“Men, zir,” said the driver, quickly; and as he spoke there was a loud panting noise, and a dimly-seen figure darted out of the mist at right angles to the road and dashed heavily against the horse, to fall back with a heavy groan.
Part 3, Chapter XIV.
The Convict’s Escape.
The quiet, half-asleep horse, dreamily hunting for grains of corn amidst a great deal of chaff, threw up its head and made a violent plunge forward, but was checked on the instant by the driver.
“What is it?” cried Portlock, leaping from the fly, as Sage uttered a cry.
By this time Luke was trying to lift the man, who had fallen almost at his feet, and drawing him away from the horse’s hoofs, where he lay in imminent danger of being kicked.
As far as Luke could see, he was a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered fellow, and it needed not the flyman’s information for him to know that it was a convict—his closely-cropped hair and hideous grey dress told that more plainly than words could tell.
“What does it mean?” said the Churchwarden again. “Some one hurt?”