Speech is the familiar vent of human thoughts; but there are emotions so
simple and overpowering, that they rush out not in words, but eloquent
sounds. At such moments man seems to lose his characteristics, and to
be merely one of the higher animals; for these, when greatly agitated,
ejaculate, though they cannot speak.
There was something terrible and truly animal, both in the roar
of triumph with which the pursuers burst out of the thicket on our
fugitives, and the sharp cry of terror with which these latter darted
away. The pursuers hands clutched the empty air, scarce two feet behind
them, as they fled for life. Confused for a moment, like lions that miss
their spring, Dierich and his men let Gerard and the mule put ten yards
between them. Then they flew after with uplifted weapons. They were
sure of catching them; for this was not the first time the parties had
measured speed. In the open ground they had gained visibly on the three
this morning, and now, at last, it was a fair race again, to be settled
by speed alone. A hundred yards were covered in no time. Yet still there
remained these ten yards between the pursuers and the pursued.
This increase of speed since the morning puzzled Dierich Brower. The
reason was this. When three run in company, the pace is that of the
slowest of the three. From Peter's house to the edge of the forest
Gerard ran Margaret's pace; but now he ran his own; for the mule was
fleet, and could have left them all far behind. Moreover, youth and
chaste living began to tell. Daylight grew imperceptibly between the
hunted ones and the hunters. Then Dierich made a desperate effort, and
gained two yards; but in a few seconds Gerard had stolen them quietly
back. The pursuers began to curse.
Martin heard, and his face lighted up. “Courage, Gerard! courage, brave
lad! they are straggling.”
It was so. Dierich was now headed by one of his men, and another dropped
into the rear altogether.
They came to a rising ground, not sharp, but long; and here youth, and
grit, and sober living told more than ever.
Ere he reached the top, Dierich's forty years weighed him down like
forty bullets. “Our cake is dough,” he gasped. “Take him dead, if you
can't alive;” and he left running, and followed at a foot's pace. Jorian
Ketel tailed off next; and then another, and so, one by one, Gerard ran
them all to a standstill, except one who kept on stanch as a bloodhound,
though losing ground every minute. His name, if I am not mistaken,
was Eric Wouverman. Followed by him, they came to a rise in the wood,
shorter, but much steeper than the last.
“Hand on mane!” cried Martin.
Gerard obeyed, and the mule helped him up the hill faster even than he
was running before.
At the sight of this manoeuvre, Dierich's man lost heart, and, being now
full eighty yards behind Gerard, and rather more than that in advance of
his nearest comrade, he pulled up short, and, in obedience to Dierich's
order, took down his crossbow, levelled it deliberately, and just as the
trio were sinking out of sight over the crest of the hill, sent the bolt
whizzing among them.
There was a cry of dismay; and, next moment, as if a thunder-bolt had
fallen on them, they were all lying on the ground, mule and all.