It lit a stumbling figure which I saw was Grey, and behind him was a lithe Indian running on his trail.
"Open the gate," I cried, and I got my musket in the loophole.
The fugitive was all but spent.

He ran, bowed almost to the ground, with a wild back glance ever and again over his shoulder.

His pursuer gained on him with great strides, and in his hand he carried a bare knife.

I dared not shoot, for Grey was between me and his enemy.
'Twas as well I could not, for otherwise Grey would never have reached us alive.

We cried to him to swerve, and the sound of our voices brought up that last flicker of hope which waits till the end in every man.