“Ned has got a bloodhound with him, Ekiel,” said Clynch. “We must kill the brute! Have you got your Spanish knife with you?”
“Ay! but I daren't attack that hound.”
“Give me the knife, then! I'll do it!” cried Clynch. “We must get out of this place as quickly as we can, and run for life.”
“Run where?” demanded Ekiel.
“To the marsh,” replied Clynch. “That's our only chance.”
“That devil of a dog has taken all my strength out of me.”
“Don't be afeared of him!” cried Clynch, unclasping the cuchillo, the point of which was as sharp as a needle.
Just then, a long bay proclaimed that the hound had got the scent, while the voice, stated by Ekiel to be that of Ned Rushton, was heard encouraging him.
The gipsies set off; but had not gone far when the formidable hound burst upon them through the underwood.
Quick as lightening, Clynch turned, and dropping on one knee, faced the enemy with the cuchillo in his hand.