Despite the firmness with which the earth is packed, the hound soon makes a hollow around its master’s neck, exposing his shoulder—the right one—above the surface. A little more mould removed, and his arm will be free. With that his whole body can be extricated by himself.
Stirred by the pleasant anticipation, he continues speaking encouragement to the dog. But Brasfort needs it not, working away in silence and with determined earnestness, as if knowing that time was an element of success.
Clancy begins to congratulate himself on escape, is almost sure of it, when a sound breaks upon his ear, bringing back all his apprehensions. Again the hoof-stroke of a horse!
Richard Darke is returning!
“Too late, Brasfort!” says his master, apostrophising him in speech almost mechanical, “Too late your help. Soon you’ll see me die.”
Chapter Eighty.
A Resurrectionist.
“Surely the end has come!”