Courant
felt the body against his weaken, wrenched himself free, and with a
driving blow sent it outward over the precipice. It fell with the arms
flung wide, the head dropped backward, and from the open mouth a cry
broke, a shrill and dreadful sound that struck sharp on the plain's
abstracted silence, spread and quivered across its surface like
widening rings on the waters of a pool. The mountain man threw himself
on the edge and looked down. The figure lay limp among the bushes
thirty feet below. He watched it, his body still as a panther's
crouched for a spring. He saw one of the hands twitch, a loosened
sliver of slate slide from the wall, and cannoning on projections, leap
down and bury itself in the outflung hair. The face looking up at him
with half-shut eyes that did not wink as the rock dust sifted into
them, was terrible, but he felt no sensation save a grim curiosity.
He stole down a narrow gulley and crept with stealthy feet and
steadying hands toward the still shape. The shadows were cool down
there, and as he touched the face its warmth shocked him. It should
have been cold to have matched its look and the hush of the place.
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