Miss Garrison had fallen to her knees and was moaning as if in pain.  The priest crouched behind her, protecting his person from a possible shot from the pursuer.  “For God’s sake, don’t shoot him!” screamed the girl, but a moment later there was a flash of light, a report, and a pistol ball whizzed by Turk’s ear.  He was unarmed, but he did not stop.  Throwing himself forward, he stretched out his arms to grasp the crouching priest, hoping to prevent the firing of another shot.  But he had not reckoned on the cleverness of the man at bay.  The priest dropped flat to the ground and Turk plunged over his body, wildly clutching for the prostrate man as he went.  With the cunning of a fox, the priest, on realizing that he could not avoid a personal conflict, had looked about for means to end the pursuit effectually.

Retarded in his progress by the tired, trembling girl, he saw that a stand against the oncomer was unavoidable.  He cleverly selected the spot for this stand, and braced himself as for the onslaught.  Scarcely a yard beyond his position there was a sharp declivity among the rocks, with a clear drop of a dozen feet or more to the bottom of a wide crevasse.  His shot went wild and he could not repeat it, for Dorothy was frantically clutching his arm.  The strategem worked well, and he had the satisfaction of hearing a mighty oath as Turk, unable to check himself, slipped from the edge and went crashing to the rocks below.

With the speed of a hunted animal, the priest leaped to his feet, dragging the girl after him, and a harsh laugh came from his throat as they dashed onward.  A quick glance behind showed there had been but one pursuer, and the man in the robes of holiness chuckled exultantly.  But, if Dorothy Garrison believed him to be the priest his robes declared, the moonlight told the fallen Turk the truth.  Indeed, it was the intentness with which the little ex-burglar gazed upon the white face of Courant that prevented him from seeing the ledge as he dashed up to the couple.

How long it was afterward that Turk came to his senses and crawled back to the roadway, dizzy, weak and defeated, he knew not.  He could only groan and gnash his teeth when he stood erect again and saw that he was utterly alone.  Courant and the girl were gone.  In shame and humiliation he climbed the hill to call for help.

Just as the searching party was about to rush recklessly from the courtyard, servants having been instructed to bring out the horses, Lady Jane espied a white piece of paper on the ground near the gate.  And then it was that they read the parting message from the girl who was gone.  With a trembling voice Lady Saxondale read: 

“I have found a way, and I am going, if nothing prevents.  With the help of my good angel I shall soon be far from this place.  A holy man in passing saw my signal of distress and promised rescue.  You have been good to me, and I can only repay you by refusing to expose you.  This priest does not know who you are.  I shall not tell him or any who may be with him.  No one shall ever know from me that you were my abductors.  God grant that you may never have to pay the penalty.  Go, while you may, for the truth may become known without my help, and I may not be able to save you.  Save yourselves, all of you.  I mean Philip Quentin, too, because I know he loves me.