But Spike went on with dragging feet, ignorant that any one followed, lost in a sudden sense of shame such as he had never known before—a shame that was an agony: for though his bodily eyes were blinded with bitter tears, the eyes of his mind were opened wide at last, and he saw himself foul and dirty, even as the Spider had said. So on stumbling feet Spike reached a shady, grassy corner remote from all chance of observation and, throwing himself down there, he lay with his face hidden, wetting the grass with the tears of his abasement.
When at last he raised his head, he beheld a little old man leaning patiently against a tree near by and watching him with a pair of baleful eyes.
"Hello!" said Spike wearily. "Who are you?"
"I'm Fate, I am!" nodded the Old Un. "Persooin' Fate, that's me."
"What yer here for, anyway?" enquired the lad, humble in his abasement.
"I'm here to persoo!"
"Say, now, what's your game; what yer want?"
"I want you, me lad."
"Well, say—beat it, please—I want t' be alone."
"Not much, me lad. I'm Fate, I am, an' when Fate comes up agin murder, Fate ain't t' be shook off."