band, perhaps, or bound upon a warpath of his own. The musket that he carried some English fool had sold him for a mess of pottage.
Putting forth all our strength, we ran for our lives, and for the lives of many others. Before us the pine wood sloped down to a deep and wide thicket, and beyond the thicket a line of sycamores promised water. If we could reach the thicket, its close embrace would hide us, — then the darkness and the stream. A third shot, and Diccon staggered slightly.
“For God’s sake, not struck, man?” I cried.
“It grazed my arm,” he panted. “No harm done. Here’s the thicket!”
Into the dense growth we broke, reckless of the blood which the sharp twigs