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It
is
not
a
look
of
despair
.
It
has
not
yet
come
to
this
;
though
at
sight
of
such
a
following
--
within
hearing
of
their
harsh
vengeful
cries
--
one
might
wonder
he
could
entertain
the
shadow
of
a
hope
.
He
has
.
He
knows
that
he
is
mounted
on
a
fleet
horse
,
and
that
there
is
a
tract
of
timber
before
him
.
True
,
it
is
nearly
ten
miles
distant
.
But
what
signify
ten
miles
?
He
is
riding
at
the
rate
of
twenty
to
the
hour
;
and
in
half
an
hour
he
may
find
shelter
in
the
chapparal
?
Is
this
the
thought
that
sustains
him
?
It
can
scarce
be
.
Concealment
in
the
thicket
--
with
half
a
score
of
skilled
trackers
in
pursuit
--
Zeb
Stump
at
their
head
!
No
:
it
can
not
be
this
.
There
is
no
hiding-place
for
him
;
and
he
knows
it
.
What
,
then
,
hinders
him
from
sinking
under
despair
,
and
at
once
resigning
himself
to
what
must
be
his
ultimate
destiny
?
Is
it
the
mere
instinct
of
the
animal
,
giving
way
to
a
blind
unreasoning
effort
at
impossible
escape
?
