"They're coming up again," muttered Godfrey, glancing back.
"Never mind. They can't hurt us now," cried the other.
They were in the brush again, plunging in the mud under the thick shadows of the cypress. Neither spoke. It was very near eight, and each moment they expected to hear shots. Both dreaded they might be too late.
On they rushed, now waist-deep in a morass of mud and rotting vegetation, now struggling through a tangle of wild grape and bamboo vine.
At last, after what seemed an endless time, the footing grew firmer and the ground began to rise. The cypress and palmetto gave place to pine and wire grass.
"We're close to the road," muttered Kinnersly breathlessly. "And I only hope Sam hasn't passed."
"Listen!" hissed the other, pulling up short. "Yes, I hear horses' feet."
Once more they both rushed forward. The hoof-sounds grew plainer, and the red glow of a cigar shone through the pine trunks.
Kinnersly flung himself recklessly into the open. "Sam, is that you?" he hissed desperately.
There was a sharp exclamation. "Who's that?"