Up bobbed the black shaven pate out of the creek, much as Kit had often seen the head of a coot bob up in one of the moorland tarns of his own Northumberland. The little man stood listening, the sun on his shoulders, careless of discovery. The voice on the hill, loving and laughing, drew him like a syren's. Was the man mad? He was climbing up out of the creek on to the grass. Kit swept the tamarisk aside, and waved at him furiously. The little man soothed him with mocking hand, and crept on. Kit dared not shout; he could not catch the other. What could he do? Watch and pray, with sickening heart. "Little lamb, I'll tell thee, Little lamb, I'll tell thee: He is called by thy name." Beautiful as it was, the boy could not listen. His soul was in his eyes, and his eyes on Knapp. The little man was now behind the reader, and stalking him on hands and knees. What on earth was he up to? A horrible thought wrenched the boy's heart. Would Knapp stab the other as he lay? If so, could he stand by and see that little baboon-thing with the hairy bosom and leg-of-mutton fists murder in cold blood a noble gentleman to whom he owed his life? Then he remembered thankfully that Knapp had no weapons. "Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb, God bless thee!" Knapp had stopped now, and seemed bending over the other. Then he deliberately thrust his hand into the face beneath him. The Gentleman sat up, snatching for his sword. "Tweak his conk!" popped a Cockney voice--"the conk of a lord!" And he was up and away, and down the slope with the merriest spurt of laughter. The Gentleman was on his feet in a second, pursuing, a smear of blood at his nose. Knapp heard him. "Chise me!" he called, and came swinging down the slope at his ease, a smug grin on his face. He was the fastest man but one South of Thames that day, and how was he to know that one was after him? If he was not aware of it, Kit, watching with all his eyes, was. The Gentleman was hounding at the other's heels, swift, silent, terrible. "Run!" screamed the boy. The rifleman glanced over his shoulder. "God A'mighty!" he yelled. "E's catchin me." The light went out of his face. Fists and knees woke to sudden life and began to hammer furiously. The long easy swing became a terrific pitter-patter. Flinging back his head, he set himself to run the race of his life. IV Knapp was naked, and trained to a tick. The Gentleman was the faster, and the slope helped his long legs; but he was booted and spurred. Kit watched the smooth swoop of the one, and the terrific bob-a-bob- bob of the other. He was reminded of an eagle he had once seen stooping at a rabbit on the Cheviots. Each was running for his all, and each knew it; but the Gentleman was having the best of it. Knapp, running with his head as well as with his heels, was making straight for the creek. On the flat, among the boulders, he, naked-nimble, would be on better terms with the booted Gentleman.