And there were steps upon the cross-roads at last; they were those of one advancing with lumbering gait and of another stepping nimbly backward.

The latter laughed aloud.
"Did you really think I would come to meet the writer of a letter like yours, at night, in a spot like this, with a single penny-piece in my pocket?
Come to my cottage, and we'll settle there." "I'm not coming in!" "To the gate, then.

It isn't three hundred yards from this.

I'll lead the way." Langholm set off at a brisk walk, his heart in his mouth.

But the lumbering steps did not gain upon him; a muttered grumbling was their only accompaniment; and in minute they saw the lights.