St. John and George, with their men, ran down the stony road till the
sweat dripped from their brows, though the night was chilly. Mitchinson
was to follow with the rest and light the fires; meantime, they must get
to Nazri, in case the march should forestall them. St. John was
cursing his ill-luck. Two hours earlier and they might have held the
distant cleft in the hills, and, if they were doomed to perish, have
perished to some purpose. But the holding of the easy Nazri pass was
sheer idle mania, and yet it was the only chance of gaining some paltry
minutes. As for George, he had forgotten his vexatious. His one
anxiety was for Lewis; that he should be in time to have his friend at
his side. And when at last they came down on the pass and saw the
camp-fire blazing fiercely and no trace of the enemy, he experienced a
sense of vast relief. Lewis was making himself comfortable, cool beggar
that he was, and now was probably sleeping. He should be left alone; so
he persuaded St. John that the best point to take their stand on was on
a shoulder of hill beyond the fire. It gave him honest pleasure to
think that at last he had stolen a march on his friend. He should at
least have his sleep in peace before the inevitable end.
He looked at his watch; it was almost half-past eleven.
"Haystoun said they'd be here at midnight," he whispered to his
companion.
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