There was a long silence, and then Turnbull said, hesitatingly:
"Has it occurred to you that since--since those two dreams, or
whatever they were----"

"Well?" murmured MacIan.

"Since then," went on Turnbull, in the same low voice, "since
then we have never even looked for our swords."

"You are right," answered Evan almost inaudibly. "We have found
something which we both hate more than we ever hated each other,
and I think I know its name."

Turnbull seemed to frown and flinch for a moment. "It does not
much matter what you call it," he said, "so long as you keep out
of its way."

The bushes broke and snapped abruptly behind them, and a very
tall figure towered above Turnbull with an arrogant stoop and a
projecting chin, a chin of which the shape showed queerly even in
its shadow upon the path.

"You see that is not so easy," said MacIan between his teeth.

They looked up into the eyes of the Master, but looked only for a
moment. The eyes were full of a frozen and icy wrath, a kind of
utterly heartless hatred. His voice was for the first time devoid
of irony. There was no more sarcasm in it than there is in an
iron club.