Chapter Forty One.
The Pursuit.
For a time there was a strange irresolution in my flight. The idea of leaving Guadalupe in such company—that after all they might be prisoners, or, even if not, the thought that they were in the power of Dubrosc to any extent—was enough to render me wretched and irresolute. But what could we do—five men, almost unarmed?
“It would be madness to remain—madness and death. The woman—she possesses some mysterious power over this brute, her paramour: she will guard them.”
This thought decided me, and I yielded myself freely to flight. We had but little fear of being caught again. We had too much confidence, particularly Lincoln and myself, in our forest-craft. Raoul knew all the country, the thickets and the passes. We stopped a moment to deliberate on the track we should take. A bugle rang out behind us, and the next instant the report of a cannon thundered in a thousand echoes along the glen.
“It is from the hacienda,” said Raoul; “they have missed us already.”
“Is that a ‘sign’, Rowl,” asked Lincoln.
“It is,” replied the other; “it’s to warn their scouts. They’re all over these hills. We must look sharp.”
“I don’t like this hyur timber; it’s too scant. Cudn’t yer put us in the crik bottom, Rowl?”