“Don't hurt me!”
“By———! Don't you say another word!”
He jerked her roughly forward, while his wild eyes sought the road behind.
“You said you'd be good to me!”
“Well, ain't I good to you? Ain't I saving your life, and you haven't got the sense to see it?”
“O dear! Don't—”
“Keep still, now—come on—Don't you say any more.”
Soon they reached the clearing, and, pausing for breath in the shadows, they looked about. The night was far advanced, but a light showed in an upper window of the house. Over in the barn a horse was thrashing about his stall; the noise was deafening after the stillness. Roche released Estelle, and to his horror she sank to the ground in a faint. He spoke to her—she did not hear. He bent over and shook her, felt her wrist and her forehead. Then he straightened up and looked back along the road. His breath came fast and hard; the loneliness was closing in on his soul. He shivered, though the air was not cold, then stepped back, mopped the sudden sweat from his face, looked down again at the woman,—even stirred her with his foot,—then turned and ran. Not down the road, for the lowbrowed McGlory lay sleeping there; not to the south, for the stream barred the way; but skirting the clearing to the northern edge and then plunging into the woods, endlong and overthwart, with a thousand ugly fancies hounding him, with a traitor in his bosom that opened the door for the mad thoughts freely to enter and gnaw there. He tripped on a log, pitched headlong and rolled over, scrambled up with bleeding hands, and ran on in an ecstasy of fear. And the vast black forest shut in behind him and swallowed him.
