When they had thus painfully travelled through the greater part of the coppice, the bloodhound's deep bay came nearer and nearer, less and less musical, louder and sterner.
Margaret trembled.
Martin went down on his stomach and listened.
"I hear a horse's feet." "No," said Gerard; "I doubt it is a mule's.

That cursed Ghysbrecht is still alive: none other would follow me up so bitterly." "Never strike your enemy but to slay him," said Martin gloomily.
"I'll hit harder this time, if Heaven gives me the chance," said Gerard.
At last they worked through the coppice, and there was an open wood.

The trees were large, but far apart, and no escape possible that way.
And now with the hound's bay mingled a score of voices hooping and hallooing.
"The whole village is out after us," said Martin.
"I care not," said Gerard.

"Listen, Martin.

I have made the track smooth to the dog, but rough to the men, that we may deal with them apart.
Thus the hound will gain on the men, and as soon as he comes out of the coppice we must kill him." "The hound?
There are more than one." "I hear but one." "Ay! but one speaks, the others run mute; but let the leading hound lose the scent, then another shall give tongue.