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- Стр. 645/662
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His
flight
is
now
merely
mechanical
--
his
mind
taking
no
part
in
the
performance
.
His
soul
is
absorbed
with
the
horror
of
a
dread
death
--
not
less
dread
,
from
his
knowing
that
he
deserves
it
.
The
sight
of
the
chapparal
,
close
at
hand
,
inspires
him
with
a
fresh
hope
;
and
,
forcing
the
fatigued
horse
into
a
last
feeble
effort
,
he
struggles
on
towards
it
.
An
opening
presents
itself
.
He
enters
it
;
and
continues
his
gallop
for
a
half
mile
further
.
He
arrives
at
a
point
,
where
the
path
turns
sharply
round
some
heavy
timber
.
Beyond
that
,
he
might
enter
the
underwood
,
and
get
out
of
sight
of
his
pursuer
.
He
knows
the
place
,
but
too
well
.
It
has
been
fatal
to
him
before
.
Is
it
to
prove
so
again
?
It
is
.
He
feels
that
it
is
,
and
rides
irresolutely
.
He
hears
the
hoofstroke
of
the
red
horse
close
upon
the
heels
of
his
own
;
and
along
with
it
the
voice
of
the
avenging
rider
,
summoning
him
to
stop
!
He
is
too
late
for
turning
the
corner
,
--
too
late
to
seek
concealment
in
the
thicket
,
--
and
with
a
cry
he
reins
up
.
It
is
a
cry
partly
of
despair
,
partly
of
fierce
defiance
--
like
the
scream
of
a
chased
jaguar
under
bay
of
the
bloodhounds
.
It
is
accompanied
by
a
gesture
;
quick
followed
by
a
flash
,
a
puff
of
white
smoke
,
and
a
sharp
detonation
,
that
tell
of
the
discharge
of
a
revolver
