So great was Blight's surprise that he stood stock still, with mouth agape, staring at the silhouetted form of his enemy; then, recovering himself, rushed wildly towards Mr. McKay, shrieking:
"You'll never take me alive, bad luck to you!"
It was the act of a madman. Ere he could cover the intervening apace, Mr. McKay could have shot him dead on the spot. But the Australian was loath to be the rascal's executioner; the business seemed to him to be mere butchery.
Turning down the muzzle of his rifle, the solitary tracker aimed the weapon at his enemy's feet. This action had a most restraining effect upon the rogue. He would welcome a swift and almost painless death, but to be deliberately crippled, secured at leisure, and dragged back to his prison, did not appeal to him. He turned swiftly and, dodging from side to side as he ran, he sped rapidly across the rocks.
Mr. McKay fired, but the shot went wide. He could have perforated the man's body between the shoulders with the greatest ease, but a pot-shot in the moonlight at a pair of swiftly-moving legs afforded plenty of opportunities of missing.
The fugitive uttered a yell of defiance, and sped onwards. Another fifty yards and he would be lost to sight in the midst of a labyrinth of fantastically-shaped rocks.
Mr. McKay did not attempt to fire a second shot. The success of his long vigil depended upon keeping the chase in view. Laying his rifle on the ground and making sure that the flap of his pistol-holster was loose, he vaulted upon the rock and set off in pursuit.
Although "hard as nails" and sound of wind, Mr. McKay forgot for the time being that the result of his accident on board the San Martin had left him somewhat weak in his lower limbs.
With elbows pressed close to his sides he ran, but ere forty yards were covered he found himself lurching dangerously. Setting his jaw firmly, he persevered, keeping his eyes fixed upon the form of the fugitive, yet he was forced to confess that he was losing ground.
Blight was now within twenty yards of the sheltering rocks. Dare the pursuer use his revolver and stop this headlong flight? The odds were too great, for with the exertion of running his aim would be erratic. No, he must continue to run and trust to chance that his quarry might be cornered somewhere.