At another motion he drew out the bag of gold with his left hand, and, obeying the direction of another gesture, dropped it on the ground.

There was a pause, then another gesture, which he pretended not to understand.
"Your pistol!" said the voice in a whisper through the mask.
He felt the cold steel at his forehead press a little closer; he also felt how steady it was.

He was no fool.

He had been in trouble before in his lifetime; he drew out the pistol, and passed it, handle first, to three fingers stretched out from the dark lantern.
The figure moved to where the money and the pistol were, and said, in a whisper still: "Go!" He had one moment of wild eagerness to try his luck in a sudden assault, but that passed as suddenly as it came; and with the pistol still covering him, he moved out into the open road, with a helpless anger on him.
A crescent moon was struggling through floes of fleecy clouds, the stars were shining, and so the road was not entirely dark.

He went about thirty steps, then turned and looked back.