"Murdered by folly if ever man was! Ye bitter fool," he shouted, "it's pricked him on, ye've done!" The black-faced man, having gained maybe a dozen yards by his manoeuvre, was now heading for the Citadel gate; beside which--so far away that we saw them as toys--stood a sentry-box and the figure of a sentry beside it.

Could he reach this gate?
His altered course had taken him a little downhill, to the left of the ridge, and to regain it by the Citadel he must fetch a slight loop.

Luckily the bull could not reason: he followed his enemy.

But there was just a chance that by running along the ridge the chase might be headed off.
The crowd saw this and set off anew, with Master Archibald still a little in front and increasing his lead.

I scrambled from under the seat and followed.
But almost at once it became plain that we were out-distanced.
Alone of us Master Archibald had a chance; and if the man were to be saved, it lay either with him or with the sentry at the gate.
I can yet remember the look on the sentry's face as we drew closer and his features grew distinct.