pasmodic, he reeled, pulled himself
together by sheer will, and stumbled on. On the next stone wall he made
a momentary concession to his exhaustion and paused just a moment,
holding his aching side.

Then he was off again, running like mad. The single little light seemed
twinkling and hazy and he brushed his streaming face with his sleeve so
that he might see it the more clearly. But it looked dull, more like a
little patch of brightness than a shining light. Either it was failing,
or he was.

He had to hold his stinging side and gulp for every breath he drew, but
he ran with all his might and main. He was too spent and dizzy to keep
his direction without that distant light, and he knew it. He was not Tom
Slade to be sure of himself in complete darkness. He was giddy--on the
verge of collapse. The bee-line of his course loosened and became
erratic. But if his legs were weakening his will was strong, and he
staggered, reeled, ran.

On, on, on, he sped, falling forward now, rather than running, but
keeping his feet by the sheer power of his will. His heart seemed up in
his mouth and choking him. With one hand he grasped the flying shred of
his torn trousers and tried to wipe the blood from the cut in his leg.
Thus for just a second his progress was impeded.

That was the last straw. The trifling movement lost him his balance, his
exhausted and convulsed body went round like a top and he lay breathing
in little jerks on the swampy ground.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. In another five seconds he would
rise. He raised himself on one trembling arm and looked about. He
brushed his soaking hair back from his eyes and looked again.

"Where--what--where--is--it--anyway?" he panted. He did not know which
direction was north or south or east or west. He only knew that a dagger
was sticking in his side and that he could not rise....

Yes, he could. He pulled himself together, rested a moment on his knees,
staggered to his feet and looked around.

"Where--where--th--the dickens--is north?"

He turned and looked around. He looked around the other way. Nothing but
desolation and darkness. He thought of what Tom had told him and,
closing his eyes, opened them suddenly. The mountain must have been too
near to show in outline now; it had probably melted into the general
landscape. There was just an even, solid blackness all about him. The
wind moaned, and somewhere, high and far off, he heard the screech of an
eagle