In speed the two men were at the time well matched, for any advantage that Zeppa had in point of size and strength was counterbalanced by the youth and superstitious terror of Rosco. At first, indeed, the madman gained on his foe, but as the impetuosity of his first dash abated, the pirate’s courage returned, and, warming to the race, he held his ground.
Like hare and greyhound they coursed along the level patch of ground that lay on that side of the island, until they came in sight of the swampy land, covered with low but dense wood which bounded the lands of the Raturans. Dismay overwhelmed the pirate at first sight of it. Then hope rebounded into his soul, and he put on a spurt which carried him considerably ahead of his pursuer. He reached the edge of the swamp-land, and dashed into its dark recesses. He had barely entered it a few yards when he plunged into water up to the neck. The heavy root of a tree chanced to hang over him. Drawing himself close beneath it, he remained quite still. It was his best—indeed his only—chance.
Next moment Zeppa plunged headlong into another part of the same half-hidden pool. Arising, like some shaggy monster of the swamp, with weeds and slimy plants trailing from his locks, he paused a moment, as if to make sure of his direction before resuming the chase. At that moment he was completely in the power of the pirate, for his broad back was not more than a few feet from the screen of roots and tendrils by which Rosco was partially hidden. The temptation was strong. The pirate drew the keen knife that always hung at his girdle, but a feeling of pity induced him to hesitate. The delay sufficed to save Zeppa’s life. Next moment he seized an overhanging branch, drew himself out of the swamp, and sped on his way; but, having lost sight of his enemy, he soon paused and looked round with indecision.
“It must have been a dream,” he muttered, and began to retrace his steps with an air of humiliation, as if half ashamed of having given way to such excitement. From his hiding-place the pirate saw him pass, and watched him out of sight. Then, clambering quickly out of the stagnant pool, he pushed deeper and deeper into the recesses of the morass, regardless of every danger, except that of falling into the madman’s hands.
Chapter Nine.
Who shall tell, or who shall understand, the thoughts of Richard Rosco, the ex-pirate, as he wandered, lost yet regardless, in that dismal swamp?
The human spirit is essentially galvanic. It jumps like a grasshopper, bounds like a kangaroo. The greatest of men can only restrain it in a slight degree. The small men either have exasperating trouble with it, or make no attempt to curb it at all. It is a rebellious spirit. The best of books tells us that, “Greater is he that ruleth it, than he that taketh a city.”
Think of that, youngster, whoever you are, who readeth this. Think of the conquerors of the world. Think of the “Great” Alexander, whose might was so tremendous that he subjugated kingdoms and spent his life in doing little else. Think of Napoleon “the Great,” whose armies ravaged Europe from the Atlantic