the middle of the road and leaving a trail of cigar smoke behind him.

"Ah! my friend," the smoker said, "you walk early; are you going my
way?"

It was Count Sarelli. The raw light had imparted a grey tinge to his
pale face, the growth of his beard showed black already beneath the
skin; his thumbs were hooked in the pockets of a closely buttoned coat,
he gesticulated with his fingers.

"You are making a journey?" he said, nodding at the knapsack. "You are
early--I am late; our friend has admirable kummel--I have drunk too
much. You have not been to bed, I think? If there is no sleep in one's
bed it is no good going to look for it. You find that? It is better to
drink kummel...! Pardon! You are doing the right thing: get away! Get
away as fast as possible! Don't wait, and let it catch you!"

Harz stared at him amazed.

"Pardon!" Sarelli said again, raising his hat, "that girl--the white
girl--I saw. You do well to get away!" he swayed a little as he walked.
"That old fellow--what is his name-Trrreffr-ry! What ideas of honour!"
He mumbled: "Honour is an abstraction! If a man is not true to an
abstraction, he is a low type; but wait a minute!"

He put his hand to his side as though in pain.

The hedges were brightening with a faint pinky glow; there was no sound
on the long, deserted road, but that of their footsteps; suddenly a bird
commenced to chirp, another answered--the world seemed full of these