But he soon found that even thus he could not shake off his enemy.

He remained indeed some hundreds of paces behind but he could not dodge out of his sight in the now open glade.
On the brow of the hill the adventurer stopped to pant and surveyed the undulating thickly wooded hills stretching away on every side of him.
He drew a silver whistle from his bosom and gave with it three penetrating signals which re-echoed from among the distant mountains.
But it was only an echo, only the note of the whistle that he heard, he waited in vain for anything else.

All his accomplices had evidently hidden away.
And again the pursuer overtook him.

He waited till he was only two paces off and then he seized a stone weighing half a hundred weight and hurled it at him--the tree trunk behind which Szilard had taken refuge bent beneath the blow.

Then Fatia Negra fled down towards the valley.
It was a desperate way for him to take, for down hill his adversary could cover the ground as quickly as he could; the distance between them was never more than ten paces, the wound the robber had received began to enervate his whole body, and he was not long in finding out that the hurling of missiles is a very profitless mode of warfare when you have only one hand at your disposal.
Panting hard he fled on further seeking refuge.