He ran hither and thither with fiercely muttered imprecations. Now
his footsteps sounded farther off, and now again he ran back and
came softly stealing around among the rocks. Timokles laid his
branded cheek against the gravel, and waited.

The footsteps went, and came, and went again in the dark. Timokles
trembled from head to foot. He did not fear death, but he dreaded
capture and unknown terrors.

The dark form passed by again. A chill went over Timokles, as he
thought he saw a weapon in the man's hand.

The footsteps became inaudible once more. Timokles, waiting a long
time, imagined his foe might have gone. As the lad was about to lift
his head, a hand brushed along the side of his rock, and reached out
into the dark, underneath. Timokles was perfectly quiet. The hand
above him felt down the sides of the rock, waved in the darkness
above the boy, descended and rested an instant on the gravel next
him--but did not touch him. The silent menace of the groping hand
was terrible. Timokles held his breath.

The hand passed on, feeling of other rocks.

"O God of thy people, thou hast hidden me!" cried Timokles in his
heart, as he heard the soft rubbing of his enemy's hand against the
farther rocks.

The sound died away. Timokles lay listening for a long time. Once he
thought he heard a creeping sound, but it was only the wind.