The blood which congealed in his veins was released; he reared and wheeled and burst away at full gallop; there was a sobbing whine of eagerness behind him—­the lobo was stretched in pursuit.

Never in his life had the chestnut run as he ran now, and never had he fled so hopelessly.  He knew that one slash of those great white teeth would cut his throat to the vital arteries.  He knew that for all his speed he had neither the foot nor the wind to escape the grey marauder.  It was only a matter of time, and short time at that, before the end came.  The lofer prefers young meat and as a rule will cut down a yearling colt, or dine on warm veal, eschewing cold flesh and feeding only once from every kill—­the lobo being the Lucullus of beasts of prey—­but this prowler had either found scanty fare in a long journey across the mountains or else he wished to kill now for pure deviltry and not from hunger.  At any rate, he slid over the ground like the shadow of a cloud driven in a storm.

Already he gained fast, and yet he had not attained top speed; when he did, he would walk up on the chestnut as the latter could walk up on the mares of his herd.

Over a hill bolted Alcatraz and beneath him he saw a faint hope of escape—­the flash of water where a brook, new-swelled by the rains, was running bankfull, a noisy torrent.  He went down the slope like the wind, struck the level at such speed that the air stung his nostrils, and leaped from the firm gravel at the edge of the stream.

The far bank seemed a mighty distance as he soared high—­the water rushed broad and swift beneath him, no swimming if he struck that bubbling current—­and then, a last pitch forwards in mid-air; a forefoot struck ground, the bank crushed in beneath his weight, and then he was scrambling to the safety beyond and reeling into a new gallop.

Behind him, he saw the shadowy pursuer skim down the slope, fling into the air, and drop out of sight.  Had he reached the shore?  Ten seconds—­no long and ominous head appeared—­certainly he had fallen short and landed in the furious current.  Alcatraz dropped his heart-breaking pace to a moderate gallop, but as he did so he saw a form which dripped with water scramble into view fifty yards down-stream—­the lobo had managed to reach safety after all and now he came like a bullet to end the chase.

There was only half a hope left to Alcatraz and that was to turn and attempt to leave the wolf again at the water-jump; but now his renewed panic paralyzed all power of thinking.  He did not even do the next best thing—­race straight away in a true line, but bearing off first to the left and then to the right, he shot across the hills in a miserably wavering flight.

The lobo came like doom behind him.  The chill of the water had enraged him.  Besides, he did not often have to waste such time and energy to make a kill, and now, bent on a quick ending, the fur which fringed his lean belly cut the dew from the grass as he stretched to his full and matchless speed.  Alcatraz saw and strained forward but he had reached his limit and the wolf gained with the passage of every second.