Fulano splashed in and took deep water magnificently.
What a sight it is to see a noble horse nobly breast the flood,—to see his shoulders thrust aside the stream, his breath come quick, his eyes flash, his haunches lift, his wake widen after him!
And then—Act 2—how grand it is to see him paw and struggle up with might and main upon the farther bank,—to see him rise, all glossy and reeking, shake himself, and, with a snort, go galloping free and away! Aha! a sight to be seen!
We stood watching Act 1. The fugitive was half-way across. The baying came closer, closer on his trail.
Two thirds across.
The baying ceased. The whole pack drew a long wail.
“They see him,” said Biddulph.
Almost across! A dozen more plunges, Fulano!
A crowd of armed men on horseback dashed up to the bank two hundred yards above us. It was open where they halted. They could not see us among the bushes on the edge of the slough.
One of them—it was Murker—sprang from his saddle. He pointed his rifle quick and steady. Horse and man, the fugitives, were close to the bank and the thicket of safety.