covering him, he moved out into the open road, with a helpless anger on
him.

A crescent moon was struggling through floes of fleecy clouds, the stars
were shining, and so the road was not entirely dark. He went about
thirty steps, then turned and looked back. The figure was still standing
there, with the pistol and the light. He walked on another twenty or
thirty steps, and once again looked back. The light and the pistol were
still there. Again he walked on. But now he heard the rumble of buggy
wheels behind. Once more he looked back: the figure and the light had
gone. The buggy wheels sounded nearer. With a sudden feeling of
courage, he turned round and ran back swiftly. The light suddenly
flashed again.

"It's no use," he said to himself, and turned and walked slowly along the
road.

The sound of the buggy wheels came still nearer. Presently it was
obscured by passing under the huge branches of the tree. Then the horse,
buggy and driver appeared at the other side, and in a few moments had
overtaken him. He looked up sharply, scrutinisingly. Suddenly he burst
out:

"Holy mother, Chris, is that you! Where've you been? Are you all
right?"

She had whipped up her horse at first sight of him, thinking he might be
some drunken rough.

"Mais, mon dieu, Nic, is that you? I thought at first you were a