It was not fear that held him back.

He hated this hiding, this eternal vigilance, this hopeless life.

The damnable paradox of the situation was that if he went out to meet these men there was absolutely no doubt of his doom.

If he clung to his covert there was a chance, a merest chance, for his life.

These pursuers, dogged and unflagging as they had been, were mortally afraid of him.