He was coming down the mill-stream meadow toward the wooden bridge, carrying a fishing rod, but clearly not intent on angling.

For instead of following the course of the stream, he was keeping quite away from it, avoiding also the footpath, or, at any rate, seeming to prefer the long shadows of the trees and the tufted places.

This made me look at him, and very soon I shrank into my nest and watched him.
As he came nearer any one could tell that he was no village workman, bolder than the rest, and venturesome to cross the "Murder-bridge" in his haste to be at home.

The fishing rod alone was enough to show this when it came into clearer view; for our good people, though they fished sometimes, only used rough rods of their own making, without any varnish or brass thing for the line.

And the man was of different height and walk and dress from any of our natives.
"Who can he be ?" I whispered to myself, as my heart began to beat heavily, and then seemed almost to stop, as it answered, "This is the man who was in the churchyard." Ignoble as it was, and contemptible, and vile, and traitorous to all duty, my first thought was about my own escape; for I felt that if this man saw me there he would rush up the hill and murder me.