"Which way did the other fellow go?" "I don’t know. You get the ponies—I’ll wait here." The second warder hurried up the hillside towards the stone wall and disappeared into the fog. The one who had fired the fatal shot stooped to pick up his gun. As he did so, the figure of the convict lying on the heather stirred. A second later he was on his feet, running for dear life! He was gone before the warder could realise what had happened. He swung round and stared open-mouthed at the wall of fog surrounding him on all sides. "Well, I’m damned!" he ejaculated. Jamming a cartridge into his gun, he fired it off. * * * * * When the fatal shot was fired Rupert was a few yards ahead of 303, and he felt a sharp sting at the point of his shoulder as he heard the shot whiz by. Thinking that the shot was aimed at him, and feeling himself hit, he swerved to the right and made for a low wall which ran down towards the powder-magazine, intent only on reaching its shelter. The shock of being fired at had put all thought of his comrade for the moment out of his mind, and it was not until he was over the wall and heading for the small clump of trees, through the top of which he could see the ruined chimney of the old powder-mill which instinct told him was his only chance, did he think of 303. Slackening his pace, he glanced back over his shoulder—but he could see nothing. He turned once more and sped towards the trees which were now only a few hundred yards away, and the fold in the ground hid him from the road and also from the hill above. On reaching the trees, his breath coming in great gasps, worn out with excitement, he threw himself upon a bed of rushes growing beside the Cherry Brook, which flowed within the walls that enclosed the powder mills. He was consumed with raging thirst, and when he had recovered his breath sufficiently, he crawled to the brook and buried his face in the cool, clear stream. As he sat up he saw his right hand dripping with blood, and for the first time remembered his wound. Taking off his broad-arrowed coat, he felt his throbbing shoulder, and was relieved to find the bullet had but grazed his flesh. He went to the stream and dipped his coat into the water—when he was startled by the dull thud of horses’ hoofs approaching. The powder mill buildings were mere ruined shells. There was no shelter there—but suddenly his eye caught the chimney, a circular stack about thirty feet high. The horseman had reached the wall; he heard him check the horse and dismount. Rupert remembered that he had often swarmed up the inside of the chimney when a boy. The sound of the pony’s hoofs striking the stones of the wall as the warder led him through the gap caused Rupert to spring towards the chimney. In a second he was within the ruined furnace, grasping the iron bar which crossed the chimney some six feet above the ground.