The Urchin looked back into the blackness, unrelieved by any ray of the lamp, which faced the other way. The footsteps were steadily drawing nearer, neither hasting nor staying. What the Urchin may have thought he saw Fiona could not guess; he gave one shriek, slid out of her grasp, and bolted for the rock barrier as fast as his trembling feet would carry him.
For one moment Fiona all but followed him. Then it suddenly came to her that she was responsible for the boy's safety. She never knew afterwards how she managed to do what she did; but she turned, and with the courage of utter desperation—the courage which enables the hen partridge to face the sparrow hawk—stood at bay, swinging up the heavy lamp to see and face whatever should come.
And into the circle of lamplight quietly walked the figure of the old hawker.
The revulsion of feeling was too much for Fiona. She sprang forward and caught the old man's hand and clung to it.
"Oh," she said, "I'm so glad it's you. We heard the footsteps and we were so frightened." The relief of it all was overwhelming; she was almost crying, and went on saying anything, hardly knowing what she said, just for the mere human companionableness of it. "How did you come here? I suppose you came over with Angus in his boat. Of course you would. Then there must be another way into the cave after all, and we couldn't find it."
"And so I frightened you?" said the old man gently, making no effort to withdraw his hand. "Yes, there is another way in." He made no attempt to answer all her questions.
"Urchin," called Fiona, raising her voice. "Urchin, come back; it's all right."
But there was no answer.
"Urchin," she shouted; "Urchin."
But there was no answer save the echoing of the empty cave.