Scarce for an instant is Clancy puzzled by the sudden disappearance of him pursued. That is accounted for by the simplest of causes; a large rock rising above the level of the plain, a loose boulder, whose breadth interposing, covers the disc of the moon. A slight change of direction has brought it between; Darke having deflected from his course, and struck towards it.
Never did hunted fox, close pressed by hounds, make more eagerly for cover, or seek it so despairingly as he. He has long ago been aware that the pursuer is gaining upon him. At each anxious glance cast over his shoulder, he sees the distance decreased, while the tramp of the horse behind sounds clearer and closer.
He is in doubt what to do. Every moment he may hear the report of a gun, and have a bullet into his back. He knows not the instant he may be shot out of his saddle.
Shall he turn upon the pursuer, make stand, and meet him face to face? He dares not. The dread of the unearthly is still upon him. It may be the Devil!
The silence, too, awes him. The pursuing horseman has not yet hailed—has not spoken word, or uttered exclamation. Were it not for the heavy tread of the hoof he might well believe him a spectre.
If Darke only knew who it is, he would fear him as much, or more. Knowing not, he continues his flight, doubting, distracted. He has but one clear thought, the instinct common to all chased creatures—to make for some shelter.
A copse, a tree, even were it but a bush, anything to conceal him from the pursuer’s sight—from the shot he expects soon to be sent after him.
Ha! what is that upon the plain? A rock! And large enough to screen both him and his horse. The very thing!
Instinctively he perceives his advantage. Behind the rock he can make stand, and without hesitation he heads his horse for it.
It is a slight change from his former direction, and he loses a little ground; but recovers it by increased speed. For encouraged by the hope of getting under shelter, he makes a last spurt, urging his animal to the utmost.