True, it had missed fire, and the damp priming was still in the pan.

Damp or dry, it now mattered not.

Saloo's sumpitan was an equally ineffective weapon.
Murtagh with his fishing-hooks might as well have thought of capturing the monster with a bait.
On it scrambled from tree to tree, and on ran the pursuers underneath, yet with no thought of being able to stay its course.

They were carried forward by the mere mechanical instinct to keep it in sight, with perhaps some slight hope that in the end something might occur--some interruption might arise by which they would be enabled to effect a rescue of the child from its horrible captor.
It was at best but a faint consolation.

Nor would they have cherished it, but for their trust in a higher power than their own.