It looked ugly. It would probably tear his face, but it was his only chance. So he shut his eyes and sprang against it with all his might, keeping his head low.
There was a sensation of his face being scratched with a thorn bush, like the one he had gotten into when a puppy at the château.
The thorns also raked along his back. He thought his hide would be torn off him. But at last he was through. His heart gave a great bound of delight. He had escaped. Now he would run for it. But he was too sure of himself. His congratulations were too previous. For just then the boy with the Winchester got a good bead on him and sent a bullet ripping through his flank. It was a very bad wound, but luckily only a flesh wound. Otherwise his story might have ended then
