"Now, thanks to God and good St. George for our deliverance," said I, as, refreshed, I resumed the journey; "for, at last, methinks we are safe from pursuit."
"I would fain hope so," replied our guide; "but let us not dally with danger, nor forget the proverb which tells us not to halloo till we are out of the wood."
Almost as he spoke, Roger Redhand stopped suddenly, as if in alarm, and looking in the direction of the wind, pointed back, and, shaking his head as if to admonish us to be silent, listened attentively. For a few moments no sound broke the stillness of the night, save the rushing of the rivulet and the screams of the birds and beasts that haunted its banks. At length, however, our guide drew himself up excitedly; and now there was no possibility of mistaking the nature of the danger, or the significance of his last words. Far away as it seemed, but coming down the wind with terrible distinctness, the bay of a bloodhound, deep-mouthed and menacing, broke the silence, and sounded in our ears like a death knell.
Drawing a dagger from his bosom, and baring his strong arm, Roger Redhand deliberately inflicted a wound, and spilt some drops of blood on our track.
"What, in the name of the saints, mean you by that?" asked I.
"Blood destroys the fineness of the scent," answered he. "I have even seen prisoners sacrificed to save their captors, when closely chased by foes. But it does not always succeed. So on, on!" added our guide; "we may yet escape if we have luck."
And forward he pressed, crossing and recrossing the streamlet at places considerably distant from each other, with some idea of throwing the pursuers off the scent, but all, as it seemed, to no purpose. The sagacity of the dog was not to be baffled either by blood on the path or by the running stream. And we felt that, guided by its unerring instinct, our pursuers were close upon our track. Our fate seemed sealed; but even at that moment I scorned to yield to despair.
Nearer and nearer came the deep bay. Indeed, every time we paused to listen it resounded more loudly through the wood, and, in our perplexity, we halted to take counsel of each other.
It was an awful moment, and our agitation was great.
"We are lost!" exclaimed Salle, in accents of mournful despondence; "and without even the satisfaction of being able to strike a blow for life."