It was in his favor that the country was so broken and wooded so heavily,
and fixing his eyes on trees a half-mile ahead he raced for them.
If none of this yelling pack dragged him down he felt sure that he might
escape again in the forest. The trees swiftly came nearer, but the shots
on either flank increased. More than ever he felt like the fox with the
hounds all about him, and just one slender chance to reach the burrow
ahead.
He felt his horse shake and knew that he had been hit. Yet the brave
animal ran on as well as ever, despite the triumphant shout behind,
which showed that he must be leaving a trail of blood. But the woods,
thick and inviting, were near, and he believed that he would reach them.
The horse shook again, much more violently than before, and then fell to
his knees. Harry leaped off, still clutching the shotgun, just as the
brave animal fell over on his side and began to breathe out his life.
He heard again that shout of triumph, but he was one who never gave up.
He had alighted easily on his feet. The trees were not more than fifteen
yards away and he disappeared among them as bullets clipped bark and
twigs about him.
He breathed a deep sigh of thankfulness when he entered the forest.
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