For weaklings wear the stunted form of sin
Without its brave apparel"—
and considered Sam Buzza as he writhed beneath the sign-post.
Pat, pat, pat!
It was the muffled sound of footsteps on the dusty road. He looked up. A dark figure, the figure of a woman, was approaching. Its air of timorous alertness, and its tendency to seek the shadow of the hedge-row, gave him some confidence. He arose, and stepped forward into the broad moonlight.
The woman gave a short gasp and came to a halt, shrinking back against the hedge. Something in her outline struck sharply on Sam's sense, though with a flash of doubt and wonder. She carried a small handbag, and wore a thick veil over her face.
"Who are you?" he asked gently. "Don't be afraid."
The woman made no answer—only cowered more closely against the hedge; and he heard her breath coming hard and fast. Once more—and for the third time that night—Sam pulled the slide of his lantern.
"Mother!"
"Oh! Sam, Sam, don't betray me! I'll go back—indeed I'll go back!"