Soon they reached the clearing, and, pausing for breath in the shadows, they looked about. The night was far advanced, but a light showed in an upper window of the house. Over in the barn a horse was thrashing about his stall; the noise was deafening after the stillness. Roche released Estelle, and to his horror she sank to the ground in a faint. He spoke to her--she did not hear. He bent over and shook her, felt her wrist and her forehead. Then he straightened up and looked back along the road. His breath came fast and hard; the loneliness was closing in on his soul. He shivered, though the air was not cold, then stepped back, mopped the sudden sweat from his face, looked down again at the woman,--even stirred her with his foot,--then turned and ran. Not down the road, for the lowbrowed McGlory lay sleeping there; not to the south, for the stream barred the way; but skirting the clearing to the northern edge and then plunging into the woods, endlong and overthwart, with a thousand ugly fancies hounding him, with a traitor in his bosom that opened the door for the mad thoughts freely to enter and gnaw there. He tripped on a log, pitched headlong and rolled over, scrambled up with bleeding hands, and ran on in an ecstasy of fear. And the vast black forest shut in behind him and swallowed him. [Illustration: 0315] When Estelle's eyes opened, she returned from peace to wretchedness. Yes, the trees and the night and the swollen feet were real. She crawled toward the farm-house; something within her warned her not to try to rise. She lived months in dragging that hundred yards; the one goal of life was the low stoop and the door under the light. When she reached it,--her clothes torn, the dust ground into her face and hands,--she fainted again, and clung to the steps. Dirck van Deelen was sitting at the window with a shot-gun across his knees. He had watched the--he could not see what it was--crawling to his door. Now he looked out and saw it lying there. Whatever, whoever it was, this would not do; so he opened the door and carried her up to the room where his frightened wife was trying to sleep. “We 'll have to take her in, Saskia.” “What is the matter? Is she hurt?” “I don't know. I found her on the stoop. Help me examine her.” But they found no mark of bullet, knife, or blunt instrument. And while the Dutch woman worked over her, the man went for water. At last she was brought to a sort of consciousness, and, leaving his wife to care for her, Van Deelen returned to his window and his gun. Roche and Estelle had not been gone an hour when McGlory, haunted by the fear of pursuit, awoke. He stretched himself, sat up, and looked over to the spot where Estelle had been lying when he fell asleep. At first he thought he saw her, a darker shadow, but on rising and walking over he found no sign of her. He looked about, and called. Roche, too, was not in sight. He hesitated, not yet fully awake, then turned back and woke his companion.