Presently he became conscious of the presence of the Hare, and thoughts passed through his mind which of course I could read. “My word!” he said to himself, “things are better than I hoped. There’s a hare, and where there are hares there must be hunting and shooting. Oh! if only I had a gun, or the ghost of a gun!” Then an idea struck him. He lifted his hunting-crop and hurled it at the Hare. As it was only the shadow of a crop of course it could hurt nothing. Still it went through the shadow of the Hare and caused it to twist round like lightning. “That was a good shot anyway,” he reflected, with a satisfied smile. By now the Hare had seen him. “_The Red-faced Man!_” it exclaimed, “Grampus himself!” and it turned to flee away. “Don’t be frightened,” I cried, “he can’t hurt you; nothing can hurt you here.” The Hare halted and sat up. “No,” it said, “I forgot. But you saw, he tried to. Now, Mahatma, you will understand what a bloodthirsty brute he is. Even after I am dead he has tried to kill me again.” “Well, and why not?” interrupted the Man. “What are hares for except to be killed?” “There, Mahatma, you hear him. Look at me, Man, who am I?” So he looked at the Hare and the Hare looked at him. Presently his face grew puzzled. “By Jingo!” he said slowly, “you are uncommonly like—you _are_ that accursed witch of a hare which cost me my life. There are the white marks on your back, and there is the grey splotch on your ear. Oh! if only I had a gun—a real gun!” “You would shoot me, wouldn’t you, or try to?” said the Hare. “Well, you haven’t and you can’t. You say I cost you your life. What do you mean? It was my life that was sacrificed, not yours.” “Indeed,” answered the Man, “I thought you got away. Never saw any more of you after you jumped through the French window. Never had time. The last thing I remember is her Ladyship screaming like a mad cockatoo, yes, and abusing me as though I were a pickpocket, with the drawing-room all on fire. Then something happened, and down I went among the broken china and hit my head against the leg of a table. Next came a kind of whirling blackness and I woke up here.” “A fit or a stroke,” I suggested. “Both, I think, sir. The fit first—I have had ‘em before, and the stroke afterwards—against the leg of the table. Anyway they finished me between them, thanks to that little beast.” Then it was that I saw a very strange thing, a hare in a rage. It seemed to go mad, of course I mean spiritually mad. Its eyes flashed fire; it opened its mouth and shut it after the fashion of a suffocating fish. At last it spoke in its own way—I cannot stop to explain in further detail the exact manner of speech or rather of its equivalent upon the Road.