Yet if he once succeeded in getting home he could remain there hidden long enough to disguise himself, to grow a beard. And then one day, so altered as to be hardly recognisable, he might ship off to Canada or Australia.
His head swam: he put his hands up before his eyes for a moment. The sudden draught of freedom had intoxicated him.
Once again he gazed round the moorland. It was growing dark, the sun had set, and the western sky was still glowing red. Now and then a faint puff of wind stirred the trees surrounding the powder mill, and he saw stray banks of fog driving here and there, shifting their position. By crossing the stream he could step right into the white bank of mist.
Freedom! The thought of it had become an obsession now. Taking a run he cleared Cherry Brook and plunged into the fog. He knew his way now; he could have found it blindfold. But he went cautiously, for no man can be sure of himself if he once misses his way when a Dartmoor fog is down.
To reach Blackthorn Farm he would have to pass Post Bridge Hall, which lay between him and the East Dart. He kept edging towards the valley, for though it was near the main road, the fog lay more thickly there than in the higher ground.
It was rough going. Rocks and boulders and gorse bushes impeded the progress, invisible in the mist. Now and again he struck a boggy patch of ground and had to make a wide detour to avoid it. He had been walking for upwards of an hour, and he began to fear lest he had missed his way and perhaps been going round in a circle, when suddenly he stepped out into a clear, starlit night. Below him he saw the tiny village of Post Bridge, and almost directly in front of him red lights gleaming through the belt of trees.
Post Bridge Hall! Down on the bridge itself, near the little post office, he saw figures moving to and fro. He dropped on to his hands and knees behind the shelter of a rock. He heard the barking of a sheep dog, the voices of men and women travelled up to him.
Of course the news of the escape had spread, and the place was alive with people searching.
How eager men and women were to hunt their kind! He remembered how as a boy he had joined in just such a hunt.
He commenced to crawl along on all fours towards Post Bridge Hall. The trees there might shelter him, but it would be useless to try and cross the patch of country on the other side. He climbed a couple of stone walls, crossed a field, scrambled over a fence, and dropped straight into the garden of the Hall itself.