I was no woman, and he saw well enough that he made no impression on me. He grew impatient, his face paled, he circled round me with hasty steps, showing up now to the left, now to the right of me, and stopping every now and then to wait for me to come up. About five, I heard a shot all of a sudden, and a bullet sang past my left ear. I looked up. There was Glahn standing motionless a few paces off, staring at me; his smoking rifle lay along his arm. Had he tried to shoot me? I said: “You missed that time. You've been shooting badly of late.” But he had not been shooting badly. He never missed. He had only been trying to irritate me. “Then take your revenge, damn you!” he shouted back. “All in good time,” I said, clenching my teeth. We stood there looking at each other. And suddenly Glahn shrugged his shoulders and called out “Coward” to me. And why should he call me a coward? I threw my rifle to my shoulder--aimed full in his face--fired. As a man soweth... Now, there is no need, I insist, for the Glahns to make further inquiry about this man. It annoys me to be constantly seeing their advertisements offering such and such reward for information about a dead man. Thomas Glahn was killed by accident--shot by accident when out on a hunting trip in India. The court entered his name, with the particulars of his end, in a register with pierced and threaded leaves. And in that register it says that he is dead--_dead_, I tell you--and what is more, that he was killed by accident. THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pan, by Knut Hamsun