instance, those four sinister fellows with daggers, as if they were
nothing at all. When I had been at home the matter would have caused
me extraordinary emotions, as many as if I had seen an elephant in a
travelling show. As for going back to my old life, it didn't seem to be
possible.




CHAPTER TWO

One night I was riding alone towards Horton Pen. A large moon hung
itself up above me like an enormous white plate. Finally the sloping
roof of the Ferry Inn, with one dishevelled palm tree drooping over it,
rose into the disk. The window lights were reflected like shaken torches
in the river. A mass of objects, picked out with white globes, loomed
in the high shadow of the inn, standing motionless. They resolved
themselves into a barouche, with four horses steaming a great deal, and
an army of negresses with bandboxes on their heads. A great lady was
on the road; her querulous voice was calling to someone within the open
door that let down a soft yellow light from the top of the precipitous
steps. A nondescript object, with apparently two horns and a wheel,
rested inert at the foot of the sign-post; two negroes were wiping their
foreheads beside it. That resolved itself into a man slumbering in a
wheelbarrow, his white face turned up to the moon. A sort of buzz of
voices came from above; then a man in European clothes was silhouetted
against the light in the doorway. He held a full glass very carefully
and started to descend. Suddenly he stopped emotionally. Then he turned
half-right and called back, "Sir Charles! Sir Charles! Here's the very
man! I protest, the very man!" There was an interrogative roar from