occasionally happen to one in a nightmare. I just remember pedalling
blindly along, with the back wheel grinding and jolting beneath me
and the moonlit road rising and falling ahead. It must have been more
instinct than anything else that kept me going, for I was in the last
stages of hunger and weariness, and most of the time I scarcely knew
what I was doing.

At last, after wobbling feebly up a long slope, I found I had reached
the extreme edge of the Moor. Right below me the road dropped down for
several hundred feet into a broad level expanse of fields and woods.
Six or seven miles away the lights of Plymouth and Devonport threw up
a yellow glare into the sky, and beyond that again I could just see
the glint of the moonlight shining on the sea.

It was no good stopping, for I knew that in an hour or so the mounted
warders would be again on my track. So clapping on both brakes, I
started off down the long descent, being careful not to let the
machine get away with me as it had done on the previous hill.

At the bottom, which I somehow reached in safety, I found a sign-post
with two hands, one marked Plymouth and the other Devonport. I took
the latter road, why I can hardly say, and summoning up my almost
spent energies I pedalled off shakily between its high hedges.

How I got as far as I did remains a mystery to me to this day. I fell
off twice from sheer weakness, but on each occasion I managed to drag
myself back into the saddle again, and it was not until my third
tumble, that I decided I could go no farther.

I was in a dark stretch of road bounded on each side by thick