Kit watched the smooth swoop of the one, and the terrific bob-a-bob- bob of the other. He was reminded of an eagle he had once seen stooping at a rabbit on the Cheviots.
Each was running for his all, and each knew it; but the Gentleman was having the best of it.
Knapp, running with his head as well as with his heels, was making straight for the creek.
On the flat, among the boulders, he, naked-nimble, would be on better terms with the booted Gentleman.
But—he would never get there. Kit saw it at a glance.
Down the hill he came with pounding fists, and great knees going. His head was flung back, his face screwed tight.
He had the lion's heart, this naughty little man. Death, swift and terrible, cast the shadow of its wings over him. He could not see it, but he could feel it overhead, swooping, swooping. He would not look back. His mistake made, he would do his desperate best to retrieve it. At least he would show the world how a Borderer can die.
Behind him the Gentleman, the wind in his hair, was feeling for his throat.
Another moment and that hub-bub of beating heart and running legs would stop for ever—skewered.
Kit could not bear it. Casting disguise aside, he leapt into the creek, and snatched a pebble.