Inside the hut the priest bent still lower, his hands clasped between his knees, his face heavy with weariness and displeasure. He too was silent now: he almost seemed to have forgotten why he was there and sat listening to the wind as if it were the distant murmur of the sea. Suddenly the keeper's dog sprang up barking, and Antiochus heard the rustle of wings over his head: he looked up and saw the old hunter's tame eagle alighting on a rock, with its great wings outspread and slowly beating the air like an immense black fan.

Inside the hut Paul was thinking to himself:

"And this is death. This man fled from other men because he was afraid of committing murder or some other great crime. And here he lies now, a stone amongst stones. So shall I lie in thirty, forty years, after an exile that has lasted through eternity. And perhaps she will still be expecting me to-night...."

He started up. Ah, no, he was not dead as he had thought: life was beating within him, surging up strong and tenacious like the eagle amongst the stones.

"I must remain up here all night," he told himself. "If I can get through this night without seeing her I shall be saved."

He went outside and sat down beside Antiochus. The sun was sinking in a crimson sky, the shadows of the high rocks were lengthening over the enclosure and the wind-tossed bushes, and in the same way as he could not distinguish objects clearly in the uncertain light without, so Paul could not tell which of the two desires within him was the strongest. Presently he said:

"The old man cannot speak now, he is dying. It is time to administer extreme unction, and if he dies we must arrange for the body to be moved. It will be necessary ..." he added as though to himself, but did not dare to complete the sentence, "it will be necessary to spend the night here."

Antiochus got up and began to make preparations for the ceremony. He opened the box, pressing the silver fasteners with enjoyment, and drew out the white cloth and the amphora of oil: then he unfolded his red cope and put it on—he might have been himself the priest! When everything was ready they went back into the hut, where the grandson, on his knees, was supporting the dying man's head. Antiochus knelt down on the other side, with the folds of his cope spread out on the ground. He laid the white cloth over the stone that served as a table, and the scarlet of his cope was reflected in the silver amphora. The keeper, too, knelt down outside the hut, with his dog beside him.

Then the priest anointed the old man's forehead, and the palms of his hands which had never sought to do violence to anyone, and his feet which had borne him far from men as from evil itself.

The setting sun shone direct into the hut with a last dazzling splendour, lighting up Antiochus in his scarlet cope, so that between the old man and the priest he looked like a live coal amongst dead cinders.

"I shall have to go back," thought Paul. "I have no excuse for remaining here." Presently he went outside the hut and said: "There is no hope, he is quite unconscious."

"Comatose," said the keeper with precision.

"He cannot live more than a few hours and arrangements must be made for transporting the body down to the village," continued Paul; and he longed to add, "And I must stay here all night," but he was ashamed of his untruth.

Moreover he was beginning now to feel the need of walking and a craving to get back to the village. As night fell the thought of sin began subtly to attract him again and drew him in with the invisible net of darkness. He felt it and was afraid; but he kept guard over himself, and he knew his conscience was awake and ready to uphold him.

"If only I could get through this one night without seeing her I should be saved!" was his silent cry. If only some one would detain him by force! If the old man would revive and hold him fast by the hem of his robe!

He sat down again and cast about for some excuse for delaying his departure. The sun had now sunk below the edge of the high plateau, and the trunks of the oaks stood out boldly against the red glow of the sky like the pillars of some gigantic portico, surmounted by an immense black roof. Not even the presence of death could mar the peace of that majestic solitude. Paul was weary and, as in the morning at the foot of the altar, he would have liked to lie down upon the stones and fall asleep.

Meanwhile the keeper had come to a decision on his own account. He entered the hut and, kneeling down beside the dying man, whispered something into his ear. The grandson looked on with suspicion and contempt, then approached the priest and said:

"Now that you have done your duty, depart in peace. I know what has to be done now."

At that moment the keeper came outside again.

"He is past speaking," he said, "but he gave me to understand by a sign that he has put all his affairs in order. Nicodemus Pania," he added, turning towards the grandson, "can you assure us on your conscience that we may leave here with quiet minds?"

"Except for the holy sacrament of extreme unction, you need not have come at all. What business have you to meddle in my affairs?" answered the grandson truculently.

"We must carry out the law! And don't raise your voice like that, Nicodemus Pania!" retorted the keeper.

"Enough, enough, no shouting," said the priest, pointing to the hut.

"You are always teaching that there is only one duty in life, and that is to do one's own duty," said the keeper sententiously.

Paul sprang to his feet, struck by those words. Everything he heard now seemed meant specially for him, and he thought God was making known His will through the mouths of men. He mounted his horse and said to the old man's grandson:

"Stay with your grandfather until he is dead. God is great and we never know what may happen."

The man accompanied him part of the way, and when they were out of earshot of the keeper he said:

"Listen, sir. My grandfather did give his money into my charge; it's here, inside my coat. It is not much, but whatever it is, it belongs to me, doesn't it?"

"If your grandfather gave it to you for yourself alone, then it is yours," replied Paul, turning round to see if the others were following.

They were following. Antiochus was leaning on a stick he had fashioned for himself out of the branch of a tree, and the keeper, the glazed peak of his cap and the buttons of his tunic reflecting the last rays of the evening light, had halted at the corner of the path and was giving the military salute in the direction of the hut. He was saluting death. And from his rocky perch the eagle answered the salute with a last flap of his great wings before he too went to sleep.

The shades of night crept rapidly up from the valley and soon enveloped the three wayfarers. When they had crossed the river, however, and had turned into the path that led up towards home, their road was lit up by a distant glare that came from the village itself. It ............