Half an hour later he threw himself with relief upon a mattress that was built up of three distinct slabs and pulled a gray blanket over his eyes to shut out the host of lights that swam before them. He heard the voices of men buzzing round him and heavy, regular steps on the stone flags. All he cared about now was sleep. He fell into a drugged slumber, haunted by many dreams. He dreamed of Halesby, of old Mrs Moseley’s room and Susan Wade sitting demurely at the foot of her aunt’s bed. Alice put in her head and called him, telling him that his father was dead and that she could not do without him. He got up and followed her with Tiger prancing at his heels. ‘I can’t abear dogs, Abner,’ she cried. All his old resentment against her rose up in him, and he would have told her what he thought of her had not Mick Connor appeared at that moment and shouted his name. ‘Come along wud you!’ said Mick, ‘why would you be bothering your head about the likes of her? It’s time we were looking for a drop in Nagle’s Back.’ They walked on over twilight fields talking of old times. ‘Go aisy round the corner,’ Mick warned him, ‘for the ould devil of a policeman’s got his eye on us!’ They went round the edge of the woodland on tiptoe, and there, sure enough, stood Bastard, with a face as white as death and a thin stream of blood trickling from his nose. ‘He’s dead said Abner. ‘Don’t look at him. Our George killed him!’ ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Mick replied. And as he spoke Bastard turned and stared at them with blank eyes. Abner set off running. He knew that his only chance was to run as hard as he could. He plunged into a close lane, smelling of elder trees and nettles. Now he knew where he was! This was the Dark Half-hour, and if he kept on running he would emerge in safety on the hill-side above Mawne Colliery, just below the cherry orchard. Even now he could hear the thudding of hammers at Willises’ forge. Bastard was gaining on him, pounding along behind him, but a man stood in his path and barred the way. At first he thought it was his father, but a sudden revelation showed him that it was George Malpas. George Malpas, deathly white under his prison crop, and armed with a poker. They closed and struggled. It was a desperate business, for George managed to keep on battering his head with the poker, and Mary, in her strange tragic beauty, clutched at his arm. He knew that he was done for; fell with his hands locked about George’s throat. Bastard seized him from behind, and he woke.