Leaving the inert mass to choke up the current, with whose waters the blood, oozing from the wound, began to commingle, Luke prepared to depart. His perils were not yet past. Guided by the firing, the report of which alarmed them, the keeper's assistants hastened in the direction of the sound, presenting themselves directly in the path Luke was about to take. He had either to retrace his steps, or face a double enemy. His election was made at once. He turned and fled. For an instant the men tarried with their bleeding companion. They then dragged him from the brook, and with loud oaths followed in pursuit. Threading, for a second time, the bosky labyrinth, Luke sought the source of the stream. This was precisely the course his enemies would have desired him to pursue; and when they beheld him take it, they felt confident of his capture. The sides of the hollow became more and more abrupt as they advanced, though they were less covered with brushwood. The fugitive made no attempt to climb the bank, but still pressed forward. The road was tortuous, and wound round a jutting point of rock. Now he was a fair mark--no, he had swept swiftly by, and was out of sight before a gun could be raised. They reached the same point. He was still before them, but his race was nearly run. Steep, slippery rocks, shelving down to the edges of a small, deep pool of water, the source of the stream, formed an apparently insurmountable barrier in that direction. Rooted--Heaven knows how!--in some reft or fissure of the rock, grew a wild ash, throwing out a few boughs over the solitary pool; this was all the support Luke could hope for, should he attempt to scale the rock. The rock was sheer--the pool deep--yet still he hurried on. He reached the muddy embankment; mounted its sides; and seemed to hesitate. The keepers were now within a hundred yards of him. Both guns were discharged. And, sudden as the reports, with a dead, splashless plunge, like a diving otter, the fugitive dropped into the water. The pursuers were at the brink. They gazed at the pool. A few bubbles floated upon its surface, and burst. The water was slightly discolored with sand. No ruddier stain crimsoned the tide; no figure rested on the naked rock; no hand clung to the motionless tree. "Devil take the rascal!" growled one; "I hope he harn't escaped us, arter all." "Noa, noa, he be fast enough, never fear," rejoined the other; "sticking like a snig at the bottom o' the pond; and, dang him! he deserves it, for he's slipped out of our fingers like a snig often enough to-night. But come, let's be stumping, and give poor Hugh Badger a helping hand." Whereupon they returned to the assistance of the wounded and discomfited keeper. _CHAPTER IV_ _THE HALL_ I am right against my house--seat of my ancestors. _Yorkshire Tragedy._