Now Sam Bolton sat near the fire waiting for the sound of a shot. From
time to time he spread his gnarled, carved-mahogany hands to the blaze.
Under his narrow hat his kindly gray-blue eyes, wrinkled at the corners
with speculation and good humour, gazed unblinking into the light. As
always he smoked.

Time went on. The moon climbed, then descended again. Finally it shone
almost horizontally through the tree-trunks, growing larger and larger
until its field was crackled across with a frostwork of twigs and
leaves. By and by it reached the edge of a hill-bank, visible through an
opening, and paused. It had become huge, gigantic, big with mystery. A
wolf sat directly before it, silhouetted sharply. Presently he raised
his pointed nose, howling mournfully across the waste.

The fire died down to coals. Sam piled on fresh wood. It hissed
spitefully, smoked voluminously, then leaped into flame. The old
woodsman sat as though carved from patience, waiting calmly the issue.

Then through the shadows, dancing ever more gigantic as they became more
distant, Sam Bolton caught the solidity of something moving. The object
was as yet indefinite, mysterious, flashing momentarily into view and
into eclipse as the tree-trunks intervened or the shadows flickered. The
woodsman did not stir; only his eyes narrowed with attention. Then a
branch snapped, noisy, carelessly broken. Sam's expectancy flagged.
Whoever it was did not care to hide his approach.

But in a moment the watcher could make out that the figures were two;
one erect and dominant, the other stooping in surrender. Sam could not
understand. A prisoner would be awkward. But he waited without a motion,
without apparent interest, in the indifferent attitude of the