The prisoners, laden with their sticks of timber and bundles of wood, were driven back to the camp, to endure other weeks and months of suffering, or to die there, as many had done before. Somers and the major kept perfectly still until the guard had passed the tree, and disappeared from their view.
“We shall be missed before long,” said Somers.
“We will not stop here,” replied De Banyan, as he descended the tree and lay down on the ground at the foot of it.
Somers followed him, lying down by his side. Having satisfied themselves that they had not been observed, they crawled away until the slope of a hill concealed them from the view of the camp, when they ventured to stand upright, like men, and press forward for life and liberty. They continued to walk in a southerly direction till they came to a creek, over which they swam, in the hope that the water would interrupt the scent of the blood-hounds which would be put on their track as soon as their absence was discovered.
It was a vain hope. They were in a kind of swampy jungle, not more than half a mile from the creek, when they heard the fearful cry of the dogs.
“We are lost!” exclaimed Somers, appalled at the horrible sounds.
“No!” replied De Banyan, with his old energy. “Don’t give it up!”
“I won’t, if you do not,” added Somers, inspired with courage by the firmness and self-possession of his friend.
“Find a club, if you can!”
They were fortunate enough to find a couple of sticks, soaked full of water, with which they hoped to make a good fight.