The pitch was less abrupt now, and there were no more ledges; instead, bowlders were strewn along the rounded slope, with bush and stunted tree between.  Through these Pringle breasted his way, seeking even more to protect himself from above than from below, forced at times to crawl through an open space exposed to possible fire from both sides; so came at last to the masses of splintered and broken rock at the foot of the cliff, where he sank breathless and panting.

The tethered constellations paled in the sky; the moon rose and lit the cliff with silver fire.  The worst was yet to come.  Foy would ask no questions of any prowler, that was sure; he would reason that a friend would call out boldly.  And John Wesley had no idea where Foy or his cave might be.  Yet he must be found.

With a hearty swig at the canteen Pringle crept off to the right.  The moonlight beat full upon the cliff.  He had little trouble in that ruin of broken stone to find cover from foes below; but at each turn he confidently looked forward to a bullet from his friend.

“Foy!  Foy!” he called softly as he crawled.  “It’s Pringle!  Don’t shoot!”

After a space he came to an angle where the cliff turned abruptly west and dwindled sharply in height.  He remembered what the Major had said—­the upper entrance of the cave came out on the highest crest of the hill.  He turned back to retrace his painful way.  The smell of dawn was in the air; the east sparkled.  No sound came from the ambush all around.  The end was near.

He passed by his starting-point; he crept on by slide and bush and stone.  The moon magic faded and paled, mingled with the swift gray of dawn.  He held his perilous way.  Cold sweat stood on his brow.  If Foy or a foe of Foy were on the cliff now, how easy to topple down a stone upon him!  The absolute stillness was painful.  A thought came to him of Stella Vorhis—­her laughing eyes, her misty hair, the little hand that had lingered upon his own.  Such a little, little hand!

Before him a narrow slit opened in the wall—­such a crevice as the Major had described.

“Foy!  Oh, Foy!” he called.  No answer came.  He raised his voice a little louder.  “Foy!  Speak if you’re there!  It’s Pringle!”

A gentle voice answered from the cleft: 

“Let us hope, for your sake, that you are not mistaken about that.  I should be dreadfully vexed if you were deceiving me.  The voice is the voice of Pringle, but how about the face?  I can only see your back.”

“I would raise my head, so you could take a nice look by the well-known cold gray light of the justly celebrated dawn,” rejoined Pringle, “if I wasn’t reasonably sure that a rifle shot would promptly mar the classic outlines of my face.  They’re all around you, Foy.  Hargis, he gave you away.  Don’t show a finger nail of yourself.  Let me crawl up behind that big rock ahead and then you can identify me.”