I looked back for an instant. The others were close at my heels;
and, behind again, the bewildered hounds followed, yelping
mournfully. But neither man nor hound could see him whom they
hunted, for the cliff's edge hid the quicksand in front.
Presently the turf ceased. Dismounting, I ran to the edge and
plunged down the rocky face. I had descended about twenty feet, when
I came to the spot where, by craning forward, I could catch sight of
the spit of rock, and the Quick-Boy Sand to the right of it.
The sun--a blazing ball of red--was just now setting behind us, and
its level rays fell full upon the man we were chasing. He stood on
the very edge of the rocks, a black spot against the luminous yellow
of sea and sand. He seemed to be meditating. His back was towards
us, and he perceived neither his pursuers above nor the heads that at
this moment appeared over the ridge behind him, and not fifteen yards
away. The party on the beach had dismounted and were clambering up
stealthily. Five seconds more and they could spring upon him.
But they under-estimated a madman's instinct. As if for no reason,
he gave a quick start, turned, and at the same instant was aware of
both attacking parties. A last gleam of sunlight fell on the
snuff-box in his left hand; his right thumb and fore-finger hung
arrested, grasping the pinch. For fully half a minute nothing
happened; hunters and hunted eyed each other and waited.
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