Cracking branches might have betrayed him had he
entered the wood just then. Half a dozen horsemen passed him, galloping
in pursuit, and when the sounds had died away, and he was convinced that
no others followed, he crawled from the ditch and went straight before
him into the wood. At a clearing he stopped and looked at the stars,
then continued his way along a narrow track that went towards the
south-west, in which direction lay Dorchester. He had no mind to enter
the town as a prisoner, but he meant to reach it all the same, and as
soon as possible.
For an hour he pushed forward, and then came suddenly to the edge of a
clearing of some size. He stopped. He saw nothing, he was not sure that
he heard anything, but the air seemed to vibrate with some presence
besides his own.
Perhaps he had heard the low sound which the opening door of the hut
made.
"You're a dead man if you move," said a voice out of the darkness.
Fairley started and made a step forward, but stopped in time.
"I should know that voice. I am Martin Fairley."
"Fairley!"
Crosby hurried forward to meet him.
"Have you been a prisoner in Dorchester?" Martin asked.
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