y before they reach it. No need to shoot: only keep
your eyes open before they come abreast of it; for they'll make for it at
once, to kick it over--if they risk a bolt this way, which I doubt."

"Why not let me try up the gully between you and Jim?" Walter suggested.

His father considered a moment. "Very well, I'll flank you on the left up
the hedge, and Jim will take the rock. You're pretty sure they're there,
Jim?"

"I'd put a year's wages on it," answered Jim.

So the three began their climb. At his post below Father Halloran judged
from the pace at which Walter started that he would soon lead the others;
for Jim had a climb to negotiate which was none too easy, even by
daylight, and the Squire must fetch a considerable _detour_ before he
struck the hedge, along which, moreover, he would be impeded by brambles
and undergrowth. He saw this, but it was too late to call a warning.

Walter, beyond reach of the lantern's rays, ascended silently enough, but
at a gathering pace. He forgot the necessity of keeping in line. It did
not occur to him that his father must be dropping far behind: rather, his
presence seemed beside him, inexorable, dogging him with the morrow's
unthinkable compulsion. What mad adventure was this? Here he was at home
hunting Charley Hannaford. Well, but his father was close at hand, and
Father Halloran just below, who had always protected him. At this game he
could go on for ever, if only it would stave off tomorrow. To-morrow--

A couple of lithe arms went about him in the darkness. A voice spoke
hoarse and quick in his ear--spoke, though for the moment he was chiefly
aware of its hot breath.

"Broke your word, did ye? Set them on to us, you blasted young sprig!
Look 'ee here--I've a knife to your ribs, and you can't use your gun.
Stand still while my boy slips across, or I'll cut your white heart
out. . ."

Walter a Cleeve stood still. He felt, rather than heard, a figure limp by
and steal across the gully. A slight sound of a little loose earth
dribbling reached him a moment later from the opposite bank of the gully.
Then, after a long pause, the arms about him relaxed. Charles Hannaford
was gone.

Still Walter a Cleeve did not move. He stared up into the wall of
darkness on his left, wondering stupidly why his father did not shoot.

Then he put out his hand: it encountered a bramble bush.

He drew a long spray of the bramble towards him, fingering it very
careful