“By God, d’ye say so, George?” cried the Corporal; and staying for no more, he set off at a run; and now, as he hasted thus, his feet seemed to beat out the awful word: mur-der, mur-der, and his thoughts were full of it. Murder, indeed! But who shall plumb all the sullen deeps of a murderer’s soul? Who comprehend the motives that speed him on? What ears but his may catch those demon voices that have eternally wooed and urged, argued and threatened, ceaselessly day and night, until he sees nothing, hears nothing, is conscious of nothing but the one purpose so gradually decided upon and, at last, so passionately desired. What normal intelligence may comprehend the mind of a murderer? Watch him as he creeps forth upon his awful business, a dreadful, furtive creature seeking his unsuspecting victim.... Behold now the generous cock of his hat, his neat wig, his full-skirted coat of sober hue! Looked at from behind, he might be mistaken for an itinerant preacher of Quakerish persuasion, but seen from in front he can be nothing under heaven but the murderer he is in his soul. Thus goes he, his every faculty so intent upon his ghastly work that he sees nothing, hears nothing of the Nemesis that dogs him in the shadows, pausing when he pauses, looking where he looks, going on again with him step for step, silent, purposeful and so dreadfully patient. So come they at last, the Murderer and his Nemesis, to a leafy grove that all day long has rung with the joyous carolling of birds, but now, hushed and silent, is a place of gloom meet for dark and stealthy deeds. Within this place of shadow Murder creeps, seeking a place where, unseen, he may destroy, but always unconscious of the lurking shape of the Nemesis that flits ever behind him; suddenly he starts and crouches, to peer along the glimmering road, for upon the silence is the sound of a man’s light tread coming at slow, unhurried pace—the footsteps of a man who dreams.... Stay! What other feet are those that come at such wild speed, nearer and nearer, until they slacken somewhat and a panting voice speaks: “Your honour ... I was a-coming ... to meet ye.” “And in mighty haste, Bob!” “Why ... as to that, sir—’tis growing dark——” “Since when were you afraid o’ the dark, Bob?” “Why—it looks like rain, sir.” “On the contrary, ’tis a very fine night.” “Why, then—let us walk, your honour.” “Nay, I’m minded to be alone.” “But, sir, I——” “So go you in, Bob, and order supper.” “But, your honour, I——” “Pray leave me, Robert.” “Why, sir—George Potter ... he warned me that——” “That what?” “That ’twasn’t, as you might say, healthy for you hereabouts to-night, sir, and——” “The thought charms me, Robert. And now—pray be gone.” “But, sir, if you’ll only——” “Damme! Will ye go?”