Arthur waited for a moment; then he slipped down from the tree; made back over the way in which he had come. But he did not pursue the same trail. He made a detour which would take him further around the lake. And if he seemed cautious before, now he was caution itself. He moved so slowly and carefully that no human could have known of his coming, save that he had eyes, or ears or a nose superhumanly acute. And Arthur had his reward.
Suddenly he came to an opening, which gave, past a little covert, on a glade. And at the end of the glade, a group of deer were feeding in the moonlight. Arthur did not move after his discovery of them; indeed he seemed scarcely to breathe. There were nearly a dozen. The bucks and does were pulling delicately at the brush-foliage; the fawns browsed on the grass. In spite of Arthur’s caution, instinct told them that something was wrong. The largest buck got it first. He stopped feeding, lifted his head, sniffed the air suspiciously. Then one of the does caught the contagion. She too lifted her head and for what, though really a brief moment, seemed a long time, tested the atmosphere with her dilated nostrils. Then the others, one after another, showed signs of restlessness. Only the little fawns continued to stand, feeding placidly at their mothers’ sides. But apparently the consensus of testimony was too strongly in favor of retreat. For an instant, the adults moved anxiously. Then suddenly as though the word of alarm had been whispered into every velvety ear—dash! Flash! There came a series of white gleams as all their short tails went up. And then the glade was as empty as though there were no deer within a hundred miles.
Arthur went on. And now, as though he hoped for still another reward of his patience, he moved with even greater care. But for a long time, nothing happened. In the meantime clouds came up. Occasionally they covered the moon. Then, the light being gone, the great harbors and the wide straits between the clouds seemed to fill with stars. The moon would start to emerge; her light would silver everything. The smaller stars would retreat leaving only a few big ones to flare on.
Such an obscuration had come. And while the moon struggled as though actually trying to pull herself free, a second cloud interposed itself between her and the earth. The world turned dark—almost black.
The effect on Arthur was however to make him pick his way with an even greater care. The trail here was not a blind one. It was the one that ran presently into the path that led from the gypsy camp to the Moraine. Ahead, Arthur could just make out the point where the trails crossed.
Suddenly the moon came out with a great vivid flare. It was as though an enormous searchlight had been turned on the earth. Something—it seemed the mere ghost of a sound—arrested Arthur’s footsteps. He stopped; stood stock still; listened; watched.
Something or somebody was coming up the trail from the direction of the gypsy camp. In a moment he would pass the opening. It was human apparently, for the sound was of human footsteps. They came nearer and nearer. A straight, light figure with hair that gleamed, as though burnished, passed into the moonlight.... It was Silva Burle.