nd arrows
came whizzing about the ears of the fugitives.

The latter, in about three bounds, had cleared the fearful "elbow"
overhanging the abyss, and which they had crossed so circumspectly in
cold blood the previous day. Rounding it safely, they had gained one
advantage; they were out of arrow range for the moment.

"Lay hold of my stirrup-leather," cried Renshaw, "and run alongside.
There's clear going now for some way to come."

But Sellon had sunk to the ground groaning with pain.

"I can't," he gasped. "My ankle's sprained."

Here was a situation. A dismounted comrade with a sprained ankle,
unable to walk even, let alone run; a crowd of bloodthirsty barbarians
close behind swarming down the mountain-side in pursuit. Surely one of
the two must be sacrificed.

But Renshaw did not hesitate. The other had planned and willingly
carried out a diabolical scheme of robbery and murder--even up to the
time they were surprised had plainly shown a resolve to rob him of his
share of the undertaking. Why should he sacrifice his own life for the
benefit of such a worthless ungrateful scoundrel?

Nothing is quicker than thought. In that moment of deadly peril--in the
mad heat of a race for life--swifter than the lightning flash there
swept through his mind the promise Violet had exacted from him during
that last ride together. "Promise that you will stand my friend.
Promise that if ever you can help me you will." And with it there
flashed a serious doubt as to whether it would in fact be the act of a
friend to be instrumental in placing her at the mercy of such an
unprincipled rascal as Maurice Sellon.

But to this succeeded a far graver consideration. The last Mass in the
little church at Fort Lamport--doubly solemn because perforce so seldom
attended--the white-headed old priest and his simple, straightforward
counsels, and above all at that moment the words, intoned in the
Sunday's epistle, "_Sed si esurierit inimicus tuus, ciba illum; si
sitit, potum da illi_." ("But if thine enemy be hungry, give him to
eat; if thirsty, give him to drink.")

Renshaw's Christianity was of pure gold. He did not hesitate now.

"Jump up," he said, dismounting, and helping the other to gain his own
saddle, "I'll run alongside."

The pursuers had now doubled the spur which had afforded temporary
concealment to the fugitives. At sight of one of these on foot, they
set up a shrill yell of triumph, and streamed down the dec