He was still far above the remnant of stairway, broken off thirty feet
above ground level. But, knowing that the descent would be more
difficult than the climb, he had torn into strips the stout tablecloth
which had wrapped his heliographing apparatus. Knotting the lengths
together, he had fastened one end round a horn of shattered adobe, and
tied the other in a slip-noose under his arms. Now, he was thankful for
this precaution. Instead of picking his way, from foothold to foothold,
at the sound of the cry he lowered himself rapidly, like a man who goes
down a well on the chain of a bucket, and dropped on a pile of bricks
which blocked the corkscrew steps. In a second he was free of the
stretched rope, and, half running, half falling down the rubbish-blocked
stairway, he found himself, giddy and panting, at the bottom. A rush
took him across the courtyard to the gate; snatching Rostafel's rifle
and springing up the wall stairway, a bullet from Maieddine's revolver
struck him in the shoulder. For the space of a heart-beat his brain was
in confusion. He knew that the Arab had a knee on the wall, and that he
had pulled Victoria to him by her dress, which was smeared with blood.
But he did not know whether the blood was the girl's or Maieddine's, and
the doubt, and her danger, and the rage of his wound drove him mad. It
was not a sane man who crashed down Rostafel's rifle on Maieddine's
head, and laughed as he struck.
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