Hammersley listened a moment to the sounds of crashing feet in front of him and behind, and then, creeping slowly and making what speed he could, crossed the ridge and in a while was out of sight and hearing of them. He feared little in crossing the other valley, for his pursuers were strung out in a line, each in sight of the other, and would follow the leader like a flock of sheep. But there was little time to waste and the greatest test of Hammersley’s endurance and Doris’s was to come. For two, perhaps three hours, these men would search for him, and more would come. The Fatalist would bear the brunt of their failure, but in the meanwhile Hammersley must reach the cave in the Thorwald and take Doris to Blaufelden. The first part of the return run must be done at top speed to save time which would be needed later. So when he crossed the second valley in safety and had reached the mountaintop, Hammersley abandoned all caution, risking the chance of meeting Wentz and his men, and with a sharp lookout ahead of him went as fast as he could along the ridge, finding at last the trail by which he had come earlier in the day, down which he ran with a long stride which covered the four miles in less than half an hour. He reached the upper passage to the cave in safety and in a moment was safe behind the projecting bowlders of the amphitheater. He was breathing heavily, and the sweat was pouring from him. Doris was watching for him. “They’re following you? They’re coming?” she asked nervously. He quieted her and led her inside the cave, where he dropped for a moment of rest upon the stool. Doris watched him anxiously. In a moment he was laughing. “Oh, I led ’em a rippin’ run straight for Schöndorf,” he gasped. “They’re pattin’ me out--six miles from here--on the top of the Schmalzberg. Lord!” he grinned, “but that was a breather.” She brought him the pitcher of water but he only rinsed his mouth. “How are you feelin’? Fit?” She nodded. “Right-o. Come along. We’re off.” He went over to the prisoner and examined his bonds carefully. “Poor old Udo!” he muttered in German. “I’ve got to go. You might worry through those strings. It’s the only way, because I’m not leaving any matches.” He leaned over and patted his cousin on the shoulder. “Good-by, Udo,” he said. “We’ll meet again, some day, as friends, my cousin--as friends.” Von Winden’s eyes met Hammersley’s and then he lowered his head upon the balsam boughs.