"My God, Quintana——" he sobbed. Then Quintana's eyes blazed murder: and Sard turned and ran lumbering through the thicket like a stampeded ox, crashing on amid withered brake, white birch scrub and brier, not knowing whither he was headed, crazed with terror.
Quintana watched his flight for a moment, then, pistol swinging, he ran in the opposite direction, eastward, speeding lithely as a cat down a long, wooded slope which promised running water at the foot.
* * * * *
Sard could not run very far. He could scarcely stand when he pulled up and clung to the trunk of a tree.
More dead than alive, he embraced the tree, gulping horribly for air, every fat-incrusted organ labouring, his senses swimming.
As he sagged there, gripping his support on shaking knees, by degrees his senses began to return.
He could hear the dogs, now, vaguely as in a nightmare. But after a little while he began to believe that their hysterical yelping was really growing more distant.
Then this man whose every breath was an outrage on God, prayed.
He prayed that the hounds would follow Quintana, come up with him, drag him down, worry him, tear him to shreds of flesh and clothing.
He listened and prayed alternately After a while he no longer prayed but concentrated on his ears.