?
Paul wrapped the rug round his companion, put it over her head, and covered her mouth.
“Keep it tight,” he exclaimed, “and sit still.”
Then he began to use his whip, having tied his own handkerchief over his mouth. Micmac was going more slowly in spite of the whip; it seemed as if he were terrified and paralysed by the pursuing fiend.
“You are not afraid,” said Paul with difficulty, through his handkerchief.
“No,” gasped Launa, “not with you.”
He put his hand on her shoulder.
“Keep your mouth well covered; the fire is before us. We must go through it.”