At any rate, he slid over the
ground like the shadow of a cloud driven in a storm.
Already he gained fast, and yet he had not attained top speed; when he
did, he would walk up on the chestnut as the latter could walk up on
the mares of his herd.
Over a hill bolted Alcatraz and beneath him he saw a faint hope of
escape--the flash of water where a brook, new-swelled by the rains,
was running bankfull, a noisy torrent. He went down the slope like the
wind, struck the level at such speed that the air stung his nostrils,
and leaped from the firm gravel at the edge of the stream.
The far bank seemed a mighty distance as he soared high--the water
rushed broad and swift beneath him, no swimming if he struck that
bubbling current--and then, a last pitch forwards in mid-air; a
forefoot struck ground, the bank crushed in beneath his weight, and
then he was scrambling to the safety beyond and reeling into a new
gallop.
Behind him, he saw the shadowy pursuer skim down the slope, fling
into the air, and drop out of sight. Had he reached the shore? Ten
seconds--no long and ominous head appeared--certainly he had fallen
short and landed in the furious current. Alcatraz dropped his
heart-breaking pace to a moderate gallop, but as he did so he saw
a form which dripped with water scramble into view fifty yards
down-stream--the lobo had managed to reach safety after all and now he
came like a bullet to end the chase.
Pages:
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278