warders about they were evidently still some way from my hiding-place,
but the odds were that they had postponed searching the wood until the
fog lifted.

For the first time since my leap from the wall I found myself with
sufficient leisure to review the situation. It struck me that only a
very hardened optimist could describe it as hopeful. I had made my
bolt almost instinctively, without stopping to think what chances I
had of getting away. That these were meagre in the extreme was now
becoming painfully clear to me. Even if I managed to slip out of
my present hiding-place into the still larger woods of the Walkham
Valley, the odds were all in favour of my ultimate capture. No escaped
prisoner had ever yet succeeded in retaining his liberty for more than
a few days, and where so many gentlemen of experience had tried
and failed it seemed distressingly unlikely that I should be more
fortunate.

I began to wonder what had happened to Cairns, the man whose dash from
the ranks had been responsible for my own effort. I knew him to be one
of the most resourceful blackguards in the prison, and, provided the
civil guard's first shot had failed to stop him, it was quite likely
that he too had evaded capture. I hoped so with all my heart: it would
distract quite a lot of attention from my own humble affairs.

If he was still at liberty, I couldn't help feeling enviously how much
better his chances of escape were than mine. In order to get away from
the Moor it was plainly necessary to possess oneself of both food and
clothes, and I could think of no other way of doing so except stealing
them from some lonely farm. At anything of this sort I was likely to
prove a sorry bungler compared with such an artist as Cairns. He was