And yet, in the wood, it did seem as though there were something waiting.

It was now no longer a man's head--only a dark, melancholy band of trees, dead black now against the high white clouds.
There had risen in Olva the fighting spirit.

Fear was still there, ghastly fear, but also an anger, a rage.

Why should he be thus tormented?
What had he done?
Who was Carfax that the slaying of him should be so unforgettable a sin?
Moreover, had it been the mere vulgar hauntings of remorse, terrors of a frightened conscience, he could have turned upon himself the contempt that any Dune must deserve for so ignoble a submission.
But here there were other things--some-thing that no human resolution could combat.

He seized then eagerly on the things that he could conquer--the suspicions of Rupert Craven, the rivalry of Cardillac, the confidences of Bunning,.