Only by the grace of the Red Gods had he heard the sound at all.  Except for the fact that the half-mile intervening was as still as death, and that half the way the sound sped over water, he couldn’t have hoped to perceive it.  If the wind had blown elsewhere than straight toward him from the enemy camp, or if his marvelous sense of hearing had been less acute, the result would have been the same; and there could have been no answer from this dark man at the cave mouth who stood so tense and still.  Finally, by instinct as much as by conscious intelligence, he identified the sound, marked it as a reality rather than a fancy, and read the tragic need behind it.  Swiftly he started down the glade toward her.

Yet in a moment he knew that unless he conserved his strength he could not hope to make a fourth of the distance.  At the first steps he swayed, half staggering.  He had paid the price for his weeks of illness and his injuries.  If he had been in a sick room, under a physician’s care, he would have believed it impossible to walk unsupported across the room.  But need is the mother of strength, and this was the test.  Besides, he had had several days of convalescence that had put back into his sinews a measure of his mighty strength.  Mostly he progressed by holding on to the trees, pulling himself forward step by step.

Likely he would come too late to change the girl’s fate.  Yet even now he knew he must not turn back.  If the penalty were death, there must be no hesitancy in him; he must not withhold one step.

But it was a losing fight.  The hill itself seemed endless; a hundred cruel yards of marsh must be traversed before ever he reached the nearest point by the lake.  The enemy camp from where Beatrice had called to him lay on the far side of the lake, a distance of a full mile if he followed around the curving shore.  And black and bitter self-hatred swept like fire through him when he realized that he could not possibly keep on his feet for so long a way.

Was this all he had fought for—­surging upward through these long, weary weeks out of the shadow of death—­only to fall dead on the trail in the moment of Beatrice’s need?  Instantly he knew that nothing in his life, no other desire or dream, had ever meant as much to him as this:  that he might reach her side in time.  Even his desire for vengeance, in that twilight madness, like Roland’s, that had shaped his destiny, had been wavering and feeble compared to this.  And no moment of his existence had ever been so dark, so bereft of the last, dim star of hope that lights men’s way in the deep night of despair.

He gave no thought to the fact of his own helplessness against three armed men in case he did succeed in reaching their camp.  The point could not possibly be considered.  The imperious instincts that forced him on simply could not take it into reckoning.  He knew only he must reach her side and put in her service all that he had.