At daybreak this morning, heavy detonations began to rend the air, and we knew that the road-blasting had begun. It was almost impossible to get the cottage cleaned,--the boys, especially Nucky, hung out of windows and doors, eagerly watching the puffs of smoke down the road, and listening for the loud reports. As we went over to breakfast, we could see Blant and the others at work. I noticed that Nucky ate not a bite, and was very pale,--I hoped that he was at last realizing it was his last day with me, and was feeling some of the pain I felt in the separation. We were all pouring out of the dining-room after the meal, when several sharp, near-by gun-shots, following a particularly loud blast of powder, sent all flying to the front. Up the steep mountain side facing the school a man was leaping, while down in the road below ran another, stopping only to aim and fire. "It's Blant!" called out a score of voices; "he's got away! Go it, Blant,--run, oh, run!" It was indeed Blant, making desperate speed up the steep slope. The mountain is cleared halfway, not a rock or a tree affording shelter; above that is the timber-line. All the school was by this time at the fence, breathlessly watching the breathless ascent. The keeper, selecting a vantage-ground just outside the school gate, took his stand and grimly proceeded to do his "whole duty," firing swiftly, calmly, surely, at the flying figure. In running accompaniment to the gun-shots, Nucky's voice rang out sharp and clear. "Keep to the right a little-grain!" "Drap down in the swag there, so's he can't hit you so easy!" "Make for them spruce-pines! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!" Bullets raised tiny clouds of dust about Blant's feet, and on the slope just ahead of him; the seconds seemed ages; our hearts stood still. Once he stopped short, clutching his left arm; then ran on again, more swiftly than ever, his arm dangling strangely. Nucky's voice, edged with agony, faltered no more than did the bullets. "Can't you move no quicker'n that? Seems like I could crawl faster! Once you reach the timber, he'll never hit you! Oh, hurry! hurry! hurry! You're getting nigh now. The trees! the trees! the trees! Oh God, he's to 'em,--he's safe!" [Illustration: "Nucky's voice rang out sharp and clear ... 'Make for them spruce pines! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!'"] And, indeed, he was. After a few parting shots into the timber, the keeper shook his head, mopped the sweat from his brow, shouldered his gun and turned to the other prisoners, who had followed him down the road, and to the rest of us.