A long, deep bay, like thunder, sounded through the night.
"God save us! They're loose and are after us," gasped Syd.
Glancing back they saw two enormous black shapes darting from behind the shadow of the porch, and coming down the slope behind them.
"Now, Pitch and Tar!" sang out Syd, "it all rests on you." He shouted as cheerily, Godfrey thought, as though he were chasing a hare. Chasing and being chased were different matters, both the boys thought; though there was a reckless, gay defiance about the Southern boy which his cousin lacked, courageous as he was.
The ponies seemed to catch the meaning of Syd's call. They looked back. Their feet scarcely touched the sward, their nostrils were red, their eyes distended.
After the first fierce howl the dogs followed in silence. They had no time to give tongue; they had work to do.
A long stretch of pebbly road lay before the boys, then there was a thick patch of bushes, and beyond, the gate.
There was no doubt of the horses keeping up their pace. Terror served them for muscle and blood. But the hounds were swifter of foot at any time. They gained with every minute. The distance was about fifty yards.
"Can we do it?" Godfrey asked. His tongue was hot and parched.
"Of course we'll do it, unless the gate is locked."