f water between the tree and the bank. His few
poor efforts at escape were almost half-consciously taken; he was too
tired to really care now.

Soon he saw a four-footed shape running along the top of the bank,
giving tongue. It was then joined by a larger and even more vocal
companion. The dogs drew even with Ross, who wondered dully if the
animals could sight him in the shadows below, or whether they only
scented his presence. Had he been able, he would have climbed over the
log and taken his chances in the open water, but now he could only lie
where he was--the tangle of roots between him and the bank serving as a
screen, which would be little enough protection when men came with
torches.

Ross was mistaken, however, for his worm's progress across the reed bed
had liberally besmeared his dark clothing and masked the skin of his
face and hands, giving him better cover than any he could have
wittingly devised. Though he felt naked and defenseless, the men who
trailed the hounds to the river bank, thrusting out the torch over the
edge to light the sand spit, saw nothing but the trunk of the tree
wedged against a mound of mud.

Ross heard a confused murmur of voices broken by the clamor of the dogs.
Then the torch was raised out of line of his dazzled eyes. He saw one of
the indistinct figures above cuff away a dog and move off, calling the
hounds after it. Reluctantly, still barking, the animals went. Ross,
with a little sob, subsided limply in the uncomfortable net of roots,
still undiscovered.

CHAPTER 15

It was such a small thing, a tag of ragged stuff looped about a length
of splintered sapling. Ross climbed stiffly over the welter of drift
caught on the sand spit and pulled it loose, recognizing the string even
before he touched it. That square knot was of McNeil's tying, and as
Murdock sat down weakly in the sand and mud, nervously fingering the
twisted cord, staring vacantly at the river, his last small hope died.
The raft must have broken up, and neither Ashe nor McNeil could have
survived the ultimate disaster.

Ross Murdock was alone, marooned in a time which was not his own, with
little promise of escape. That one thought blanked out his mind with its
own darkness. What was the use of getting up again, of trying to find
food for his empty stomach, or warmth and shelter?

He had always prided himself on being able to go it alone, had thought
himself secure in that calculated loneliness. Now t