Not a hundred feet overhead shot a low-winging hawk back from his day's hunting and rising only high enough to clear the range and then plunge down toward his nest.
Like the hawks they peered down from their point of vantage into the profound gloom of the valley below.

They shaded their eyes and studied it with a singular interest for long moments, patient, as the hawk.
So these two marauders stared until she raised a hand slowly and then pointed down.

He followed the direction she indicated, and there, through the haze of the evening, he made out a glimmer of lights.
He said sharply: "I know the place, but we'll have a devil of a ride to get there." And like the swooping hawk they started down the slope.

It was precipitous in many places, but Pierre kept almost at a gallop, making the mare take the slopes often crouched back on her haunches with forefeet braced forward, and sliding many yards at a time.
In between the boulders he darted, twisting here and there, and always erect and jaunty in the saddle, swaying easily with every movement of the mare.

Not far behind him came the girl.