Even as I leaned forward to seize his rein, the fugitive, without checking his horse, without turning his head, drew his revolver from his belt, and, raising his hand, fired behind him at random.  He fired towards us, on the chance.  The bullet whizzed past my ear, not hitting anyone.  We scattered, right and left, still galloping free and strong.  We did not return his fire, as I had told the others of my desire to take him alive.  We might have shot his horse; but the risk of hitting the rider, coupled with the confidence we felt of eventually hunting him to earth, restrained us.  It was the great mistake we made.

He had gained a little by his shots, but we soon caught it up.  Once more I said, “We are on him!”

A minute later, we were pulled up short before an impenetrable thicket of prickly shrubs, through which I saw at once it would have been quite impossible to urge our staggering horses.

The other man, of course, reached it before us, with his mare’s last breath.  He must have been making for it, indeed, of set purpose; for the second he arrived at the edge of the thicket he slipped off his tired pony, and seemed to dive into the bush as a swimmer dives off a rock into the water.

“We have him now!” I cried, in a voice of triumph.  And Colebrook echoed, “We have him!”

We sprang down quickly.  “Take him alive, if you can!” I exclaimed, remembering Hilda’s advice.  “Let us find out who he is, and have him properly tried and hanged at Buluwayo!  Don’t give him a soldier’s death!  All he deserves is a murderer’s!”

“You stop here,” Colebrook said, briefly, flinging his bridle to Doolittle to hold.  “Doctor and I follow him.  Thick bush.  Knows the ways of it.  Revolvers ready!”

I handed my sorrel to Doolittle.  He stopped behind, holding the three foam-bespattered and panting horses, while Colebrook and I dived after our fugitive into the matted bushes.

The thicket, as I have said, was impenetrable above; but it was burrowed at its base by over-ground runs of some wild animal—­not, I think, a very large one; they were just like the runs which rabbits make among gorse and heather, only on a bigger scale—­ bigger, even, than a fox’s or badger’s.  By crouching and bending our backs, we could crawl through them with difficulty into the scrubby tangle.  It was hard work creeping.  The runs divided soon.  Colebrook felt with his hands on the ground:  “I can make out the spoor!” he muttered, after a minute.  “He has gone on this way!”

We tracked him a little distance in, crawling at times, and rising now and again where the runs opened out on to the air for a moment.  The spoor was doubtful and the tunnels tortuous.  I felt the ground from time to time, but could not be sure of the tracks with my fingers; I was not a trained scout, like Colebrook or Doolittle.  We wriggled deeper into the tangle.  Something stirred once or twice.  It was not far from me.  I was uncertain whether it was him—­Sebastian—­or a Kaffir earth-hog, the animal which seemed likeliest to have made the burrows.  Was he going to elude us, even now?  Would he turn upon us with a knife?  If so, could we hold him?