"One of the bullets must have hit him."

Then a voice in the crowd shouted, "There's his head, just in the middle
of the river," and a stone splashed in the stream. It was followed by a
volley of other stones, and several musket shots in the same direction.

Walter, having now got his breath, sank his head quietly below the water
and swam on again, keeping close under the bank. Whenever he came up for
air, he listened for a moment. Shots were still being fired below him,
and he knew that the attention of all upon the shores was still directed
towards the centre of the stream, and that there was but small chance of
anyone leaning over to gaze down into the water close to their feet.

His hopes rose, as every minute placed him further from his pursuers. He
could no longer hear voices above him when he rose, but he swam on, for
upwards of a mile, and struggled up the bank well beyond the walls of the
town. He lay down a few minutes to rest himself, walked half a mile along
the bank, and then, entering the river again, swam across, for the road
he was to follow was on the south side of it.

He made his way across the country until he saw a small shed. He entered
this, and finding some hay in the loft, stripped off his wet clothes, and
crept deep into the hay to warm himself, for the water was cold, and he
was shivering from head to foot.

As soon as it was light, he again put on his clothes and started at a
run, which he maintained until he was in a thorough glow, in spite of his
wet clothing. He did not approach the village, at which he had arranged
to meet Larry, until the sun was high, and his clothes had dried so far
that they would not attract the attention of anyone who might be passing.