the rope; so that I should take too long. She risked her life to do it. She is mad.'
'Yes. That was what she did. I met her. She lied to me. To the last she tried to keep me from you. But we've foiled her, this time;—we've foiled her at last,' muttered Graham, bending over the knot. Terror and joy inundated his soul. And again it was as if he blessed Madame de Lamouderie who brought them thus together.
The rope snapped. Inside the hut the kid was cowering. Marthe lifted it, murmuring, 'My poor little one, you shall not be left to die.'
'We shall all die, unless we make haste. Give me the kid. And run. Run to the bridge. I'm following.' He leaned against the cabin and put out his hands for the kid, while he felt the water lap about their feet.
But she was standing still. Her white face scanned him. 'What is the matter? Why do you not come, too?'
'I am coming. Give me the kid.' He forced himself forward on the broken foot.
'You have injured yourself. You are in great pain. You cannot walk,' said Marthe.
'I've hurt my foot, a little. It is nothing. I can get along—more slowly. In God's name, give me the beast and go!' cried Graham in a voice of sudden fury. 'I promise to you to save it—and myself—if I can.'
'You think that I will leave you? You cannot think it. Take my arm,' said Marthe. 'Lean on me.'
