The girl was flying down the slope to meet Tisdale.  She came with bent head, hands to her ears, skimming the pitfalls.  Under her light tread the loose debris hardly stirred.  Then, as he rounded the pillar, her pace slackened.  “I am afraid,” she said and stumbled.  “I am afraid.”  And her trembling body sank against his arm; she buried her face in his coat.  “Take me away from this terrible place.”

Her impact had started the splintered granite moving, but Hollis swung instantly and set his back to the crumbling chimney, clinging there, staying her with his arm, until the slide stopped.

“See here,” he said, and his voice vibrated its soft undernote, “you mustn’t lose your grip.  It’s all right.  Old Mother Nature is just having one of her scolding fits.  She has to show the woman in her once in a while.  But it’s going to end, any minute, in tears.”

She lifted her face, and he paused, knitting his brows, yet smiling a little, mastering the terror in her eyes with his quiet, compelling gaze.  “Come, Miss Armitage,” he said, “we must hurry.  You will be wet through.”

He took her hand and began to lead her quickly down the rugged staircase.  “Be careful,” he admonished, “this granite is treacherous.”  But she gave little heed to her steps; she looked back continually over her shoulder, watching the dun cloud.  Presently she tripped.  Hollis turned to steady her, and, himself looking up beyond her, caught her in his arms and ran, springing, out of the gully.

The ledge he reached formed the rim of the natural reservoir and, measuring the distance with a swift glance, he let himself over, easing the drop with one hand on the rocky brink, while the other arm supported her.  Midway, on a jutting knob, he gathered momentary foothold, then swung to the bottom of the basin.

It was all done surely but with incredible haste, while the cavernous cloud drew directly overhead.  The next instant, from its brazen depths, it spoke again.  The whole mountain seemed to heave.  Then something mighty crashed down.  The basin suddenly darkened as though a trap door had closed, and Tisdale, still shielding his companion, stood looking up, listening, while the reverberations rang from slope to slope and filled the vale.  Then silence came.

Miss Armitage drew erect, though her hand rested unconsciously on Tisdale’s sleeve.  The thing that roofed the basin was black, impenetrably thick; in it she saw no possible loophole of escape.  “This time,” she faltered, “Fate is against you.”

Her breast rose and fell in deep, hurried breaths; in the twilight of the basin her eyes, meeting his, shone like twin stars.  Tisdale’s blood began to race; it rose full tide in his veins, “Fate is with me,” he answered, and bent and kissed her mouth.

She shrank back, trembling, against the rocky wall; she glanced about her with the swift, futile manner of a creature helplessly trapped, then she pressed her fingers an instant to her eyes and straightened.  “You never will forgive yourself,” she said; not in anger, not in judgment, but in a tone so low, so sad, it seemed to express not only regret but finality.