“Well, good-by again, old man,” said Frank, holding out his hand.  He, too, Jack saw, had his small bundle wrapped up in the red handkerchief, as on the bridge when they had first met.  Jack took his hand and shook it.  He could say nothing.

Then the three turned and set their faces up the slope.  He could see them, all silent together, pass up, more and more dim in the darkness of the hedge, the two men walking together, the girl a yard behind them.  Then they turned the corner and were gone.  But Jack still stood where Frank had left him, listening, until long after the sound of their footfalls had died away.

(VII)

Jack had a horrid dream that night.

He was wandering, he thought, gun in hand after grouse, alone on the high moors.  It was one of those heavy days, so common in dreams, when the light is so dim that very little can be seen.  He was aware of countless hill-tops round him, and valleys that ran down into profound darkness, where only the lights of far-off houses could be discerned.  His sport was of that kind peculiar to sleep-imaginings.  Enormous birds, larger than ostriches, rose occasionally by ones or twos with incredible swiftness, and soared like balloons against the heavy, glimmering sky.  He fired at these and feathers sprang from them, but not a bird fell.  Once he inflicted an indescribable wound ... and the bird sped across the sky, blotting out half of it, screaming.  Then as the screaming died he became aware that there was a human note in it, and that Frank was crying to him, somewhere across the confines of the wold, and the horror that had been deepening with each shot he fired rose to an intolerable climax.  Then began one of the regular nightmare chases:  he set off to run; the screaming grew fainter each instant; he could not see his way in the gloom; he clambered over bowlders; he sank in bogs, and dragged his feet from them with infinite pains; his gun became an unbearable burden, yet he dared not throw it from him; he knew that he should need it presently....  The screaming had ceased now, yet he dared not stop running; Frank was in some urgent peril, and he knew it was not yet too late, if he could but find him soon.  He ran and ran; the ground was knee-deep now in the feathers that had fallen from the wounded birds; it was darker than ever, yet he toiled on hopelessly, following, as he thought, the direction from which the cries had come.  Then as at last he topped the rise of a hill, the screaming broke out again, shrill and frightful, close at hand, and the next instant he saw beneath him in the valley a hundred yards away that for which he had run so far.  Running up the slope below, at right angles to his own path came Frank, in the dress-clothes he had borrowed, with pumps upon his feet; his hands were outstretched, his face white as ashes, and he screamed as he ran.  Behind him ran a pack of persons whose faces he could