At the moment, however, I had no time to analyze my feelings. Almost
before the red-faced gentleman's shoulders had struck the ground I had
reached the railing which bounded the wood, and putting one hand on
the top bar had vaulted over into its inviting gloom.

Then, just for an instant, I stopped, and, like Lot's wife, cast one
hasty glance behind me. Except for the motionless form of my late
adversary, who appeared to be studying the sky, the stretch of moor
that I had just crossed was still comfortingly empty. So far no
pursuing warder had even emerged from the plantation. With a sigh of
relief I turned round again and plunged forward into the thickest part
of the tangled brake ahead.

It would have been difficult to find a better temporary hiding-place
than the one I had reached. Thick with trees and undergrowth, which
sprouted up from between enormous fissures and piles of granite rock,
it stretched away for the best part of a mile and a half parallel with
the main road. I knew that even in daylight the warders would find it
no easy matter to track me down: at this time in the afternoon, with
dusk coming rapidly on, the task would be an almost impossible one.

Besides, it was starting to rain. All the afternoon a thick cloud had
been hanging over North Hessary, and now, as scratched and panting I
forced my way on into the ever-increasing gloom, a fine drizzle began
to descend through the trees. I knew what that meant. In half an hour
everything would probably be blotted out in a wet grey mist, and,
except for posting guards all round the wood, my pursuers would be
compelled to abandon the search until next morning. It was the first
time that I had ever felt an affection for the Dartmoor climate.