The Broad Highway

"Talking of fancies," I pursued, "I have a great mind to that

smock-frock of yours, so take it off, and quick about it." In a

fever of haste he tore off the garment in question, and, he

thrusting it eagerly upon me, I folded it over my arm.

"Now," said I, "since you say you can run, supposing you show me

what you can do. This is a good straight lane--off with you and

do your best, and no turning or stopping, mind, for the moon is

very bright, and I am a pretty good shot." Hardly waiting to

hear me out, the fellow set off up the lane, running like the

wind; whereupon, I (waiting only to snatch up his forgotten bread

and meat) took to my heels--down the lane, so that, when I

presently stopped to don the smock-frock, its late possessor had

vanished as though he had never been.

I hurried on, nevertheless, eating greedily as I went, and, after

some while, left the narrow lane behind, and came out on the

broad highway that stretched like a great, white riband, unrolled

beneath the moon. And here was another finger-post with the

words "To Sevenoaks, Tonbridge, and the Wells.--To Bromley and London."

And here, also, was another placard, headed by that awful word:

MURDER--which seemed to leap out at me from the rest. And, with

that word, there rushed over me the memory of Charmian as I had

seen her stand--white-lipped, haggard of eye, and--with one hand

hidden in the folds of her gown.

So I turned and strove to flee from this hideous word, and, as I

went, I clenched my fists and cried within myself: "I love her

--love her--no doubt can come between us more--I love her--love

her--love her!" Thus I hurried on along the great highroad, but,

wherever I looked, I saw this most hateful word; it shone out

palely from the shadows; it was scored into the dust at my feet;

even across the splendor of the moon, in jagged characters, I

seemed to read that awful word: MURDER.

And the soft night-wind woke voices to whisper it as I passed;

the somber trees and gloomy hedgerows were full of it; I heard it

in the echo of my step--MURDER! MURDER! It was always there,

whether I walked or ran, in rough and stony places, in the deep,

soft dust, in the dewy, tender grass--it was always there,

whispering at my heels, and refusing to be silenced.

I had gone on, in this way, for an hour or more, avoiding the

middle of the road, because of the brilliance of the moon, when I

overtook something that crawled in the gloom of the hedge, and

approaching, pistol in hand, saw that it was a man.