Although dawn was streaking the heavens with its colors, it was still dusk in the valley and pitch dark in their open cut.
“We are nearly there!” said Caya, coming forward in the dim line to help Cliff with his father: she took his statue in spite of her own burden and they hurried all they could.
From somewhere in the distance ahead they heard shouts.
“Can we make it?” panted Mr. Whitley.
“It’s a question of minutes,” gasped Bill. “Seconds, maybe! Hear that!”
As they neared the place where the great sluice gate of that particular distributing aqueduct was located they heard the shouting of men and the rumble of something—was it a huge stone being lifted by their rude and uncouth mechanical methods? Was that the gurgle of water they heard between the rumblings?
“Oh!” whispered Caya—“Here hangs the rope.” She, in the lead, feeling the walls, had located something hanging down.
Her brother gave a sharp jerk, repeated it, was answered.
“Caya first,” said Mr. Whitley.
“No,” said Mr. Gray. “William—Bill first!”