down on to the grass almost as swiftly and silently as he had arisen.

I doubt if a more perfectly timed blow has ever been delivered, but
unfortunately I had no chance of studying its effects. Through the fog
I could hear the sound of footsteps--quick heavy footsteps hurrying
towards me from either direction. For one second I thought of
scrambling back over the railings and taking to the wood again. Then
suddenly a kind of mischievous exhilaration at the danger gripped hold
of me, and jumping over the prostrate figure on the ground I bolted
forwards into the mist. The warders, who must have been quite close,
evidently heard me, for from both sides came hoarse shouts of "There
he goes!" "Look out there!" and other well-meant pieces of advice.

It was a funny sort of sensation dodging through the fog, feeling that
at any moment one might blunder up against the muzzle of a loaded
carbine. The only guide I had as to my direction was the slope of the
ground. I knew that as long as I kept on going uphill I was more or
less on the right track, for the big granite-strewn bulk of North
Hessary lay right in front of me, and I had to cross it to get to the
Walkham Valley.

On I went, the ground rising higher and higher, until at last the
wet slippery grass began to give way to a broken waste of rocks and
heather. I had reached the top, and although I could see nothing on
account of the mist, I knew that right below me lay the woods, with
only about a mile of steeply sloping hillside separating me from their
agreeable privacy.

Despite the cold and the wet and the fact that I was getting devilish
hungry, my spirits somehow began to rise. Good luck always acts on me