Just then they heard a voice from their garret shout: "The English devils have gone! Get to the door and cut them off." "Come on," said Peter.

So together they climbed, or rather fell, down the wall on to a mass of prickly-pear bush, which broke the shock but tore them so sorely in a score of places that they could have shrieked with the pain.

Somehow they freed themselves, and, bleeding all over, broke from that accursed bush, struggling up the bank of the ditch in which it grew, ran for the road, and along it towards Granada.
Before they had gone a hundred yards they heard shoutings, and guessed that they were being followed.

Just here the road crossed a ravine full of boulders and rough scrubby growth, whereas beyond it was bare and open.

Peter seized Castell and dragged him up this ravine till they came to a place where, behind a great stone, there was a kind of hole, filled with bushes and tall, dead grass, into which they plunged and hid themselves.
"Draw your sword," he said to Castell.