CHAPTER XVI.

"YOU'VE KILLED HIM."

Again the dull boom echoed over the moorland. In a few minutes the hill would be swarming with warders searching for them.

Rupert felt a thrill of excitement. The first thrill he had experienced for many weeks. Curious thoughts and memories flashed through his brain as he raced along shoulder to shoulder with Convict 303, who kept closely to his side in spite of the steep ascent. He remembered as a boy hunting with a pack of harriers which sometimes met at The Hall; he used to ride a rough moorland pony. This thrill of being hunted was somewhat similar to the thrill of hunting. As a boy he had always had a sneaking sympathy with the quarry, and a vague hope, he was always ashamed to express, that it might escape. He understood now. It was far finer to be hunted than to hunt.

"We'll cheat them, No. 303, never fear!" he cried to his comrade. "Keep your pecker up, man!"

"I'm all right," the convict panted; "but I can't keep this pace up for long."

They had entered the thick pall of fog, and presently Rupert stopped in order to regain his breath. They stood close together, touching one another, listening. At first they heard nothing but the sobbing of their own breath, and the beating of their own hearts. And they could see nothing; the blessed fog shut everything out from sight--rocks, walls, roads, hills, and valleys.

"If this only lasts," Rupert whispered.

"Where shall we make for?" No. 303 asked. "Plymouth ain't far from here, is it; and that's a seaport town?"

Rupert turned and looked into the blue eyes of his comrade. He laid his hand on his shoulder. "Man, you don't expect to get right away, do you? It has never been done and never will be done. I was born on these moorlands. I know every stick and stone and bush on them. Even if I wanted to I couldn't get away."

"Even if you wanted to!" No. 303 hissed. "What do you mean? What sort of game is it you're playing--Hide and Seek, or Puss in the Corner?"

He broke off suddenly, and Rupert's grip tightened on his shoulder. The silence was broken. On the still air they heard the sound of a horse galloping along the distant road in the valley somewhere below them. They held their breath and listened intently.

The sound grew nearer and nearer; for a few seconds it seemed as if the speed of the horse was checked. Then, to the relief of both men, the sounds became fainter and fainter, gradually dying away.

"A mounted warder galloping to Post Bridge to cut us off in that direction," Rupert said. "We must stick to the tors. While the fog lasts they can't leave the roads or bridle paths."

Again they commenced to struggle up the steep ascent, keeping along the edge of the water course.

"Where are you making for?" No. 303 demanded.

"Wistman's Wood, the other side of the Dart. A good place to hide if the fog lifts."

"Ain't no use hiding," the convict objected. "We must find a farm or a cottage where we can get a change of clothing and food. Then we may get a chance of slipping away. You say you know the moorland--then you must know the folk on it. Ain't there some one who would help us--or somewhere where we could hide ourselves? This is life or death, remember."

Rupert nodded, and once again he slackened speed and stopped. "Listen, 303. I don't want to escape, because I know it's impossible. All I hope is to get on the other side of Post Bridge to Blackthorn Farm--to my home."

His voice faltered a moment at the last word. "There is something I want to say to my father--if he's still alive. Something I must say. It's a matter of life or death to him, perhaps--and to my sister. When I've done that, delivered my message--why then I shall give myself up."

The muscles about 303's face contracted, his blue eyes clouded. For a little while he was silent, turning over in his mind what Rupert had said.

"You're balmy!" he growled eventually. "Crikey, what a chance! Why, if you gets home, they'll hide you, won't they--give you food and clothes and money? And I'll jolly well see that I gets the same too. We're going to see this thing through together."

Rupert sighed and shook his head: "Follow me, if you like; but it's not a bit of good. My father will give us both up."

He looked at 303 sadly. For months, perhaps for years, he knew this convict had only thought of, and planned, escape, dreamed of it day and night. The taste of freedom was sweet in his mouth already; he could not believe that they would not get clear away. It was no use trying to persuade him that he was attempting the impossible.

"I'll stand by you," he replied. "I'll do what I can to help you. But it's no use talking. Come along!"

Presently they came to a high, stone wall, and Rupert uttered an exclamation of joy.

"We're just above Wistman's Wood, and this is the great wall that runs from Beardown to Rough Tor, which is past Post Bridge Hall. It will be easy going now, and if the fog lifts the wall will help to conceal us from anyone on the road below."

They started off again at a good pace. They had not gone for more than half a mile when they both stopped simultaneously.

The sound of a voice had come out of the fog far above them. They listened. It came again--a faint shout. They were straining their ears in the intense silence. Presently they heard a pony's iron-shod hoofs striking on the granite. A moment later another shout, nearer than the first.

"Mounted warders on the tor above us," Rupert whispered. "Quick, get over the wall! We must hide until they're gone."

As they climbed the wall a large stone was displaced and went rolling and bounding down the hill side. Then, just as they jumped to the ground, there was a sudden puff of wind and the cloud of fog rolled away, almost as if it were a great white blanket withdrawn by invisible hands. And there on the tor above them Rupert saw clearly outlined against the sky two horsemen, about three hundred yards apart.

"By God, we're done!" 303 cried.

The mounted warders raised a shout, and jabbing their heels into their ponies' sides, commenced to gallop down the hill.

"We must make a run for it," Rupert said. "There's fog still in the valley."

Before he finished speaking, 303 had torn off like a hare, leaping, stumbling, dashing first one way, then another to avoid obstacles. Rupert followed. Twice 303 fell, and each time Rupert waited to lend him a hand. Once he glanced back and he saw the warders reach the wall; they dismounted, and one commenced to pull the stones off the wall to make a gap for his pony; the other unslung his rifle and shouted to the flying convicts to stop--or he would fire.

Twice the warning came. They were racing side by side now. Rupert heard himself laugh. The sheltering pall of fog was not a hundred yards away now. He set his teeth and flung back his head while he waited for the crack of the warders' carbines and the "ping" of the buckshot.

It came just as the kindly fog was about to envelop them again. Ten seconds more and they would have been safe.

Perhaps the warder had the instincts of a sportsman. Perhaps he had purposely given them a run for their money. But he had to do his duty. He knew that if once they got into the fog again they would be lost.

So he fired. He saw the right-hand man stumble, then roll over and over like a shot rabbit until he lay quite still face downwards on the heather. Before he could raise his carbine and fire again the other man had disappeared.

Both warders let go their ponies, stumbled over the wall and ran down the hill-side to the fallen convict. The man who had fired the shot stooped down and turned him over. And he started and looked at his companion. The convict's face was white as death; blood was flowing from a wound on his forehead.

"My God Bill, you've done it this time!" the second warder said. "You've killed him!"