"We'll cheat them, No. 303, never fear!" he cried to his comrade. "Keep your pecker up, man!"
"I'm all right," the convict panted; "but I can't keep this pace up for long."
They had entered the thick pall of fog, and presently Rupert stopped in order to regain his breath. They stood close together, touching one another, listening. At first they heard nothing but the sobbing of their own breath, and the beating of their own hearts. And they could see nothing; the blessed fog shut everything out from sight—rocks, walls, roads, hills, and valleys.
"If this only lasts," Rupert whispered.
"Where shall we make for?" No. 303 asked. "Plymouth ain't far from here, is it; and that's a seaport town?"
Rupert turned and looked into the blue eyes of his comrade. He laid his hand on his shoulder. "Man, you don't expect to get right away, do you? It has never been done and never will be done. I was born on these moorlands. I know every stick and stone and bush on them. Even if I wanted to I couldn't get away."
"Even if you wanted to!" No. 303 hissed. "What do you mean? What sort of game is it you're playing—Hide and Seek, or Puss in the Corner?"
He broke off suddenly, and Rupert's grip tightened on his shoulder. The silence was broken. On the still air they heard the sound of a horse galloping along the distant road in the valley somewhere below them. They held their breath and listened intently.
The sound grew nearer and nearer; for a few seconds it seemed as if the speed of the horse was checked. Then, to the relief of both men, the sounds became fainter and fainter, gradually dying away.
"A mounted warder galloping to Post Bridge to cut us off in that direction," Rupert said. "We must stick to the tors. While the fog lasts they can't leave the roads or bridle paths."