He raced blindly, but whipped about the next corner, leaving the moon at
his back. Westward, somebody had told him, to the gate where
dragons met.
There had been no uproar; but running his hardest down the empty
corridors of the streets, he felt that the pack was gaining. Ahead
loomed something gray, a wall, the end of a blind alley. Scale it, or
make a stand at the foot,--he debated, racing. Before the decision came,
a man popped out of the darkness. Heywood shifted his grip, drew back
the spear, but found the stranger bounding lightly alongside, and
muttering,--
"To the west-south, quick! A brother waits. I fool those who follow--"
Obeying, Heywood dove to the left into the black slit of an alley, while
the other fugitive pattered straight on into the seeming trap, with a
yelp of encouragement to the band who swept after. The alley was too
dark for speed. Heywood ran on, fell, rose and ran, fell again, losing
his spear. A pair of trembling hands eagerly helped him to his feet.
"My cozin's boy, he ron quick," said Wutzler. "Dose fellows, dey not
catch him! Kom."
They threaded the gloom swiftly.
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