The
man reeled backward, clutching at his thick neck, where Jeanne had
thrust the burning stick. Philip rose to his knees. His fist shot
out like lightning against the other's jaw, and the second guard
fell back in a limp heap.
Even as the blow fell, a loud shout came from close back in the
forest, followed by the crashing of many feet tearing through the
underbrush.
XI
Philip and Jeanne stood face to face in the firelight.
"Quick!" he cried. "We must hurry!"
He bent over to pick up his revolver from the ground. His movement
was followed by a low sob of pain. Jeanne was swaying as though
about to faint. She fell in a crumpled heap before he could reach
her side.
"You are hurt!" he exclaimed. "Jeanne! Jeanne!"
He was upon his knees beside her, crying out her name, half
holding her in his arms.
"No, no! I am not hurt--much," she replied, trying to recover
herself. "It is my ankle. I sprained it--on the cliff. Now--"
She became heavier against his arm. Her eyes were limpid with
pain.
Rising, Philip caught her in his arms. The crashing of brush was
within pistol-shot distance of them, but in that moment he felt no
fear. Life leaped back into his veins.
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