Adam Gaudylock emerged from the shadow of the locust trees and crossed the moonlit lawn below the terrace.

"I've shot that night-hawk.

He'll maraud no more," he said, and passed on toward his quarter for the night.
Rand made a motion as if to follow, then checked himself.

It was late, and it had been a day of strife, but his iron frame felt no fatigue and his mood was one of sombre exaltation.

What was the use of going to bed, of wasting the moonlit hours?
He turned to the Frenchman.