Instead of turning to the right or left, that is to say, to the north or south, as I hoped and expected he would, the man-killer ran straight on toward the sea.  As for the distance of the coast from that part of the Cordillera I had no definite idea—­perhaps thirty miles, perhaps fifty, perhaps more.  But were it a hundred we should not be long in going thither at the speed we were making; and vague hopes, suggesting the possibility of signalling a passing ship or getting away by sea, began to shape themselves in the mind.  The nandu could not go on forever; before reaching the sea he must either alter his course or stop, and if he stopped only a few minutes and so gave me a chance of steadying myself I thought that, by the help of my teeth, I might untie one of the cords which the movements of the bird and my own efforts had already slightly loosened, and once my arms were freed the rest would be easy.

An hour (as nearly as I could judge) after leaving the Cordillera I sighted the Pacific—­a broad expanse of blue water shining in the sun and stretching to the horizon.  How eagerly I looked for a sail, a boat, the hut of some solitary fisherman, or any other sign of human presence!  But I saw nothing save water and sand; the ocean was as lonesome as the desert.  There was no salvation thitherward.

Though my hope had been vague, my disappointment was bitter; but a few minutes later all thought of it was swallowed up in a new fear.  The sea was below me, and as the ground had ceased to fall I knew that the desert must end on that side in a line of lofty cliffs.  I knew, also, that nandus are among the most stupid of bipeds, and it was just conceivable that the man-killer, not perceiving his danger until too late, might go over the cliffs into the sea.

The hoarse roar of the waves as they surge against the rocks, at first faint, grows every moment louder and deeper.  I see distinctly the land’s end, and mentally calculate from the angle it makes with the ocean, the height of the cliffs.

Still the man-killer strides on, as straight as an arrow and as resolutely as if a hundred miles of desert, instead of ten thousand miles of water, stretched before him.  Three minutes more and—­I set my teeth hard and draw a deep breath.  At any rate, it will be an easier end than burning, or dying of thirst—­Another moment and—­

But now the nandu, seeing that he will soon be treading the air, makes a desperate effort to stop short, in which failing he wheels half round, barely in time to save his life and mine, and then courses madly along the brink for miles, as if unable to tear himself away, keeping me in a state of continual fear, for a single slip, or an accidental swerve to the right, and we should have fallen headlong down the rocks, against which the waves are beating.