path by the bridge and had begun his race for liberty—in reality, he knew that as a maximum it could not have been more than five minutes—probably much less.
The woods! He was in them now—at last. A gasp of relief, and he straightened up and swung again into his stride. The sounds from the village were a little fainter now—but now there was another sound, harsh, imperious, far-carrying, that on the still evening air would reach for miles around, a sound that none would misinterpret—the great bell in the central dome of the prison was sending out its warning in quick, furious clamour, each heavy, wavering note ending with a clash as another boomed out impatiently upon the echoes of the first.
He was on the edge of the creek again—it showed through the fringe of trees at his right. He had not been mistaken then—it made a sharp turn here. The carbine he was carrying was useless weight—under no circumstances could he have any need of it—not even as a last resort. It had already served its purpose. They would find Kingman, find the carbine gone, know that he, Varge, was armed and believe him desperate enough to use the weapon—they would, consequently, be a little more cautious, perhaps a little less enthusiastic in their chase. A whimsical smile flickered across the compressed lips. He must not destroy any such illusion by allowing them to find the weapon discarded. He stooped at the water's edge, and without splash or noise slid the carbine beneath the muddy current.
For an instant he debated with himself whether to cross here or not—and, deciding against it, ran on again. The other bank was not so heavily wooded at
