for a glimpse of his enemies.

Since the latter had not gained much start it would seem that he ought
to be close upon them, always provided he was traveling in their actual
footsteps. The ground continued rough and broken, but it had no effect
on his progress. Something like a shadow whisked across the path in
front at the moment of his passing round a turn. Some animal had
caught sight of him, and, scared by the vision, had leaped into the
jungle at the side. Whether it was a tiger, leopard, cheetah, wild
boar or another brute he did not know or care. If it dared to dispute
his way he would shoot.

He was pressing forward in this reckless, desperate fashion, when he
dropped as if he had collided with a stone wall, and his heart almost
ceased its beating. He had caught the faint report of a firearm. It
came from a point on his right and sounded as if caused by a revolver,
rather than a larger weapon. The thought that came to him was that it
was the pistol of Mary Marlowe!

"She is at bay; she may have fired it at herself, and yet I do not
think she would do that until some of the bullets had reached the
wretches who have captured her. I am following the wrong path, for
this one leads me away from her."

Without an instant's hesitation he turned and began his return on a
loping trot. He was incensed with himself because of his mistake, and
yet there was no reasonable cause for such feeling, but grief is as
thoughtless as love, and he was stirred to the very depth of his soul
by both. Reaching the last forking, he did not pause, but set out over
the main trail.