From the sides of the valley trees were being wrenched up by their roots, and even the stones lying in the bed of the torrent were being lifted and swept onward like pieces of straw. Owing to the increasing breadth of the valley the shouting and the level of the flood had somewhat lessened, but the hoarse, steady murmur with which it smoothly advanced seemed to be even more terrible than its triumphant screaming. Nearer and nearer it rolled, towering, as it seems to the desperate fugitives, right up to the high heavens. The horse raced onward furiously, but there seemed to be no chance of escaping that rapidly approaching death-wave, which swept along with relentless speed. The man and woman were both silent, and both prayed inwardly, as they faced the eleventh hour of death. And it was the eleventh hour, for there was still hope. Rounding a corner swiftly Towton rose in his stirrups and sent forth a cry almost as hoarse as that of the flood. A short distance ahead he saw a streak of green grass marking the ruddy stone face of the precipice, and knew that here was the crack to which he had referred. It was a mere chink in the wall, of no great width, caused, no doubt, by the volcanic action which had formed the valley in far distant ages. Many a time as a lad had Towton climbed up that narrow natural staircase to the moors above, but never had he expected to find it a means of preserving his own life and the life he valued dearer than his own. Setting his teeth, he glanced backward and then urged the horse to renewed efforts. The wall of water was almost upon them, advancing with terrible and steady persistence. The last moment seemed to be at hand.