CHAPTER I

THE FUGITIVE


The gaunt man led the way. At his heels, doggedly, came the two short
ones, fagged, yet uncomplaining; all of them drenched to the skin by
the chill rain that swirled through the Gap, down into the night-
ridden valley below. Sky was never so black. Days of incessant storm
had left it impenetrably overcast.

These men trudged--or stumbled--along the slippery road which skirted
the mountain's base. Soggy, unseen farm lands and gardens to their
left, Stygian forests above and to their right. Ahead, the far-distant
will-o-the-wisp flicker of many lights, blinking in the foggy shroud.
Three or four miles lay between the sullen travelers and the town that
cradled itself in the lower end of the valley.

Night had stolen early upon the dour spring day. The tall man who led
carried a rickety, ill-smelling lantern that sent its feeble rays no
farther ahead than a dozen paces; it served best to reveal the face of
the huge silver watch which frequently was drawn from its owner's coat
pocket.

Eight o'clock,--no more,--and yet it seemed to these men that they had
plowed forever through the blackness of this evil night, through a
hundred villainous shadows by unpointed paths. Mile after mile, they
had traversed almost impassable roads, unwavering persistence in
command of their strength, heavy stoicism their burden. Few were the