cries.

Of these the first sounded, shrill with alarm, as Duchemin turned the
corner where the prowlers had gone from sight. But a high wall of rock
alone met his vision, and he broke into a run that carried him round
still another corner and then plumped him headlong into the theatre of
villainy.

This was open ground, a breadth of turf bordering on one of the great
cirques--a rudely oval pit at a guess little less than seven hundred
feet in its narrowest diameter and something like four hundred in
depth, a vast black well against whose darkness the blue-white
moonglare etched a strange grouping of figures, seven in all.

On his one hand Duchemin saw a woman in mourning clasping to her bosom
a terrified young girl, the author of the screams; on the other, three
men close-locked in grimmest combat, one defending himself against two
with indifferent success; while in between stood a third woman with her
back to and perilously near the chasm, shrinking from the threat of a
pistol in the hands of the fourth man.

This last was the one nearest Duchemin, who was upon him so suddenly
that it would be difficult to say which was the more surprised when
Duchemin's stick struck down the pistol hand of the other with such
force as must have broken his wrist. The weapon fell, he uttered an
oath as he swung round, clutching the maimed member; and then, seeing
his assailant for the first time, he swooped down to recover the weapon
so swiftly that it was in his left hand and spitting vicious tongues of
orange flame before Duchemin was able to get in a second blow.