The tethered constellations paled in the sky; the moon rose and lit
the cliff with silver fire. The worst was yet to come. Foy would ask
no questions of any prowler, that was sure; he would reason that a
friend would call out boldly. And John Wesley had no idea where Foy or
his cave might be. Yet he must be found.

With a hearty swig at the canteen Pringle crept off to the right. The
moonlight beat full upon the cliff. He had little trouble in that ruin
of broken stone to find cover from foes below; but at each turn he
confidently looked forward to a bullet from his friend.

"Foy! Foy!" he called softly as he crawled. "It's Pringle! Don't
shoot!"

After a space he came to an angle where the cliff turned abruptly
west and dwindled sharply in height. He remembered what the Major had
said--the upper entrance of the cave came out on the highest crest of
the hill. He turned back to retrace his painful way. The smell of dawn
was in the air; the east sparkled. No sound came from the ambush all
around. The end was near.

He passed by his starting-point; he crept on by slide and bush and
stone. The moon magic faded and paled, mingled with the swift gray of
dawn. He held his perilous way. Cold sweat stood on his brow. If Foy
or a foe of Foy were on the cliff now, how easy to topple down a stone
upon him! The absolute stillness was painful. A thought came to him of
Stella Vorhis--her laughing eyes, her misty hair, the little hand that
had lingered upon his own. Such a little, little hand!