We found ourselves in a narrow lane, strewn with rocks,
crooked and winding.
Desiree stumbled and would have fallen but for my outstretched
arm. A spear from behind whistled past my ear as we again bounded
forward. Harry was shouting to us that the Incas were upon us.
I caught Desiree's arm and pulled her on with a last great
effort. The lane became narrower still; we brushed the wall on
either side, and I pushed Desiree ahead of me and followed
behind. Suddenly she stopped short, turning to face me so
suddenly that I was thrown against her, nearly knocking her down.
"Your spear!" she cried desperately. "I can go no farther," and
she sank to the ground.
At the same moment there came a cry from Harry in the rear--a cry
that held joy and wonder--and I turned to see him standing some
distance away, gazing down the lane through which we had come.
"They've given up!" he called. "They're gone!"
And I saw that it was true. No sound came, and no Inca was to be
seen.
Then, seeing Desiree on the ground, Harry ran to us and sprang to
her side. "Desiree!" he cried, lifting her in his arms. She
opened her eyes and smiled at him, and he kissed her many
times--her hair, her lips, her eyes.
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