Meantime the infrequent patches of white light lying
amongst the tree-trunks had undergone changes of
size, form and place. In one of them near by, just
at the roadside, his eye fell upon an object that he
had not previously observed. It was almost before
his face as he sat; he could have sworn that it had
not before been there. It was partly covered in
shadow, but he could see that it was a human figure.
Instinctively he adjusted the clasp of his swordbelt
and laid hold of his pistol--again he was in a world
of war, by occupation an assassin.
The figure did not move. Rising, pistol in hand, he
approached. The figure lay upon its back, its upper
part in shadow, but standing above it and looking
down upon the face, he saw that it was a dead body.
He shuddered and turned from it with a feeling of
sickness and disgust, resumed his seat upon the log,
and forgetting military prudence struck a match and
lit a cigar. In the sudden blackness that followed the
extinction of the flame he felt a sense of relief; he
could no longer see the object of his aversion. Never-
theless, he kept his eyes in that direction until it
appeared again with growing distinctness. It seemed
to have moved a trifle nearer.
'Damn the thing!' he muttered. 'What does it
want?'
It did not appear to be in need of anything but a
soul.
Byring turned away his eyes and began humming
a tune, but he broke off in the middle of a bar and
looked at the dead body.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85