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A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. "To shoot you would be to lose the reward. It would hurt no one. Curses light on the horse!" he added, seizing the bridle of his steed, who continued snorting and shivering, as if still under the influence of some unaccountable alarm; "what can ail him?" "I know what ails him, your honour," rejoined the groom, riding up as he spoke; "he's seen somethin' not o' this world. ” “Oh, well!” he said, a little doubtfully, “it’s just a phase,” and bent down and rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment, with his heart beating and his nerves a-quiver. ‘Do you think because you’ve managed to pull a gun on me—not to mention several daggers and a vicious little knife— that you can get away with it against a man who means business?’ ‘Do you think that the trigger I would not have pulled, or stuck the dagger into you, if you had not been as you are?’ she countered. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. Stow it in the saddle, for I will take it with me. END OF THE FIRST EPOCH. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say.

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