“Now one more—one supreme effort, Tom, and in five minutes we shall be free,” gasped George. “Muster all your courage and resolution, and let us make a run for it. Can you do it?”
“Ay, ay, sir, I’ll try,” was the scarcely articulate reply, and without more ado they set off down the slope at a run.
A run? Well, yes, it was a run, if it was anything at all; but such a run! Their limbs felt like lead, and Walford’s weight seemed to them enough to drag them down to the very centre of the earth. Every individual blade of grass seemed to be invested with the toughness of a hempen cable, and to trail directly across their path for the express purpose of retarding their progress and tripping them up. Their breath was gone; their mouths were open and gasping; their hearts were beating like sledge-hammers against their ribs, and pumping the blood in a great red-hot tide up into their heads; their brains reeled; their sight began to fail them; and what little of the scene was still perceptible to their disordered vision was apparently whirling in a mad dance up and down, round and round them, until they could not tell whether they were going right or wrong.
Yet on they still staggered and stumbled, first one, then the other, falling prone to the earth, but up again in an instant, and on once more.
At last they were at the base of the hill; another half-a-dozen yards, and they would be beside the stream; another twenty, and they would be in the boat. Hark! what sound is that? The dull thud of horses’ hoofs upon the turf! With what headlong speed the riders are pressing forward! And—ha! there is the exultant shout which tells that the prey is in sight.
“Thank God, there are no dogs with them,” thinks George. “Are there not?” Then what means that deep, sonorous baying sound which breaks with such startling distinctness on his frenzied ear? “On! on! for the love of God, press on!” gasps George; and with something almost like renewed effort the fugitives once more spring forward.
Hark! now you can hear the deep panting of those hell-hounds as they lunge forward at a gallop, silent now that their prey is in sight, their flaming eyes fixed upon the flying men in front of them, and their jaws champing in horrible anticipation.
One more bound, and the boat is reached. Poor Walford is tumbled unceremoniously into her; George and Tom follow, the latter wrenching from the foetid mud the stake to which the rotting painter is attached, whilst the former, with a last desperate effort, sends the crazy craft into the middle of the stream. As he rolls in over the gunwale a heavy splash is heard, and some cumbrous body scurries from the slimy bank into the water, whilst at the same moment the foremost hound, a magnificent creature, as big and as lithe as a panther, springs boldly after the receding boat. He almost reaches her, not quite, his front paws catch upon the gunwale, but the rest of his body falls short and drops into the water. A thrust from one of the oars sends him clear of the boat, and, with a baffled howl, he turns and swims for the shore. He is within three feet of the bank when a something, which looks like a log of charred timber, rises to the surface behind him, two gleaming eyes glare at him, and, with a horrid snap, a pair of serrated jaws close upon his hind quarters, and he is dragged back and under, to furnish a meal to the terrible cayman.
But the fugitives have no time for more than the merest superficial glance at this canine tragedy, for their human pursuers are now close at hand. The thowl-pins, luckily, are already in their places, left there by the fishermen, who have been too lazy to remove and stow them snugly away; the oars are therefore hastily caught up and tossed into their places, the boat is spun round like a top until her head points seaward, and, with vigorous strokes, the two men send her foaming out along the narrow river-channel toward the sea.
The pursuers rein up upon the bank, and with one accord draw their pistols, and open a fusillade upon the flying boat. Fortunately it is a harmless one; one bullet lodges in the stern transom, a second chips a shaving off the loom of George’s oar, a third passes harmlessly through the planking of the boat’s bow and skims a few yards along the surface of the water beyond, and the remainder fly wide.