The prisoner stopped, and, raising his bound hands, pointed to
it.
'There?' the Captain whispered, pressing forward. 'Is it the
place?'
Clon nodded. The Captain's voice shook with excitement.
'Paul and Lebrun remain here with the prisoner,' he said, in a
low tone. 'Sergeant, come forward with me. Now, are you ready?
Forward!'
At the word he and the sergeant passed quickly, one on either
side of Clon and his guards. The path grew narrow here, and the
Captain passed outside. The eyes of all but one were on the
black blotch, the hollow in the cliff-side, expecting we knew not
what--a sudden shot or the rush or a desperate man; and no one
saw exactly what happened. But somehow, as the Captain passed
abreast of him, the prisoner thrust back his guards, and leaping
sideways, flung his unbound arms round Larolle's body, and in an
instant swept him, shouting, to the verge of the precipice.
It was done in a moment. By the time our startled wits and eyes
were back with them, the two were already tottering on the edge,
looking in the gloom like one dark form. The sergeant, who was
the first to find his head, levelled his carbine, but, as the
wrestlers twirled and twisted, the Captain, shrieking out oaths
and threats, the mute silent as death, it was impossible to see
which was which, and the sergeant lowered his gun again, while
the men held back nervously.
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