As for Hugh's man, after three hours' zigzag riding through the mist he was deftly persuaded to gallop into the Worminglore bog, and there Hugh, flinging a parting word of derision, left him floundering.

The man fired a bullet in the direction of the boy's voice, but it did no harm except to his hat, and only served to increase Hugh's reputation among his companions at school as a desperate fellow.

It is not every boy who has a bullet-hole in his hat.
Meanwhile Philip and the stranger spurred to the sea by a devious course.

They rode silently, the stranger's hand alert to seize his pistol.

Suddenly, when only a mile or two from the harbour, a light or two being visible on the ships riding at anchor, he reined in with a jerk before a shepherd's hut which stood at the edge of a sheepfold on the naked down, a yard from the road.
"Just the thing!" he cried; "we have still an hour." Bidding Philip stay there and keep watch, he leaped from his horse and opened the door of the hut.
"Who's there ?" growled the voice of the shepherd.
"A friend, if you hold your peace," said the young man; "otherwise a foe, and a strong one, I can promise you." He clicked a pistol as he spoke, and the shepherd stood up and pulled his forelock.
"I want no words," said the stranger, "and no delay.