The blacksmith presently quickened his pace. Then with a drawling “Good-by” he began to run lightly along the hard, whitened road, feeling an accession of interest in what might be going forward at the barn, his curiosity concerning his companion flagging in this new prospect of excitement. His footfalls sounded, regular and rhythmic as machinery, long after he had disappeared amongst the white frosted wands of the bare brambles and the silver-tipped leaves of the luxuriant laurel. Rathburn, thus summarily deserted, stood still for a moment, then took his way alone. He had a certain pride in the fact that even under these circumstances he could keep his steps deliberate and even. He scrutinized his gait to assure himself on this point. Albeit policy had prompted his course and the event had so far justified its wisdom, he was well aware of the abundant resources of courage that had made it possible. Still he listened with sharpened sense, with every nerve tense, with an insidious chill stealing upon him, and he felt a rage of humiliation that he should be subjected to an anguish of fear like this, which but for its physical testimony he would not acknowledge to himself. If the voices rose or fell, he heard them only in the midst of the beat of his own footsteps, for he would not pause. Sometimes he fancied that another tramp was on the air, other footfalls—hasty, deranged, pursuing footfalls—were hard upon his track. He walked on deliberately, however that curious icy thrill crept along his nerves, and now desisted, and now renewed its chilling quiver.