High overhead loomed the apex of the great crag.  Wendot knew that he had not much farther to go.  He was able to distinguish the cairn of stones which he and his brothers had once erected on the top in honour of their having made the ascent in a marvellously short space of time.  Wendot had beaten that record today, he knew; but his eyes were full of anxiety instead of triumph.  He was scanning every track and every inch of distance for traces of the foe he felt certain were somewhere at hand.  Had they been here already, and had they carried off the prey?  Or were they only on their way, and had he come in time to thwart their purpose yet?

Ha! what was that?

Wendot had reached the shoulder of the mountain; he could see across the valley —­ could see the narrow winding track which led to the stronghold of Maelgon.  The Eagle’s Crag, as it was called, fell away precipitously on the other side.  No one could scale it on that face.  The path from the upper valley wound round circuitously towards it; and along this path, in the brilliant sunshine, Wendot saw distinctly the approach of a small band of armed men.  Yes:  they were approaching, they were not retreating.  Then they had not already taken their prey; they were coming to claim it.  The boy could have shouted aloud in his triumph and joy; but he held his peace, for who could tell what peril might not lie in the way?

The next moment he had scaled the steep, slippery rock which led to the precipitous edge of the crag.  Not a sign could he see of his brothers or the child, but the hounds led right on to the very verge of the precipice, and for a moment the boy’s heart stood still.  What if they had grown afraid of the consequences of their own act, and had resolved to get rid of the child in a sure and safe fashion!

For a moment Wendot’s blood ran cold.  He recalled the traits of fierce cruelty which had sometimes shown themselves in Llewelyn from childhood, his well-known hatred of the English, his outburst of passion with Gertrude, so quickly followed by a strange appearance of friendship.  Wendot knew his countrymen and his nation’s characteristics, and knew that fierce acts of treachery were often truly charged upon them.  What if —­ But the thought was too repellent to be seriously pursued, and shaking it off by an effort, he raised his voice and called his brothers by name.

And then, almost as it seemed from beneath his very feet, there came an answering call; but the voice was not that of his brothers, but the cry of a terrified child.

“Oh, who are you?  Do, please, come to me.  I am so frightened.  I know I shall fall.  I know I shall be killed.  Do come to me quickly.  I don’t know where Llewelyn and Howel have gone.”

“I am coming —­ I am Wendot,” cried the boy, his heart giving a sudden bound.  “You are not hurt, you are safe?”