The tramp of running feet approached, and in fear he sprang up and recommenced his flight.
Pierre and Jean shouted, but he did not answer. His face swam with perspiration, and he smeared it over his cheeks with his cuff, as he tried to wipe them. He strained every nerve to run, setting his teeth; the wind whistled through them as he drew his breath. He stood still, unable to continue his flight, without a break for recovering his wind. His breast laboured. His brain was on fire, and his heart beat violently. The temples throbbed as though a hammer were striking on them. The measured tread of the runners drew nearer; and for a minute Berthier could not run. But just as they hove in sight through the darkness, he bounded forward, and attempted to leap a gate at the road-side opening into a field, but which was fastened. He fell, unable to clear it, and in falling sprained his foot. In another moment the peasants would be upon him. His only resource was to roll into the ditch, half full of water, and overhung with briars at the side.
'He has made for the wood!' shouted Jean.
'Sacré! we must be quick, or we shall miss him!'
Berthier heard both the men climb the gate.
'I know he has gone this way,' said Jean; 'I heard the rattle of the bar as he touched it.'
'Over with you,' shouted Pierre; and both jumped into the field and ran across it.
Berthier heard their calls becoming more distant. He remained immersed in mire, shivering with fear, till they returned, cursing their ill luck.
'Once in the woods he may elude a thousand,' said Pierre, as he climbed the gate on his way back.