They look up the road, and see no one; run a couple of hundred yards, where they catch a sight of the next turn, clear in the moonlight.

There is no one on the road.
"Run to the bridge, Wynd," whispers Naylor.

"He may have thrown himself over." "Tally ho!" whispers Wynd in return, laying his hand on Naylor's arm, and pointing to the left of the road.
A hundred yards from them, over the boggy upland, among scattered boulders, a dark figure is moving.

Now he stops short, gesticulating; turns right and left irresolutely.

At last he hurries on and upward; he is running, springing from stone to stone.
"There is but one thing, Wynd.