There was no help near, and it was clear to see that if there had been it would have been useless. Falcon was breathing hard, in its last stern fight with death. Paul could not bear to see its pain. His hand moved up to its head. It soothed the horse. For a minute it lay perfectly still, and then, as though in that brief interval of rest it had been collecting its strength for a last great effort, it tried to rise to its feet again. It rose a little way, then fell. Again it turned its head to Paul, and looked at him with glazed eyes. A shiver went over every limb; then the noble horse lay quite still, and Paul knew that it was dead.
Tears came to his eyes. It was as though he had been standing by the death-bed of a human being. And, now that he was in the presence of death, he scarcely knew how to act. Suddenly the sound of distant voices roused him from the stupor into which he had fallen. For the moment, in his grief at Falcon's death, he had forgotten that he was being pursued—forgotten the message of which he was the bearer.
The sound of voices recalled him to his duty. If he remained there, his pursuers would soon discover him, and wrest from him the letter with which he had been entrusted. Falcon was dead. He could do no good by remaining. To make good his escape, no time must be lost. By God's good help, he might yet succeed in eluding his pursuers.
So he pulled himself together, resolved to go forward at all hazards.
"It is for Stan's father," he said to himself, as he tried to run. But he soon found that another misfortune had befallen him. The injury to his leg prevented him from running. It was only with an effort he could walk at any speed, and at every step he took he felt that his pursuers were gaining ground.
Redmead was close upon three miles away. How could he hope to reach it without being overtaken by the men who were so keenly pursuing him? Instinctively came to his memory the words he had so often heard in the village church—"The wicked oppress me—compass me about. They now compass me in my footsteps." And the cry of the Psalmist rose to his lips:
"Hold up my goings in Thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Show Thy marvellous loving kindness, O Thou that savest by Thy right hand them which put their trust in Thee. Hide me under the shadow of Thy wings from the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about. Arise, O Lord, disappoint him, cast him down."
With renewed strength he pressed on; but he had not gone far before he was compelled to slacken his pace. He realized that it was hopeless for him to evade his pursuers unless he could find some hiding-place. He looked around. There was no house near. But just a little ahead of him, to the right of the road, were the ruins of an old house which had been burned almost to the ground, and never been re-built.
As a drowning man clutches at a straw, Paul made his way to the ruins. But he had not gone more than a few paces through what had once been the garden of the house, when a voice cried:
"Hallo! Who are you? What are you doing here?"