looks. But it was true. There was nothing--nothing to be seen; in one
sense, this was the thing of all others which overwhelmed my mind. But
why insist upon these matters of detail to unenlightened men? There was
nothing, and I had seen nothing. What I said was the truth.

All this time Lecamus had said nothing. As I raised myself from the
ground, I had vaguely perceived him hanging up the lantern where it had
been before; now he became distinct to me as I recovered the full
possession of my faculties. He had seated himself upon a bench by the
wall. There was no agitation about him; no sign of the thrill of
departing excitement, which I felt going through my veins as through the
strings of a harp. He was sitting against the wall, with his head
drooping, his eyes cast down, an air of disappointment and despondency
about him--nothing more. I got up as soon as I felt that I could go away
with perfect propriety; but, before I left the place, called him. He got
up when he heard his name, but he did it with reluctance. He came with
me because I asked him to do so, not from any wish of his own. Very
different were the feelings of Riou and Gallais. They did their utmost
to engage me in conversation, to consult me about a hundred trifles, to
ask me with the greatest deference what they ought to do in such and
such cases, pressing close to me, trying every expedient to delay my
departure. When we went away they stood at the door of their little
office close together, looking after us with looks which I found it
difficult to forget; they would not abandon their post; but their faces
were pale and contracted, their eyes wild with anxiety and distress.

It was only as I walked away, hearing my own steps and those of Lecamus
ringing upon the pavement, that I began to realise what had happened.
The effort of recovering my composure, the relief from the extreme
excitement of terror (which, dreadful as the idea is, I am obliged to