He went into the stable, where was a horn-sided tin lantern, and took it down from its crook, then went back into the kitchen and lighted the candle at the fire. ’I’ve a mind not to go,’ he muttered. ’What does the woman want with me, pulling me, driving me, this way and that? If I’d been told I was to be subjected to this sort of persecution, I wouldn’t have come here. It’s not to be endured for ninepence. Ninepence! It would be bad at eighteen pence. I wish I was in Afghanistan. Cawbul, Ghuznee, Candahar don’t astonish her. She ain’t open-mouthed at them, but sets my hair on end with her Hand of Glory, and talks of how money is to be got. I know what she is after; she wants me to run away with her and the cash box. I won’t do it—not with her, for certain; not with the cash box if I can help it. I don’t believe a word about a Hand of Glory. I’m curious to know how she’ll get out of it, now she’s promised to show it me.’ He started, and swore. ’Gorr!’ he said; ’it’s only a rat behind the wainscot; I thought it was the hand creeping after me. I suppose I must go. For certain, Mrs. Veale is a bad un. But; what is that? The shadow of my own hand on the wall, naught else.’ He threw over him a cloak he wore in wet weather, and hid the lantern under it. ’For sure,’ he said, ’folks would think it queer if they saw me going out such a summer night as this with a lantern; but I won’t go to Wellon’s Cairn without, that is certain.’ ’Well,’ said Mrs. Veale; ’so you have come at last!’ ’Yes, I have come. Where is the master? I’ve not seen him about.’ ’He never said nothing to no one, and went off to Holsworthy to-day.’ ’When will he be back?’ ’Not to-morrow; there’s a fair there; the day after, perhaps.’ A heavy black cloud hung in the sky, stretching apparently above Broadbury. Below it the silvery light flowed from behind the horizon. To the east, although it was night, the range of Dartmoor was visible, bathed in the soft reflection from the north-western sky. The tumulus upon which Wellon had been executed was not far out on the heath. Mrs. Veale led the way with firm tread; Charles followed with growing reluctance. A great white owl whisked by. The glowworms were shining mysteriously under tufts of grass. As they pushed through the heather they disturbed large moths. A rabbit dashed past. ’Hush!’ whispered Charles. ’I’m sure I heard a horn.’ ’Ah!’ answered Mrs. Veale, ’Squire Arscott rides the downs at night, they say, and has this hundred years.’ ’I don’t care to go any further,’ said the young man. ’You shall come on. I am going to show you the Hand of Glory.’ He was powerless to resist. As his father had fallen under the authority of Honor, so the strong over-mastering will of this woman domineered Charles, and made him do what she would. He felt his subjection, his powerlessness. He saw the precipice to which she was leading him, and knew that he could not escape.