There was no outcry, no noise, except that of our heavy breathing, and trampling feet.

Personal hatred had ascendancy in both our hearts--I doubt if he ever thought of aught else but the desire to kill me there with his own hands.

Only once did he even utter a word, hissing out the sentence as though it were a poison: "To hell with you, you sneaking English cur!" "Then I travel that road not alone," I muttered back.

"There will be one less of the devil's brood afloat." What followed has to me no clearness, no consistency.

I remember, yet it is as though memory played me a thousand tricks.