Four days later the fugitives were climbing a slope on the south-eastern
fringe of Dartmoor. They mounted through a mist as dense almost as that
in which they had ridden forth--a cloud resting on the hill's shoulder.
But a very few yards above them the sky was blue, and to the south of
them, had their eyes been able to pierce the short screen of vapour, the
country lay clear for mile upon mile, away beyond Ashburton to Totnes, and
beyond Totnes to Dartmouth and the Channel.
Roger Stephen's face was yellow with disease and hunger; he could hardly
sit in his saddle. He panted, and beads stood out on his forehead as
though he felt every effort of his straining horse. Malachi's face was
white but expressionless. Life had never promised him much, and for him
the bitterness of death was easily passed.
By-and-by, as a waft of wind lifted the cloud's ragged edge, his eyes
sought the long slopes below, and then went up to a mass of dark granite
topping the white cumulus above, and frowning over it out of the blue.
"Better get down here," he said.
Roger rode on unheeding.
"Better get down here, master," he repeated in a wheedling voice, and,
dismounting, took Roger's rein. Roger obeyed at once, almost
automatically. As his feet felt earth he staggered, swayed, and dropped
forward into Malachi's arms.
"Surely! Surely!" the old man coaxed him, and took his arm. They left
their horses to graze, and mounted the slope, the old man holding the
younger's elbow, and supporting him. Each carried a gun slung at his
back.
They reached the foot of the tor, and found a granite stairway, rudely
cut, winding to its summit. Roger turned to Malachi with questioning
eyes, like a child's.
"Surely! Surely!" repeated Malachi, glancing behind him. His eye had
caught a glint of scarlet far down on the uncoloured slope.
With infinite labour and many pauses they climbed the stairway together,
the old man always supporting the younger and coaxing him. In the broad
stand of granite at the summit the rains had worn a basin, shallow, ample
to recline in, even for a man of Roger's stature. Here Malachi laid him
down, first drawing the gun-sling gently off his shoulders. Roger said
nothing, but lay and gasped, staring up into the blue sky.
Malachi examined the two guns, looked to their locks, and, fishing in his
pockets, drew forth a powder-horn and a bag of bullets. These he laid
with the guns on the granite ledge before him, and, crawling forward on
his stomach, peered over.
The cloud had drifted by. It was as he expected--the soldiers were
climbing the slope. For almost half an hour he kept his position, and
behind him Roger muttered on, staring up at the sky. Amid the mutterings
from time to time the old man heard a curse. They sank at length to a
mumble, senseless, rambling on and on, without intelligible words.
Malachi put a hand out for a gun, raised himself deliberately on his
elbow, and fired. He did not look to see if his shot had told, but turned
at once and, in the act of fitting the cloth to his ramrod, looked
anxiously at his master. Even the mumbling had now ceased, but still
Roger gazed fixedly up into the sky and panted. He had not heeded the
report.
Malachi reloaded carefully, stretched out his hand upon the second gun,
and fired again. This time he watched his shot, and noted that it had
found its man. He turned to his master with a smile, reaching out his
hand for the reloaded gun, picked it up, laid it down again, and felt in
his pocket.
"No good wasting time," he muttered.
He drew forth pipe and tinder-box, hunted out the last few crumbs of
tobacco at the bottom of his pocket, and lit up, still keeping his eyes on
Roger as he smoked.
A voice challenged far down the slope. He crawled to his master's side.
"There's one thing we two never could abide, master dear, could we? and
that was folks interruptin'."
He took up the reloaded gun again, fired his last shot, and sat puffing.
Minutes passed, and then once more a voice challenged angrily from the
foot of the tor. Malachi leaned across, closed the eyes that still stared
up implacably, and arose, knocking out the ashes of his pipe against his
boot-heel.
"Right you are!" he sang down bravely. "There be two men up here, and one
was a good man; but he's dead, and the law that killed 'en takes naught
from me but a few poor years that be worthless without 'en. Come ye up,
friends, and welcome!"