Wilderling was crouched in the corner against a piece of gold Japanese embroidery. He was in the shadow, away from the window, which was pushed open sufficiently to allow the muzzle of the rifle to slip between the woodwork and the pane. The old man, his white hair disordered, his clothes dusty, and his hands grimy, crept forward just as Lawrence entered, fired down into the side-street, then moved swiftly back into his corner again. He muttered to himself without ceasing in French, “Chiens! Chiens!... Chiens!” He was very hot, and he stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead, then he saw Lawrence.
“What do you want?” he asked, as though he didn’t recognize him.
Lawrence moved down the side of the room, avoiding the window. He touched the little man’s arm.
“I say, you know,” he said, “this won’t do.”
Wilderling smelt of gunpowder, and he was breathing hard as though he had been running desperately. He quivered when Lawrence touched him.
“Go away!” he said, “you mustn’t come here.... I’ll get them yet—I tell you I’ll get them yet—I tell you I’ll get them—Let them dare... Chiens... Chiens...” He jerked his rifle away from the window and began, with trembling fingers, to load it again.
Lawrence gripped his arm. “When I did that,” he said, “it felt as though there wasn’t an arm there at all, but just a bone which I could break if I pressed a bit harder.”
“Come away!” he said. “You damn fool—don’t you see that it’s hopeless?”
“And I’d always been so respectful to him....” he added in parenthesis.
Wilderling hissed at him, saying no words, just drawing in his breath.