This became the one insistent thought which sent him scurrying back into the gloom, recklessly accepting every chance of encountering obstacles in his haste.

At the second curve he paused, panting heavily from the excitement of his hard run, and leaned against the face of the rock, peering anxiously back toward that fast approaching flicker of light.

The angry foreman came crunching savagely along, his heavy boots resounding upon the hard floor, the hickory club in his hand occasionally striking against the wall as though he imagined himself already belaboring the recreant Swanson.
About him, causing his figure to appear gigantic, his shadow grotesque, the yellow gleam of the light shone in spectral coloring.

Winston set his teeth determinedly, and noiselessly cocked his revolver.

The man was already almost upon him, a black, shapeless bulk, like some unreal shadow.