“Well, Master Fred shan’t say I didn’t try,” he muttered, as he made now for the back of the Hall, where the great groves of trees sheltered the place from the north and easterly winds.
Here he again hoped to be successful, and, feeling assured at last that he had avoided the the sentries, he was about to make for a narrow coombe on ahead, when once more a man stood in his path, and asked for his pass.
“Haven’t got it here,” said Samson, gruffly.
“Then go back.”
“Go back yourself,” growled Samson; and, putting in effect a west-country wrestling trick, he threw the sentry on his back, and dashed down the slope toward the coombe. “He daren’t go and tell,” muttered the fugitive, “for he’d get into trouble for letting me go by.”
Bang!
Samson leaped off the ground a couple of feet, and on coming down upon the steep slope, staggered and nearly fell. Not that he was hit, but the bullet sent to stop him cut up the turf close to his legs, and startled him nearly out of his wits.
“I’ll serve you out for that, my lad,” he muttered, “I shall know you again.”
He ran on the faster though, and then to his disgust, found that another sentry was at the bottom of the coombe, and well on the alert, running to intercept him, for the shot fired had spread the alarm.
Seeing this, Samson dodged into the wood that clothed the western side of the coombe, and by a little scheming crept out a couple of hundred yards from where the sentry was on the watch.