"Separate!" gasped Bishop. "It is our only chance." At the next corner we suddenly swung apart, taking opposite directions. I plunged on alone, glad to hear for a time that footfalls were following,—they meant that the pursuit had not concentrated on Bishop. But after a while I realized that I was no longer pursued. I stopped and listened. There was no sound. Weak and trembling, with an aching back and a splitting head, I sat down in a door-way and rested. That luxury was quickly interrupted by my reflecting that possibly Bishop had been overtaken; and I knew what that would mean. I ran back up the hill as rapidly as my weakness and trembling and pain permitted. At last I found myself at the corner where we had separated. There was no sound from any direction. I could only hope for the best and search and listen blindly through this puzzle of streets and passages.
Presently I realized that I was near the fortifications of Paris, close to St. Ouen,—that is to say, at the other end of Paris from the Quartier Latin, which was eight miles away. There was nothing to do but walk home. It was nearly four o'clock when I arrived. And there was Bishop in bed, nursing a big lump on his head, made by a flying stone. He had reached a street where a gendarme was, and that meant safety; and then he had taken a cab for home, where he was looking very ridiculous poulticing his lump and making himself sick fretting about me.
A NIGHT ON MONTMARTE
