steady, rushing lope as their frenzy of panic quieted a little. Clark turned in the saddle, but there was no sign of pursuit as yet from K'Lamm.
But none of them had escaped unscathed. Mike Shinn had a bleeding cut on his forehead; Blacky Cain had one sleeve slashed to ribbons; the rest all had small cut or stab wounds. Only Ephraim Quell, riding grimly forward with jacket buttoned tightly against the wind, appeared to have escaped without injury.
Clark leaned toward the Dordonan girl riding close beside him. Lorain had a cut across one bare knee, but it was not serious. As they galloped, she looked tautly back to where K'Lamm had dropped from sight in the moonlight.
"They will try to follow but they cannot trail us by night, and they dare not go too close to Dordona in small parties," she said. Then she laughed. "I would like to see Thargo's face now."
Ahead in the dim moonlight there soon loomed vaguely a long, low line of dark trees. It marked the river, and they reached it in a quarter-hour. The dull roar of the stream was loud, as it raced with the swiftness of a mountain-flume toward Dordona.
As they rode along it, heading east, the first gray streak of dawn showed ahead. Clark's hopes were soaring. Every beat of the hoofs brought them nearer to Dordona, where lay the pit that was entrance to the Lake of Life. He'd yet succeed in reaching it—he had the girl's word now that he could descend to it.
Ephraim quell suddenly toppled
stiffly from his horse. They reined in hastily and Clark ran to the Yankee's side. Quell's bony face was a ghastly, stiff mask, his eyes closed. From under his coat welled a dark stain, and when Clark ripped the coat open, he saw that beneath it had been concealed two deep sword-wounds.
"Good God! Quell was badly wounded when he kept the gate from closing, but he said nothing to us!" Clark exclaimed. Ephraim Quell's glazed eyes flickered at Clark's drawn, tense countenance. A smile glimmered in them.
"I'm—'bout ready to cast anchor," Quell muttered. "Felt the life running out of me, as I rode——"
"Quell; you're not dying!" Clark said desperately. "We'll get you to Dordona, and pull you through."
"No, I'm done for," whispered the seaman. "And—I don't mind. Ever since my ship burned and they took my certificate, I—haven't cared much about living.
His glazed eyes fixed on the eastern sky, pale with dawn. A cool breeze had begun to blow from there, stirring the grass. The Yankee skipper's lips moved, almost inaudibly.
"Fair skies and a good wind—today " he whispered. Then his head lolled laxly, his eyes dull, dead.
Clark let him down and got to his feet. There was a hard lump in his throat but he made his voice harsh.
"Mike—Blacky—keep a watch to the south and west. Link and Morrow and I will bury him."
In the paling dawn, they scooped a grave under a tree beside the roaring river, using a little camp-spade from one of the packs. White mists of morning made everything unreal as they put Ephraim Quell's stiff body into the shallow grave, and covered it.
"Mount! Forward!" Clark ordered.
Again they galloped, hoofs thudding above the river roar, bearing them on through swirling white mists.
"I'm kind of glad," said Link Wilson's drawling voice finally, "that we buried him where he can hear water."
