He lay perfectly still, flattened against the wall. He wondered why he heard no shot or other indication that they had been seen. The rear guards passed within six feet of him, and when their black forms were swallowed up by the white fog, he realised that their absence from the gang would not be discovered until they reached the prison.
Leaping to his feet he ran along the wall, and almost immediately fell over 303, who was crouching against it.
"Quick, for God's sake follow me!" he whispered. "We must make for Beardown. This fog may blow away at any moment."
They ran like hares; scrambling over the walls, falling into holes, stumbling on rocks, Rupert intent only on reaching Wistman's wood before the fog lifted.
He had nothing to guide him but the knowledge of the direction in which he originally started from the wall and the moorman's instinct to prevent him from travelling in a circle, which is the inevitable fate of every one lost in a fog.
They dropped on to a road, Tavistock Road. "Come on, we are right now!" Rupert cried excitedly.
They scrambled over the wall and raced down the steep hillside. Suddenly they saw the gleam of water below them, bushes and stones appeared. They had left the fog behind, the valley was clear.
As they plunged across the river and breasted the steep hill they saw the blessed fog shutting out Beardown Farm and all the tors above it.
"Quick! we must get up with the fog before we are seen. Thank God, there is no one in sight!"
But poor 303 was no moorman, and he was already dropping behind.