Who have been the murderers, and where are they now? Where is Hawkins?
To the young hunter these self-asked interrogatories occur in quick succession; along with the last a sound reaching his ears which causes him to start, and stand listening acutely for its repetition. It seemed a human voice, as of a man in mortal agony shouting for succour. Faint, as if far off, away at the back of the building.
Continuing to listen, Tucker hears it again, this time recognising the voice of Hawkins.
He does not stay to conjecture why his comrade should be calling in accents of appeal. That they are so is enough for him to hasten to his aid. Clearly the cry comes from outside; and, soon as assured of this, Tucker turns that way, leaps lightly over the dead bodies, glides on along the saguan, and through the open wicket.
Outside he stops, and again listens, waiting for the voice to direct him, which it does.
As before he hears it, shouting for help, now sure it is Hawkins who calls. And sure, also, that the cries come from the eastern side of the building.
Towards this Tucker rushes, around the angle of the wall, breaking through the bushes like a chased bear.
Nor does he again stop till he is under a window, from which the shouts appear to proceed.
Looking up he sees a face, with cheeks pressing distractedly against the bars; at the same time hearing himself hailed in a familiar voice.
“Is’t you, Cris Tucker? Thank the Almighty it is!”