“How do you know?” Beelo sharply demanded.
Christopher pointed to a large rock near us, to the path that it had freshly torn through the brush, and to a steep slope from which it had been dislodged.
“Good for Christopher!” said Beelo. He studied the sky, and dejectedly added, “But the storm is coming!” After a little reflection he remarked, as if to himself, “I don’t know whether that should change our plans or not.” He seated himself to think it out, and began arranging twigs on the ground. “No Senatras will be within miles of the passage,” he ruminated. “They fear it, for the earthquake is born here, and they have run away. So, we can make better time. Mr. Vancouver is safe today; we won’t go there.”
“Where, dear little brother?”
Pain crossed his face. “To the clearing opposite the Face. If only another earthquake would come, or this had come sooner!”
“Is one usually followed by another?”
“Often. Sometimes not. Come! The sun will be setting before long, and we have miles to go.”
We hid the battered raft and struck out. Our way led parallel to the stream, which tore foaming down a gorge of steeply sloping sides. It slipped into a pleasant valley, richly verdured. There we left it and began the ascent of a mountain on the west. Dusk was coming on. Beelo fearlessly pursued the trails in the darkening hours.
Occasionally we paused to rest. The valley which we had crossed lay a black-green sea below. Behind us the eastern sky was cut straight across by the level summit of our valley wall. Beelo was closely studying it.
“You see no sign of fire over there, do you?” he asked, pointing toward the clearing opposite the Face.