He reached the base of the cliff in safety, and forced his way through the tangled scrub that fringed the infant river, towards the lower end of the pass.
Here the granite walls, overhanging, bend forward above to meet one another, almost forming an arch, the height of which, from the river-bed, is computed to be nearly, if not quite, three thousand feet.
Through this awful gate he forced his way, overawed and utterly dispirited, and reached the gully where his refuge lay, just as the sun was setting.
There was a slight track, partly formed by stray cattle which led up it, and casting his eyes upon this, he saw the marks of a horse's feet.
"Some one of the gang got home before me," he said.

"I'm right glad of that, anything better than such another night." He turned a sharp angle in the path, just where it ran round an abrupt cliff.

He saw a horseman within ten yards of him with his face towards him.

Captain Desborough, holding a pistol at his head.
"Surrender, George Hawker!" said Desborough.

"Or, by the living Lord! you are a dead man." Hungry, cold, desperate, unarmed; he saw that he was undone, and that hope was dead.