After him, running as he had never before raced, went Anthony; his hand, as he sprinted, already tensed for the coming battle; two hundred yards at the most and he would reach the lumbering figure which had plunged into the night of the trees; but a call reached him as sharp as the crack of the guns a moment before: "Anthony!" His head twitched to one side and he saw John Bard rising to his elbow.
His racing stride shortened choppily.
"Anthony!" He could not choose but halt, groaning to give up the chase, and then sped back to the fallen man.

At his coming John Bard collapsed on the grass, and when Anthony knelt beside him a voice in rough dialect began, as if an enforced culture were brushed away and forgotten in the crisis: "Anthony, there ain't no use in followin' him!" "Where did the bullet strike you?
Quick!" "A place where it ain't no use to look.

I know!" "Let me follow him; it's not too late--" The dying man struggled to one elbow.
"Don't follow, lad, if you love me." "Who is he?
Give me his name and--" "He's acted in the name of God.

You have no right to hunt him down." "Then the law will do that." "Not the law.

For God's sake swear--" "I'll swear anything.