"Oh!" said the man. "Then that is why you're in such a hurry."
"I'm in no particular hurry," said Fitzgerald. "But it is wise to be back before 'Lights out.'"
He could see the ruined cottage in front now, a black blur against the night. The limitless levels stretched out on either side, frogs croaked in the ponds, now and then a light shot up from the fields, trembled in air for a moment and died away. The breezes of the night, the "unseen multitude," as the ancients called them, capered by, crooning wearily. In front, far ahead, the artillery fire redoubled in intensity and the sky was lit by the brilliance of day.
"Hell's loose out there," said the stranger. "It's not good to be there; it's not good to die."
The stranger turned off the road and walked a few yards down a lane in the direction of the cottage.
"I'm not going that way," said Fitzgerald coming to a halt. His companion stopped.
"Afraid?" he said.
"Afraid! H'm! I'm not afraid," the Irishman answered, nettled at the word. "All right, you go ahead. I'll follow."
The man did not move. He fumbled in his pocket and brought something out, something dark, small and tipped at the points as if with silver. Fitzgerald imagined it to be a revolver and he slid his rifle forward so that its muzzle pointed at the man's body.
"Hold your weapon up, you fool," said the stranger, and a note of concern was in his voice. "I've a pocket lamp here. We'll get off into the fields now and I'll light the way with this. The place is full of ponds and drains. Last night I fell into a hole somewhere about this place ... you get off in front."