CHAPTER XIX
THE ESCAPE
The moment George realized he had been discovered, the spirit of "do or die" entered into his soul, and he flew along at the utmost speed at his command. He did not even check his hope that the race would end in his favour; he did not pause to wonder where he was going, or how he would elude his pursuers. He had got a short start of them which he meant to keep, and, if possible, increase. He could hear the gibbering of the mob gradually getting louder and louder as the crowd gathered up fresh recruits and surged along in pursuit of him. The distant burr increased to yells and shouts, and the clatter of fire-arms became so loud that George began to fear that his attempt at escape was quite futile. He never lost heart, however, and raced on and on at a pace surprising even to himself.
A man never learns what is possible until he is placed in a position that requires the apparently impossible. This was the situation George was now in. If he had stopped to ask himself the question, "Can I do it?" he probably would have been forced to answer it in the negative. As it was, he paid no heed to the danger behind, and thought only of the safety in front, if he could but keep up his speed long enough.
The infuriated rebels finding themselves unable with even their greatest efforts to come up with their prey, now began to fire at him, but, as their shots were not those of very expert marksmen, George became more amused than frightened as the bullets dropped either short of him or flew far above his head.
He was now getting into the inhabited part of the town, and tried to elude the pursuers by turning abrupt corners, but there was little chance of success in these tactics, for the "blackies" knew more about the place than he was ever likely to, and kept cutting him off in an alarming manner.
The day was beginning to break, and George felt that he must soon give in. As he was making a rapid turn in his path a well-aimed nabout came most uncomfortably close to his head. This incited him to greater effort, not so much from fear of being hit, as from the knowledge of the nearness of his pursuers.
Breathless, and with the life almost run out of him, he continued his mad career, the hue and cry of the mob goading him on and lending wings to his feet. Swift of foot as the blacks had been, they had shown themselves no match so far for the trained athlete they were pursuing. But there comes a time when even the best man must give in, and that time George felt was rapidly approaching. He had been running now for a long time, and had traversed a lot of ground. However, he was not done yet, and he still kept on, although in what direction he knew not. The street he was now in looked like one of the principal thoroughfares, and, as he was nearing the end of it, he saw, to his horror, another crowd ahead, running towards him.
Instinctively he turned into a bye-way, and darted along in the shadow of the buildings. The turning proved fatal—it was a blind court, and ended in a small paved square, hemmed in on all sides by the best class houses. Seeing the mistake he had made, George paused for a moment to glance round. The mob were tearing down the court, their cries filling the air and making the calm morning hideous with discord.
Seeing no means of escape, Helmar made up his mind to sell his life as dearly as possible, and, rushing into the porch of the biggest house he saw, put his back to the wall and waited the oncoming mob.