The pallid moon shone down pitilessly upon the dead, white face
that stared up at me through its grime and blood, with the same
half-tolerant, half-amused contempt of me that it had worn in
life; the drawn lips seemed to mock me, and the clenched fists
to defy me still; so that I shivered, and turned to watch the
oncoming light that danced like a will-o'-the-wisp among the
shadows. Presently it stopped, and a voice hailed once more: "Hallo!"
"Hallo!" I called back; "this way--this way!" In a little while
I saw the figure of a man whom I at once recognized as the
one-time Postilion, bearing the lanthorn of a chaise, and, as he
approached, it struck me that this meeting was very much like our
first, save for him who lay in the shadows, staring up at me with
unwinking eyes.
"So ho!" exclaimed the Postilion as he came up, raising his
lanthorn that he might view me the better; "it's you again, is
it?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"Well, I don't like it," he grumbled, "a-meeting of each other
again like this, in this 'ere ghashly place--no, I don't like it
--too much like last time to be nat'ral, and, as you know, I can't
abide onnat'ralness. If I was to ax you where my master was,
like as not you'd tell me 'e was--"
"Here!" said I, and, moving aside, pointed to the shadow.
The Postilion stepped nearer, lowering his lanthorzs. then
staggered blindly backward.
"Lord!" he whimpered, "Lord love me!" and stood staring, with
dropped jaw.
"Where is your chaise?"
"Up yonder--yonder--in the lane," he mumbled, his eyes still
fixed.
"Then help me to carry him there."
"No, no--I dursn't touch it--I can't--not me--not me!"
"I think you will," said I, and took the pistol from my pocket.
"Ain't one enough for to-night?" he muttered; "put it away--I'll
come--I'll do it--put it away." So I dropped the weapon back
into my pocket while the Postilion, shivering violently, stooped
with me above the inanimate figure, and, with our limp burden
between us, we staggered and stumbled up the path, and along the
lane to where stood a light traveling chaise.
"'E ain't likely to come to this time, I'm thinkin'!" said the
Postilion, mopping the sweat from his brow and grinning with
pallid lips, after we had got our burden into the vehicle; "no,
'e ain't likely to wake up no more, nor yet 'curse my 'ead off'
--this side o' Jordan."