Once more to the fugitives. The town left well behind, and the immediate danger of pursuit now past, the stimulus of live fear was removed, and Rava’s spirit began to flag. She was feeling the weary length of the night with its never-ending plash, plash, plash, through the darkness, pelted by the rain, belabored by the wind, and seemingly going nowhere. There were few landmarks but ghostly trees and the innumerable small ditches, each, in the murk, so like those left behind that there seemed to her distressed and overwrought mind but a single one, presenting itself over and over again by some enchantment, to be crossed and recrossed until despair should bring them to earth. Her sodden garments clung to her, impeding every step. Her cloak, weighted by the rain, thrashed about by the gale, bore upon her as if made of lead, staggering her with its buffetings. The struggle was exhausting, and she already felt its effects. They rested frequently, Cristoval striving to stay the ebbing of her courage, but noting with grave concern her waning strength. At last, to his complete dismay, she gave up, weeping. "Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed, "I can go no farther! Leave me and save yourself. Alone, you can escape, but I can only be a fatal hindrance. Go, I pray you!" The cavalier would have been less disturbed had a dozen soldiers sprung up before him, and would have known better what to do. "Oh, Holy Mother!" he groaned to himself, "look upon a helpless sinner and aid him now! A weeping girl in the middle of a heathen cornfield in the middle of a heathen rainy night, and not another woman within a league to run for!" He contemplated the dim, quivering form with an embarrassment exceeded only by his compassion. "Go, Viracocha!" she urged, with a moan whose piteousness brought him to his senses. "Why, God help me, child!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "I would as quickly think of leaving thee as of pulling the nose of the Pope! Come, now, _chiquita mia_, do not weep! Thou ’rt weary, I know—and cold. Well, I’ll tell thee—we must be moving, thou knowest—and I’ll carry thee for a space. Presently thou’lt be rested, then we’ll walk again. Hush, now, little one!" Without heeding her protests he lifted her and strode on with her in his arms. For some distance the girl wept quietly on his shoulder while he strove to soothe. The good Cristoval was as fatherly as if she had been his own, and before long her tears had subsided. But he was less cheerful than his words were cheering. There was importunate need of speed, and speed was impossible.