enough in to run again without fear of indicating his position to any one on the bridge or the village street.
What was that! Along the bank of the creek some one was running—a man—heavy-treaded. Varge rose to his feet, and, crouching low, bent almost double, began to run cautiously. A crash—the pursuer had plunged into the bushes where, not more than two minutes before, he himself had dashed for cover—there was the thrashing of branches—coming closer.
A sudden whiteness spread itself over Varge's grim, set face. He must get away, he must get away, he must get away—the words rang over and over again in his brain. There was more than life, more than years of grey-walled prison existence at stake—he must get away—at any cost. If Kingman—yes, that was Kingman coming now—if Kingman reached him! Whiter still grew Varge's face. Was he to chose between that—and Kingman!
He dared not straighten to his full height and trust to speed—Kingman could not be twenty yards from him—far too close a shot to risk. Kingman! A man stood between him and what was far more now than freedom. And Kingman was only doing his duty.
He could only run slowly—Kingman was coming at top speed, charging like a bull through the leaves and branches. He could hear the man's panting breath now—and by some grim trick of fate Kingman was heading directly toward him! Presently, others would come, a score of guards, but now it was only—Kingman. Another minute, half a minute, and Kingman would be upon him—a waving mass of tumbled hair seemed again to bathe his face in its rare fragrance, the gold-
