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In panic Basalt clawed his way up the muddy bank and
lay there shivering, his courage spent. The tiny bit of
strength that remained was completely occupied in keeping
Basalt from weeping openly. But he swore he would not cry,
not even if the derro found him there and chopped him to
bits on the spot.
"I know Flint wouldn't cry," he sputtered through
clenched teeth. But he could not stop the tears from flowing,
for his agony, for his fear and desperation. For his Uncle
Flint.
After a few minutes, Basalt hiccupped to a stop. He could
hear the sounds of the forest again. His teeth stopped chat-
tering, and the ringing subsided in his ears. He crawled a few
yards away from the stream and toward a thicket. There he
lay, waiting for the pursuing derro.
Basalt listened for several minutes, but heard nothing.
Could they have lost my trail? he wondered. But he knew
that made no sense. Used to life underground, the derro
could see even better than him in the dark, and they weren't
frightened out of their wits either. He had certainly left a
trail that even a child could follow
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