The speed and fury with which Clinch's cavalcade swept on in the direction of the mysterious shot left Hale no chance for reflection.

He was conscious of shouting incoherently with the others, of urging his horse irresistibly forward, of momentarily expecting to meet or overtake something, but without any further thought.

The figures of Clinch and Rawlins immediately before him shut out the prospect of the narrowing trail.

Once only, taking advantage of a sudden halt that threw them confusedly together, he managed to ask a question.
"Lost their track--found it again!" shouted the ostler, as Clinch, with a cry like the baying of a hound, again darted forward.

Their horses were panting and trembling under them, the ascent seemed to be growing steeper, a singular darkness, which even the density of the wood did not sufficiently account for, surrounded them, but still their leader madly urged them on.