He seemed to have the foot of a chamois. Down the
rocky hillside, across the chaos of boulders, and up into the dark
nullah he ran like a maniac. His mouth was parched with thirst, and he
stopped for a moment in the valley bottom to swallow some rain-water.
At last he found himself in the Nazri valley, with the thin sword-cut
showing dark in the yellow evening. Another mile and he would be at the
camping-place, and in five more at the hut.
He kept high up on the ridge, for the light had almost gone and the
valley was perilous. It must be hideously late, eight o'clock or more,
he thought, and his despair made him hurry his very weary limbs.
Suddenly in the distant hollow he saw the gleam of a fire. He stopped
abruptly and then quickened with a cry of joy. It must be the faithful
George still waiting in the place appointed. Now there would be two to
the task. But it was too late, he bitterly reflected. In a little the
moon would rise, and then at any moment the van of the invader might
emerge from the defile. He might warn Bardur, but before anything could
be done the enemy would be upon them. And then there would be a
southward march upon a doubtful and half-awakened country, and then--he
knew not.
But there was one other way. It had not occurred to him before, for it
is not an expedient which comes often to men nowadays, save to such as
are fools and outcasts.
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