“He’s coming! he’s coming!” he palpitated, and then tore his way through the tangled underbrush. The branches whipped his face and tore his clothes. He tripped and fell on his hands and knees. He crept onward. Finally he sank on his stomach, prostrate on the dank ground, where he lay trembling and breathing heavily. Somewhere in the dense wood a tree toad piped mournfully.
“Peep! peep! peep!” cried the little fellow, and there was unutterable sadness and lamentation in the sound.
“Dry up!” whispered the haunted lad. “Be still and let me listen!”
But the only voice he could hear, save that of the tree toad, was the voice of his conscience, which seemed to whisper over and over:
“You’re a murderer! You’re a murderer!”
“Who says so?” he almost shouted. “It’s a lie! It’s a lie! I am not a murderer!”
But a gloomy echo answered:
“Murderer!”
CHAPTER XIII.
FORCED TO FIGHT.
Until the shadows began to deepen and night was close at hand, Chet lay hidden in the thicket.