The district was lonely in the extreme, there was no human
habitation near, no place where he could obtain any help or any
swift means of conveyance. His one hope must be in his speed, his
feet must be swift to save, not only his own life and his father's,
but his honour, too, and Ella and his old uncle as well; and all
--all hung upon the speed with which he could cover the eight long
miles that lay between him and Brook Bourne Spring in Ottam's Wood.
Even as he ran, as he thought of Ella, he came abruptly to a pause,
wrung with sudden anguish. For each fleet stride he was making
towards Brook Bourne Spring was taking him further and further away
from Bittermeads just as before each step to Bittermeads had been
taking him further from Ottam's Wood.
He began to run again, even faster than before, and it was towards
Ottam's Wood that he ran, each step taking him further from
Bittermeads and further from the woman he loved in her bitter need
and peril, who looked to him for the help he could not give. With
pain and anguish he ran on, ran as men have seldom run--as seldom
so much was hung upon their running.
On and on he sped, fleet as the wind, fleet as the light breeze that
blew lightly by. A solitary villager trudging on some errand in
this lonely place, tells to this day the tale of the bearded,
wild-eyed man who raced so madly by him, raced on and down the long,
straight road till his figure dwindled and vanished in the distance.
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