They were but half-way through the narrow gorge. The two men broke into a stumbling run. Ridgar was going backwards, half-turned to see ahead, and suddenly his foot struck a loose pebble and he fell headlong. De Courtenay stumbled, and in the scramble to right themselves they lost more time than they could spare. Before they were up and started, a shrill voice came into the gorge, yelling its “Hi! Hi! Hi-a!”
De Courtenay suddenly stopped.
“'Tis useless!” he said breathlessly; “We'll never make it! Here,—do you take my place, Ma'amselle!”
He caught Maren's shoulder and pushed her forward.
“Take his knees,—so! You are strong,—give me the rifle. Make haste, Ridgar,—Ma'amselle!”
He bowed in the darkness.
“The last turn of the wheel, Ma'amselle,—and I take the plunge alone. All in the day's march!”
With the last words he turned back to face the way they had come, shook his long curls back across his shoulder, and lifted the rifle to his cheek.
The footsteps of Ridgar and Maren were echoing down the rocky gap.
It had been a promising escape, a neat plan well carried out, and there was but one thing lacking to its fulfilment,—another step to pace the deserted lodge of captives.