It was a long way behind — so far that, had the moon been less bright, I could never have discerned it. What it was I could not even conjecture; but it had the appearance of a vague gray patch, moving — not along the road, but through the undergrowth — in my direction.
For a second my eye rested upon it. Then I saw a second patch — a third — a fourth!
Six!
There were six gray patches creeping up the slope toward me!
The sight was unnerving. What were these things that approached, silently, stealthily — like snakes in the grass?
A fear, unlike anything I had known before the quest of the Prophet's slipper had brought fantastic horror into my life, came upon me. Revolver in hand I ran — ran for my life toward the gap in the trees that marked the coppice end. And as I went something hummed through the darkness beside my head, some projectile, some venomous thing that missed its mark by a bare inch!
Painfully conversant with the uncanny weapons employed by the Hashishin, I knew now, beyond any possibility of doubt, that death was behind me.
A pattering like naked feet sounded on the road, and, without pausing in my headlong career, I sent a random shot into the blackness.
The crack of the Smith and Wesson reassured me. I pulled up short, turned, and looked back toward the trees.
Nothing — no one!