An instant later he found the lattice with the other
hand and the hurried descent began. His only fear was that the vine
would not hold. If it broke loose they would drop fifteen feet or more
to the ground. A broken leg, an arm, or even worse,--But her hair was
brushing his ear and neck, her arms were about him, her heart beat
against his straining back, and--Why be a pessimist?
His feet touched the ground. In the twinkling of an eye he picked her
up in his arms and bolted across the little grass plot into the
shrubbery. She did not utter a sound. Her arms tightened, and now her
cheek was against his.
Presently he set her down. His breath was gone, his strength
exhausted.
"Can you--manage to--walk a little way?" he gasped. "Give me your
hand, and follow as close to my heels as you can. Better that I should
bump into things than you."
Shouts were now heard, and shrill blasts on a police whistle split the
air.
Her breathing was like sobs,--short and choking,--but he knew she was
not crying. Apprehension, alarm, excitement,--anything but hysteria.
The fortitude of generations was hers; a hundred forebears had passed
courage down to her.
On they stumbled, blindly, recklessly.
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