she struck again.

She heard him after her, shouting curses, stumbling a little, coming
on. The door was open, thank God, the door was open! She shot
through. If she could but take time to close it! But there was no
time for that; he was almost at her heels. And outside was the ledge
and the dizzy climb down.

If she slipped, if she fell, well, it would just be a clean death and
nothing more. Quinnion was but a few steps behind her. He had not
fired. Had he perhaps dropped his gun back there in the darkness? Or
was he so sure of taking her, alive and struggling, into his arms in
another moment?

She was on the ledge. It was dark, pitch-dark.

But she found a handhold, threw herself flat down and thrust her feet
out over the edge, less afraid of what lay below than what came on
behind her. She was gripping the ledge now with her hands, already
torn and bleeding, her feet swinging, touching sheer rock wall,
slipping, seeking a foothold. Quinnion was just there, above her. She
must move her hands so that he could not reach her. It seemed an
eternity that she hung there, seeking a place somewhere to set her feet.

She found it, another, lesser ledge which she had almost missed, and
knew that this way she had clambered upward with Bayne Trevors. If she
could only find another step and another before Quinnion came upon her!
She held her club in her teeth; she must not let that go.

Quinnion was over the ledge, following her. She heard his heavy
breathing, heard him cursing her again. She was going so slowly, so
slowly, and Quinnion would know the way better than she. Quinnion
would make better time in the dark.

She moved along this lower ledge. At each instant she wondered if it
were to be her last, if she were going to fall, if a swift drop through
the darkness would be the end of life.

Suddenly there was scarce room in the girl's breast for hatred of Chris
Quinnion, so filled was it with the love of life. She wanted to see
the sun come up again, she wanted the sweet breath of the dawn in her
nostrils, the beauty of a sun-lit world in her eyes. She thought of
Bud Lee.

Clinging to the rocks, hanging on desperately, taking a score of
desperate chances momentarily, she made her way on and down. She found
scant handhold and, almost falling, dropped her club, heard it strike,
strike again. Black as the night was, its gloom was less than that of
the cavern to which Judith had grown accustomed;