"What is it?" he whispered.
"Methinks the figure of a man, moving among the trees."
Though he had spoken under his breath, it almost seemed that his words had been overheard, for the figure halted, then instantly turned sideways and vanished from their sight.
"We must after him," said Turnpenny.
"Ay, and catch him, or there is an end to our venture and us. He is alone, for he made no sound, and if he had companions near by he would surely have summoned them."
Without further pause Dennis ran across the glade, and plunged into the forest on the other side, taking the southerly direction in which he had seen the figure disappear. He had not gone far before he heard the rustle and crash of some one forcing his way through the undergrowth; clearly the fugitive was not a good runner, or he would have been out of earshot before this. Dennis quickened his step, guided always by the sound, ever increasing in loudness. At length he again caught a glimpse of the man, labouring ahead; he gained on him, and was within a few yards when the runaway suddenly turned, and Dennis halted and swerved aside just in time to evade a spear hurled straight at him. It whizzed through the air, flew harmlessly by, and struck with a twang a tree trunk, where it hung quivering.
Next moment Dennis sprang forward and closed with the man. He had no time to take note of him, save that he was more than common tall. But it struck him with surprise that he met with no real resistance. The man staggered under the impact; the two rolled on the leaf-strewn ground; and in an instant Dennis was uppermost. He scarcely needed the Devonian trick of wrestling to maintain his advantage; his opponent was already spent. Holding him down, Dennis raised himself at arm's length to recover breath and take stock of the fugitive. He was struck by the glare of inextinguishable hate in the man's haggard eyes. Helpless as he was, there was no yielding in his mien; it was weakness, not fear or cowardice, that had made him such an easy captive.
In a few moments Turnpenny came up breathless. Seeing that Dennis held the man firmly down, he did not offer to assist, but halted and threw a keen glance at the prisoner.
"God-a-mercy!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "'You and me, Haymoss!' 'Tis the dream come true. 'Tis Tom Copstone, 'tis very Tom! Sir, let him up; 'tis my dear comrade, my messmate in the Jesus. Oh, Tom, what a piece of work is this!"
Dennis was amazed at the alteration in the man's expression. The fierce blaze of his blood-shot eyes was quenched in a mist of tears.