His head was swimming--a
dizziness, a nausea was upon him--his strength seemed as it were being
sapped from his limbs. What was it? He--yes--the wound in his leg!
Yes--he remembered now--that burning like the searing of a hot iron. He
had forgotten it in the excitement. But it could not amount to
anything--or he would not have been able to have come this far. It was
only a passing giddiness--he was better now--see, he was still
running--he had only slowed his pace for an instant--that was all.
They swept into the lane behind him. He looked back--and his lips grew
tight, and bitter hard. It was no longer forty yards--he was _not_
running so fast now--and it was the Wolf, and the Wolf's pack, who
were gaining.
He swerved for the third time--into the stretch of intersecting lane.
The Sanctuary was just ahead, but he must reach that loose board in the
fence and have disappeared before the Wolf swung around the corner
behind him--or else--or else, since that led to nowhere to the French
window of Smarlinghue's room, the game was as good as up if he
attempted it!
He strained forward, striving to mass his strength and fling it into one
supreme effort.
Pages:
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183