further into the country, climbing steadily upward, seeking the
solitary woods. He did not hear the girl's shriek of despair, did
not see her fall unconscious on the matting, he did not see a
lithe figure that bounded from the back of the house nor hear the
feet that tracked him. He heard and saw nothing. His brain was
dulled. His only impulse was that of the wounded animal--to hide
himself alone with nature and the night. He plunged on up the
hillside climbing fiercely, tirelessly, wading mountain streams
and forcing his way through thick brushwood. He had taken, off his
coat earlier in the evening and his silk shirt was ripped to
ribbons. His hair lay wet against his forehead and his cheek
dripped blood where a splintered bamboo had torn it, but he did
not feel it. He came at last to a tiny clearing in the forest
where the moon shone through a break in the trees. There he
halted, rocking unsteadily on his feet, passing his hand across
his face to clear the blood and perspiration from his eyes, and
then dropped like a log. The next moment the bushes parted and his
Japanese servant crept noiselessly to his side. He bent down over
him for an instant. Craven lay motionless with his face hidden in
his arms, but as the Jap watched a shudder shook him from head to
foot and the man backed cautiously, disappearing among the bushes
as silently as he had come.

The breeze died away and it was quite still within the moonlit
clearing. A broad shaft of cold white light fell directly on the
prone figure. He was morally stunned and for a long time the
agony of his mind was blunted. But gradually the first shock
passed and full realization rushed over him. His hands dug
convulsively into the soft earth and he writhed at his helplessness.
What he had done was irremediable. It was a sudden thunderbolt