Tells how I went forth into the night, and of my quest, and of my singular state of mind. “So that is the infamous Captain Toby,” I thought, as I started back to the inn, all agog over this discovery. “Monsieur le Capitaine, the sky spy, accessory to a thousand murders! Another of Dennheimer’s recruits. Well, he has his reward.” He would have fared worse, I consoled myself, if he had fallen within the allied lines.
But already (though I would not acknowledge it) I had begun to feel the first pangs of regret, not because I had denounced him, but because I had not at least brought him back and left him in his cave where I had found him. For if, indeed, I wished to leave his punishment to Providence, it would have seemed only fair to return him to the spot where Providence had placed him when I intervened.
I began to wonder how he had drifted so far and what were the circumstances of his tragic flight. The broken cable told much, but what was the experience which had left him with a tottering, broken will—the victim of hideous fear and haunting guilt? He had evidently a hazy recollection of landing in the darkness, for he had asked me, in his eager, furtive way, if David Balfour had reached his destination at night.
I believed that his condition had been worse—was perhaps getting better when I first saw him. And I pictured his being carried through the darkness, a crazed victim locked in his little car, storm-tossed perhaps, borne over those majestic peaks, beating against his glass enclosure in crying fright, and at last dragged across rough canons and over rocks and crawling out of the wreckage in the blackness of night in this unknown country. I pictured him wandering aimlessly among the hills and glens, in storm and tempest perhaps, and finally finding refuge in his lone cave.
Before I had reached the inn I turned and retraced my steps to the scene of our parting, but he was gone. I was siezed with remorse. The night was coming on, and the thought of the poor wretch stricken anew by the shock of my tirade, roaming aimlessly among those caverns, went to my heart.
This, I thought, was not the way Uncle Sam treated his enemy prisoners. I went back to his cave hoping that I might find him there, but there was no sign of him, and I turned back toward the inn remorsefully.
And now I did not spare myself. I recalled my effort to find excuse, or at least a plausible explanation, for Tom Slade’s truckling to the enemy, because he was my young friend’s pal and lived in my own home town. I recalled my agreeable pastime of recounting the episodes of his loyal service, and of how I had put into the background that dark secret of the Scuppers. But for this poor, half demented creature, who was punished already, I had had nothing but heartless contempt and loathing. I would have thought shame to dishonor that grave in Pevy. Yet here was I dishonoring the dead—for was not this wretched thing dead in a way?
I cannot tell you of the pangs I suffered as the night drew on. Herr Twann, who had shown little sympathy or interest in our unhappy neighbor, seemed like a saint now compared to myself. A fine bungle I had made of my kind intent! I have seen wounded soldiers handled pretty roughly, but never one with genuine shell shock.
To my host and his good wife I said nothing of what I had learned—much less of what I had done, but all through the evening I nursed my remorse in silence.
As luck would have it, the night blew up cold and stormy. There is a keenness to the slightest breeze in these parts and I have wondered whether it is because of the narrow valleys it passes through, causing, as one might say, a perpetual draft. The rain comes in gusts.
Well, on this memorable night there was not so much as a star to be seen—only the tiny light away up on Ollon peak, which I always thought must be a star. Some hermit monks lived there............