staggered and stumbled, first one, then the other,
falling prone to the earth, but up again in an instant, and on once
more.

At last they were at the base of the hill; another half-a-dozen yards,
and they would be beside the stream; another twenty, and they would be
in the boat. Hark! what sound is that? The dull thud of horses' hoofs
upon the turf! With what headlong speed the riders are pressing
forward! And--ha! there is the exultant shout which tells that the prey
is in sight.

"Thank God, there are no dogs with them," thinks George. "Are there
not?" Then what means that deep, sonorous baying sound which breaks
with such startling distinctness on his frenzied ear? "On! on! for the
love of God, press on!" gasps George; and with something almost like
renewed effort the fugitives once more spring forward.

Hark! now you can hear the deep panting of those hell-hounds as they
lunge forward at a gallop, silent now that their prey is in sight, their
flaming eyes fixed upon the flying men in front of them, and their jaws
champing in horrible anticipation.

One more bound, and the boat is reached. Poor Walford is tumbled
unceremoniously into her; George and Tom follow, the latter wrenching
from the foetid mud the stake to which the rotting painter is attached,
whilst the former, with a last desperate effort, sends the crazy craft
into the middle of the stream. As he rolls in over the gunwale a heavy
splash is heard, and some cumbrous body scurries from the slimy bank
into the water, whilst at the same moment the foremost hound, a
magnificent creature, as big and as lithe as a panther, springs boldly
after the receding boat. He _almost_ reaches her, not quite, his front
paws catch upon the gunwale, but the rest of his body falls short and
drops into the water. A thrust from one of the oars sends him clear of
the boat, and, with a baffled howl, he turns and swims for the shore.
He is within three feet of the bank when a something, which looks like a
log of charred timber, rises to the surface behind him, two gleaming
eyes glare at him, and, with a horrid snap, a pair of serrated jaws
close upon his hind quarters, and he is dragged back and under, to
furnish a meal to the terrible _cayman_.

But the fugitives have no time for more than the merest superficial
glance at this canine tragedy, for their human pursuers are now close at
hand. The thowl-pins, luckily, are already in their places, left there
by the f