I had gone on, in this way, for an hour or more, avoiding the middle of the road, because of the brilliance of the moon, when I overtook something that crawled in the gloom of the hedge, and approaching, pistol in hand, saw that it was a man. He was creeping forward slowly and painfully on his hands and knees, but, all at once, sank down on his face in the grass, only to rise, groaning, and creep on once more; and, as he went, I heard him praying: "Lord, give me strength—O Lord, give me strength. Angela! Angela! It is so far—so far—" And groaning, he sank down again, upon his face. "You are ill!" said I, bending over him. "I must reach Deptford—she's buried at Deptford, and I shall die to-night—O Lord, give me strength!" he panted. "Deptford is miles away," said I. Now, as I spoke, he lifted himself upon his hands and stared up at me. I saw a haggard, hairy face, very thin and sunken, but a fire burned in the eyes, and the eyes seemed, somehow, familiar. "You!" he cried, and spat up in the air towards me; "devil!" he cried, "Devil Vibart." I recoiled instinctively before the man's sudden, wild ferocity, but, propping himself against the bank, he shook his hand at me, and laughed. "Devil!" he repeated; "shade!—ghost of a devil!—have you come back to see me die?" "Who are you?" I cried, bending to look into the pale, emaciated face; "who are you?" "A shadow," he answered, passing a shaking hand up over his face and brow, "a ghost—a phantom—as you are; but my name was Strickland once, as yours was Devil Vibart. I am changed of late—you said so in the Hollow, and—laughed. You don't laugh now, Devil Vibart, you remember poor John Strickland now." "You are the Outside Passenger!" I exclaimed, "the madman who followed and shot at me in a wood—" "Followed? Yes, I was a shadow that was always behind you—following and following you, Satan Vibart, tracking and tracking you to hell and damnation. And you fled here, and you fled there, but I was always behind you; you hid from me among lowly folk, but you could not escape the shadow. Many times I would have killed you—but she was between—the Woman. I came once to your cottage; it was night, and the door opened beneath my hand—but your time was not then. But—ha!—I met you among trees, as I did once before, and I told you my name—as I did once before, and I spoke of her—of Angela, and cried her name—and shot you—just here, above the brow; and so you died, Devil Vibart, as soon I must, for my mission is accomplished—" "It was you!" I cried, kneeling beside him, "it was your hand that shot Sir Maurice Vibart?" "Yes," he answered, his voice growing very gentle as he went on, "for Angela's sake—my dead wife," and, fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a woman's small, lace-edged handkerchief, and I saw that it was thickened and black with blood. "This was hers," he continued, "in her hand, the night she died—I had meant to lay it on her grave—the blood of atonement—but now—"