Steps sounded behind him as of someone walking, but whoever came moved deliberately along the shoulder of the hill toward the top. There was no reason for delaying; ample time remained in which to step into the gorge and be done with it. Wayne clung stubbornly to the slippery edge; but the moments passed. The tall figure of Stoddard, the priest, drew nearer, his head bowed and his arms folded under a long cloak. His shovel hat gave a bizarre note to his costume. He gained the crown of the ridge and lifted his head.
“Ah, you came out to watch the moon to bed! That, Mr. Craighill, is my own privilege.”
Wayne stood doggedly by the ravine edge. It was on his lips to berate the priest for appearing at this crucial moment, and Stoddard’s calm manner angered him.
“This is the best view possible anywhere about here,” the priest continued. “You have an eye for landscape, but the wind is rising; let us walk on into the wood and get away from it.”
“Father Stoddard, you have done me an injury. If I had not heard your step when I did I should be lying at the bottom of the gap.”
The reaction had been sudden and he was all unstrung. His voice was strange in his own ears.
“Oh! You had intended doing that? I really can’t believe it.”
“You might as well believe it; it is quite true,” persisted Wayne, irritably.
“Those things do occur to all of us sometimes,” replied the priest calmly. “But in your own case it is quite impossible. I advise you to dismiss the matter from your mind.”
“I tell you I was going to do it; a second more and I should have been a dead man.”