Some instinct kept the girl motionless after the man’s head had vanished; minute after minute passed, and Evelyn Erith never stirred.  And suddenly the officer’s head and shoulders popped up from the hole and he peered back at the forest like an alarmed marmot.  And the girl saw his hands resting on the edge of the hole; and the hands grasped two pistols.

Presently, apparently reassured and convinced that nobody was attempting to follow him, he slowly sank out of sight once more.

The girl waited; and while waiting she cut a long white sliver from the beech-tree and carved an arrow pointing toward the heap of debris.  Then, with the keen tip of her trench-knife she scratched on the silvery bark: 

“An underground way in the windfall.  I have followed them.  Yellow-hair.”

She crept stealthily out into the sunshine through the vast abatis of the fallen trees and came to the edge of the hole.  Looking down fearfully she realised at once that this was the dry, rocky stairs of some subterranean watercourse through which, in springtime, great fields of melting snow poured in torrents down the face of the precipice below.

There were no loose stones to be seen; the rocky escalier had been swept clean unnumbered ages since; but the rocks were fearfully slippery, shining with a vitreous polish where the torrents of many thousand years had worn them smooth.

And this was what they called the Via Mala!—­this unsuspected and secret underground way that led, God knew how, into the terrific depths below.

There was another Via Mala:  she had seen it from Mount Terrible; but it was a mountain path trodden not infrequently.  This Via Mala, however, wormed its way downward into shadows.  Where it led and by what perilous ways she could only imagine.  And were these men perhaps, lying in ambush for her somewhere below—­on the chance that they might have been seen and followed?

What would they do to her—­shoot her?  Push her outward from some rocky shelf into the misty gulf below?  Or would they spring on her and take her alive?  At the thought she chilled, knowing what a woman might expect from the Hun.

She threw a last look upward where they say God dwells somewhere behind the veil of blinding blue; then she stepped downward into the shadows.

For a rod or two she could walk upright as long as she could retain her insecure footing on the glassy, uneven floor of rock; and a vague demi-light reigned there making objects distinct enough for her to see the stalactites and stalagmites like discoloured teeth in a chevaux-de-frise.

Between these gaping fangs she crept, listening, striving to set her feet on the rocks without making any noise.  But that seemed to be impossible and the rocky tunnel echoed under her footsteps, slipping, sliding, hob-nails scraping in desperate efforts not to fall.

Again and again she halted, listening fearfully, one hand crushed against her drumming heart; but she had heard no sound ahead; the men she followed must be some distance in advance; and she stole forward again, afraid, desperately crushing out the thoughts—­that crowded and surged in her brain—­the terrible living swarm of fears that clamoured to her of the fate of white women if captured by the things men called Boche and Hun.