A Rogue by Compulsion | Page 3

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.
Guessing rather than judging my way, I stumbled steadily forward until
I reached what I imagined must be about the centre of the wood. By
this time I was wet through to the skin. The thin parti-coloured "slop"
that I was wearing was quite useless for keeping out the rain, a remark
that applied with almost equal force to my prison-made breeches and
gaiters. Apart from the discomfort, however, I was not much disturbed.
I have never been an easy victim to chills, and three years in
Princetown had done nothing to soften a naturally tough constitution.
Still there was no sense in getting more soaked than was necessary, so I
began to hunt around for some sort of temporary shelter. I found it at
last in the shape of a huge block of granite, half hidden by the brambles
and stunted trees which had grown up round it. Parting the undergrowth
and crawling carefully in, I discovered at the base a kind of hollow

crevice just long enough to lie down in at full length.
I can't say it was exactly comfortable, but penal servitude has at least
the merit of saving one from being over-luxurious. Besides, I was much
too interested in watching the steady thickening of the mist outside to
worry myself about trifles. With a swiftness which would have been
incredible to any one who didn't know the Moor, the damp clammy
vapour was settling down, blotting out everything in its grey haze.
Except for the dripping brambles immediately outside I could soon see
absolutely nothing; beyond that it was like staring into a blanket.
I lay there quite motionless, listening very intently for any sound of my
pursuers. Only the persistent drip, drip of the rain, however, and the
occasional rustle of a bird, broke the silence. If there were any warders
about they were evidently still some way from my hiding-place, but the
odds were that they had postponed searching the wood until the fog
lifted.
For the first time since my leap from the wall I found myself with
sufficient leisure to review the situation. It struck me that only a very
hardened optimist could describe it as hopeful. I had made my bolt
almost instinctively, without stopping to think what chances I had of
getting away. That these were meagre in the extreme was now
becoming painfully clear to me. Even if I managed to slip out of my
present hiding-place into the still larger woods of the Walkham Valley,
the odds were all in favour of my ultimate capture. No escaped prisoner
had ever yet succeeded in retaining his liberty for more than a few days,
and where so many gentlemen of experience had tried and failed it
seemed distressingly unlikely that I should be more fortunate.
I began to wonder what had happened to Cairns, the man whose dash
from the ranks had been responsible for my own effort. I knew him to
be one of the most resourceful blackguards in the prison, and, provided
the civil guard's first shot had failed to stop him, it was quite likely that
he too had evaded capture. I hoped so with all my heart: