Keeping one hand against the bushes to guide me, and pushing the machine with the other, I groped my way slowly up the winding path.  As I came cautiously round the last corner I saw with a sigh of relief that my fears were groundless.  A few yards ahead of me in the moonlight was a plain white gate, and beyond that the road.

I opened the gate with deliberate care, and closed it in similar fashion behind me.  Then for a moment I stopped.  I was badly out of breath, partly from weakness and partly from excitement, so laying the machine against the bank I leaned back beside it.

Everything was quite still.  On each side of me the broad, white, moonlit roadway stretched away into the night, flanked by a row of telegraph poles which stood out like gaunt sentries.  It was curious to think that they had probably put in a busy day’s work, carrying messages about me.

There was a lamp on the front bracket, and as soon as I felt a little better I took out my matches and proceeded to light it.  Then, wheeling my bike out into the roadway, I turned in the direction of Devonport and mounted.  I felt a bit shaky at first, for, apart from the fact that I was worn out and pretty near starving, I had not been on a machine for over three years.  However, after wobbling wildly from side to side, I managed to get the thing going, and pedalled off down the centre of the road as steadily as my half-numbed senses would allow.

For perhaps a quarter of a mile the ground kept fairly level, then, breasting a slight rise, I found myself at the top of a hill.  I shoved on the brake and went slowly round the first corner, where I got an unexpected surprise.  From this point the road ran straight away down through a small village, across a bridge over the river, and up a short steep slope on the farther side.

I took in the situation at a glance, and, releasing my brake, I let the old bike have her head.  It certainly wouldn’t suit me to have to dismount in the village and walk up the opposite slope, and I was much too exhausted to do anything else unless I could take it in a rush.

Down I went, the machine flying noiselessly along and gathering pace every yard.  I had nearly reached the bottom and was just getting ready to pedal, when all of a sudden, I caught sight of something that almost paralyzed me.  Right ahead, in the centre of the village square, stood a prison warder.  His back was towards me and I could see the moonlight gleaming on the barrel of his carbine.

CHAPTER III

A DUBIOUS REFUGE

I was going so fast that everything seemed to happen simultaneously.  I had one blurred vision of him spinning round and yelling to me to stop:  then the next moment I had flashed past him and was racing across the bridge.

Whether he recognized me for certain I can’t say.  I think not, or he would probably have fired sooner than he did:  as it was, my rush had carried me three quarters of the way up the opposite hill before he could make up his mind to risk a shot.