figure.  But no sound was heard to come from the cavern, except the sharp crack of the bullets against the rock, and the echo of the gunpowder.  There had been no groan as of a man wounded, no sound of a body falling, no voice wailing in despair.  For a few seconds all was dark with the smoke of the gunpowder, and then the empty mouth of the cave was again yawning before their eyes.  Morton was now near it, still cautiously creeping.  The first danger to which he was exposed was this; that his enemy within the recess might push him down from the rocks with a touch.  But on the other hand, there were three or four men ready to fire, the moment that a hand should be put forth; and then Morton could swim,—was known to be a strong swimmer;—whereas of Aaron Trow it was already declared by the prison gaolers that he could not swim.  Two of the warders had now followed Morton on the rocks, so that in the event of his making good his entrance into the cavern, and holding his enemy at bay for a minute, he would be joined by aid.

It was strange to see how those different men conducted themselves as they stood on the opposite platform watching the attack.  The officers from the prison had no other thought but of their prisoner, and were intent on taking him alive or dead.  To them it was little or nothing what became of Morton.  It was their business to encounter peril, and they were ready to do so;—feeling, however, by no means sorry to have such a man as Morton in advance of them.  Very little was said by them.  They had their wits about them, and remembered that every word spoken for the guidance of their ally would be heard also by the escaped convict.  Their prey was sure, sooner or later, and had not Morton been so eager in his pursuit, they would have waited till some plan had been devised of trapping him without danger.  But the townsmen from St. George, of whom some dozen were now standing there, were quick and eager and loud in their counsels.  “Stay where you are, Mr. Morton,—stay awhile for the love of God—or he’ll have you down.”  “Now’s your time, Caleb; in on him now, and you’ll have him.”  “Close with him, Morton, close with him at once; it’s your only chance.”  “There’s four of us here; we’ll fire on him if he as much as shows a limb.”  All of which words as they were heard by that poor wretch within, must have sounded to him as the barking of a pack of hounds thirsting for his blood.  For him at any rate there was no longer any hope in this world.

My reader, when chance has taken you into the hunting-field, has it ever been your lot to sit by on horseback, and watch the digging out of a fox?  The operation is not an uncommon one, and in some countries it is held to be in accordance with the rules of fair sport.  For myself, I think that when the brute has so far saved himself, he should be entitled to the benefit of his cunning; but I will not now discuss the propriety or impropriety of that practice in venery.  I can never, however, watch the doing of that work without thinking much of the agonising struggles of the poor beast whose last refuge is being torn from over his head.  There he lies within a few yards of his arch enemy, the huntsman.  The thick breath of the hounds make hot the air within his hole.  The sound of their voices is close upon his ears.  His breast is nearly bursting with the violence of that effort which at last has brought him to his retreat.  And then pickaxe and mattock are plied above his head, and nearer and more near to him press his foes,—his double foes, human and canine,—till at last a huge hand grasps him, and he is dragged forth among his enemies.  Almost as soon as his eyes have seen the light the eager noses of a dozen hounds have moistened themselves in his entrails.  Ah me!  I know that he is vermin, the vermin after whom I have been risking my neck, with a bold ambition that I might ultimately witness his death-struggles; but, nevertheless, I would fain have saved him that last half hour of gradually diminished hope.

And Aaron Trow was now like a hunted fox, doomed to be dug out from his last refuge, with this addition to his misery, that these hounds when they caught their prey, would not put him at once out of his misery.  When first he saw that throng of men coming down from the hill top and resting on the platform; he knew that his fate was come.  When they called to him to surrender himself he was silent, but he knew that his silence was of no avail.  To them who were so eager to be his captors the matter seemed to be still one of considerable difficulty; but, to his thinking, there was no difficulty.  There were there some score of men, fully armed, within twenty yards of him.  If he but showed a trace of his limbs he would become a mark for their bullets.  And then if he were wounded, and no one would come to him!  If they allowed him to lie there without food till he perished!  Would it not be well for him to yield himself?  Then they called again and he was still silent.  That idea of yielding is very terrible to the heart of a man.  And when the worst had come to the worst, did not the ocean run deep beneath his cavern’s month?

But as they yelled at him and hallooed, making their preparations for his death, his presence of mind deserted the poor wretch.  He had stolen an old pistol on one of his marauding expeditions, of which one barrel had been loaded.  That in his mad despair he had fired; and now, as he lay near the mouth of the cavern, under the cover of the projecting stone, he had no weapon with him but his hands.  He had had a knife, but that had dropped from him during the struggle on the floor of the cottage.  He had now nothing but his hands, and was considering how he might best use them in ridding himself of the first of his pursuers.  The man was near him, armed, with all the power and majesty of right on his side; whereas on his side, Aaron Trow had nothing,—not a hope.  He raised his head that he might look forth, and a dozen voices shouted as his face appeared above the aperture.  A dozen weapons were levelled at him, and he could see the gleaming of the muzzles of the guns.  And then the foot of his pursuer was already on the corner stone at the cavern’s mouth.  “Now, Caleb, on him at once!” shouted a voice.  Ah me! it was a moment in which to pity even such a man as Aaron Trow.

“Now, Caleb, at him at once!” shouted the voice.  No, by heavens; not so, even yet!  The sound of triumph in those words raised the last burst of energy in the breast of that wretched man; and he sprang forth, head foremost, from his prison house.  Forth he came, manifest enough before the eyes of them all, and with head well down, and hands outstretched, but with his wide glaring eyes still turned towards his pursuers as he fell, he plunged down into the waves beneath him.  Two of those who stood by, almost unconscious of what they did, fired at his body as it made its rapid way to the water; but, as they afterwards found, neither of the bullets struck him.  Morton, when his prey thus leaped forth, escaping him for awhile, was already on the verge of the cavern,—had even then prepared his foot for that onward spring which should bring him to the throat of his foe.  But he arrested himself, and for a moment stood there watching the body as it struck the water, and hid itself at once beneath the ripple.  He stood there for a moment watching the deed and its effect, and then leaving his hold upon the rock, he once again followed his quarry.  Down he went, head foremost, right on to the track in the waves which the other had made; and when the two rose to the surface together, each was struggling in the grasp of the other.

It was a foolish, nay, a mad deed to do.  The poor wretch who had first fallen could not have escaped.  He could not even swim, and had therefore flung himself to certain destruction when he took that leap from out of the cavern’s mouth.  It would have been sad to see him perish beneath the waves,—to watch