Herring saw the finger twitch at the trigger, and instinctively bent his head. He heard the report at the same moment, followed by a cry and a heavy fall behind him. He was himself unhurt, and his first impulse was to close with Sampson, but, turning his head, he saw the constable lying motionless, and, with a call to Mr. Flamank to run after Sampson, he stooped over the prostrate man. The constable’s face was mottled; all colour had deserted it but a dead purple in blotches in the cheeks. His eyes were closed, and he was motionless. Seeing the pistol produced, the worthy man had sprung behind John Herring, true to his word that he was good at backing. When Herring bent his head, the constable had received the charge which was designed to blow out Herring’s brains. John Herring scooped water out of the stream, and threw it over the poor fellow’s face. Then he tore off his neckcloth, and ripped open his waistcoat in search of the wound. The freshness of the water brought the man round. He opened his pale eyes, looked scaredly at Herring, and closed them again. ’Are you much hurt? Where did the shot strike?’ asked John Herring. Again the constable opened his eyes cautiously, and now he turned his head stiffly. ’Where is he?’ he asked huskily. ’He has run away. Are you seriously hurt?’ ’Very,’ sighed the poor man. ’But where?’ ’I can’t speak yet. Wait a bit, and I will tell’y.’ In the meantime Sampson Trampleasure was running. He stopped his flight after he had gone some little distance, and looked back. He saw Herring bowed over the prostrate man, opening his waistcoat and uncovering his breast. With a curse, he turned and ran on. Flamank, with tails flying, waving the brown shawl like a lasso over his head, ran after him, shouting, ’Heigh! stop, Mr. Sampson! stop! You have killed the constable! You must be hung! Stay and let me catch you!’ ’Try to stand,’ said Herring to the constable. He lifted him to his feet. ’I be the father of fourteen, and another coming,’ said the poor man. He was dreadfully frightened; he peered about him in all directions. ’And the eldest fifteen,’ he murmured. ’Be you sure the murderous ruffian be out o’ harm’s way?’ ’Certain. Have you been hit?’ ’Ay, I have.’ ’Then where?’ ’Here,’ said the constable, holding up his hat. The ball had gone clean through it. Just then Mr. Flamank returned, panting and very hot. ’I can’t catch him. I have run and shouted my best, but he would not wait to be caught.’ ’He shall not escape me,’ said Herring. *CHAPTER XXIX.* *A RACE.*