The bullet whistled
close to his ears. A second shot, and Pierre fell down like one
dead among the rocks. Again Philip fired--a third and a fourth
time, and one of the three who were disappearing in the white
gloom stumbled over a rock, and fell as Pierre had fallen. His
companions stopped, picked him up, and staggered on with him.
Philip's last shot missed, and before he could reload they were
lost among the upheaved masses of the cliff.
"Pierre!" he called. "Ho! Pierre Couchee!"
There was no answer from the other side.
He ran along the edge of the break, and in the direction of the
forest he found a place where he could descend. In his haste he
fell; his hands were scratched, blood flowed from a cut in his
forehead when he dragged himself up to the face of the cliff
again. He tried to shout when he saw a figure drag itself up from
among the rocks, but his almost superhuman exertions had left him
voiceless. His wind whistled from between his parted lips when he
came to Pierre.
Pierre was supporting himself against a rock. His face was
streaming with blood. In his hand he held what remained of the
rapier, which had broken off close to the hilt. His eyes were
blazing like a madman's, and his face was twisted with an agony
that sent a thrill of horror through Philip.
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