A couple of days passed; and now I must ask you to suppose yourself placed, at night, in the centre of a vast heath, undulating here and there like a sea arrested in a ground-swell, lost in a horizon of monotonous darkness all round. Here and there rises a scrubby hillock of furze, black and rough as the head of a monster. The eye aches as it strains to discover objects or measure distances over the blurred and black expanse. Here stand two trees pretty close together—one in thick foliage, a black elm, with a funereal and plume-like stillness, and blotting out many stars with its gigantic canopy; the other, about fifty paces off, a withered and half barkless fir, with one white branch left, stretching forth like the arm of a gibbet. Nearly under this is a flat rock, with one end slanting downwards, and half buried in the ferns and the grass that grow about that spot. One other fir stands a little way off, smaller than these two trees, which in daylight are conspicuous far away as landmarks on a trackless waste. Overhead the stars are blinking, but the desolate landscape lies beneath in shapeless obscurity, like drifts of black mist melting together into one wide vague sea of darkness that forms the horizon. Over this comes, in fitful moanings, a melancholy wind. The eye stretches vainly to define the objects that fancy sometimes suggests, and the ear is strained to discriminate the sounds, real or unreal, that seem to mingle in the uncertain distance.
If you can conjure up all this, and the superstitious freaks that in such a situation imagination will play in even the hardest and coarsest natures, you have a pretty distinct idea of the feelings and surroundings of a tall man who lay that night his length under the blighted tree I have mentioned, stretched
The moon now began to break through the mist in fierce red over the far horizon. A streak of crimson, that glowed without illuminating anything, showed through the distant cloud close along the level of the heath. Even this was a cheer, like a red ember or two in a pitch-dark room. Very far away he thought now he heard the tread of a horse. One can hear miles away over that level expanse of death-like silence. He pricked his ears, he raised himself on his hands, and listened with open mouth. He lost the sound, but on leaning his head again to the ground, that vast sounding-board carried its vibration once more to his ear. It was the canter of a horse upon the heath. He was doubtful whether it was approaching, for the sound subsided sometimes; but afterwards it was renewed, and gradually he became certain that it was coming nearer. And now, like a huge, red-hot dome of copper, the moon rose above the level strips of cloud that lay upon the horizon of the heath, and objects began to reveal themselves. The stunted fir, that had looked to the fancy of the solitary watcher like a ghostly policeman, with arm and truncheon raised, just starting in pursuit, now showed some lesser branches, and was more satisfactorily a tree; distances became measurable, though not yet accurately, by the eye; and ridges and hillocks caught faintly the dusky light, and threw blurred but deep shadows backward.
The tread of the horse approaching had become a gallop as the light improved, and horse and horseman were soon visible. Paul Davies stood erect, and took up a position a few steps in advance of the blighted tree at whose foot he had been stretched. The figure, seen against the dusky glare of the moon, would have answered well enough for one of those highwaymen who in old times made the heath famous. His low-crowned felt hat, his short coat with a cape to it, and the leather casings, which looked like jack-boots, gave this horseman,
‘What are you doing there?’ said the horseman roughly.
‘Counting the stars,’ answered he.
Thus the signs and countersigns were exchanged, and the stranger said—
‘You're alone, Paul Davies, I take it.’
‘No company but ourselves, mate,’ answered Davies.
‘You're up to half a dozen dodges, Paul, and knows how to lime a twig; that's your little game, you know. This here tree is clean enough, but that 'ere has a hatful o' leaves on it.’
‘I didn't put them there,’ said Paul, a little sulkily.
‘Well, no. I do suppose a sight o' you wouldn't exactly put a tree in leaf, or a rose-bush in blossom; nor even make wegitables grow. More like to blast 'em, like that rum un over your head.’
‘What's up?’ asked the ex-detective.
‘Jest this—there's leaves enough for a bird to roost there, so this won't do. Now, then, move on you with me.’
As the gaunt rider thus spoke, his long red beard was blowing this way and that in the breeze; and he turned his horse, and walked him towards that lonely tree in which, as he lay gazing on its black outline, Paul had fancied the shape of a phantom policeman.
‘I don't care a cuss,’ said Davies. ‘I'm half sorry I came a leg to meet yer.’
‘Growlin', eh?’ said the horseman.
‘I wish you was as cold as me, and you'd growl a bit, maybe, yourself,’ said Paul. ‘I'm jolly cold.’
‘Cold, are ye?’
‘Cold as a lock-up.’
‘Why didn't ye fetch a line o' the old author with you?’ asked the rider—meaning brandy.
‘I had a pipe or two.’
‘Who'd a-guessed we was to have a night like this in summer-time?’
‘I do believe it freezes all the year round in this queer place.’
‘Would ye like a drop of the South-Sea mountain (gin)?’ said the stranger, producing a flask from his pocket, which Paul Davies took with a great deal of good-will, much to the donor's content, for he wished to find that gentleman in good-humour in the conversation that was to follow.
‘Drink what's there, mate. D'ye like it?’
‘It ain't to be by no means sneezed at,’ said Paul Davies.
The horseman looked back over his shoulder. Paul Davies
‘This tree will answer. I suppose you like a post to clap your back to while we are palaverin',’ said the rider. ‘Make a finish of it, Mr. Davies,’ he continued, as that person presented the half-emptied flask to his hand. ‘I'm as hot as steam, myself, and I'd rather have a smoke by-and-by.’
He touched the bridle here, and the horse stood still, and the rider patted his reeking neck, as he stooped with a shake of his ears and a snort, and began to sniff the scant herbage at his feet.
‘I don't mind if I have another pull,’ said Paul, replenishing the goblet that fitted over the bottom of the flask.
‘Fill it again, and no heel-taps,’ said his companion.
Mr. Davies sat down, with his mug in his hand, on the ground, and his back against the tree. Had there been a donkey near, to personate the immortal Dapple, you might have fancied, in that uncertain gloom, the Knight and Squire of La Mancha overtaken by darkness, and making one of their adventurous bivouacs under the boughs of the tree.
‘What you saw in the papers three days ago did give you a twist, I take it?’ observed the gentleman on horseback, with a grin that made the red bristles on his upper lip curl upwards and twist like worms.
‘I can't tumble to a right guess what you means,’ said Mr. Davies.
‘Come, Paul, that won't never do. You read every line of that there inquest on the French cove at the Saloon, and you have by rote every word Mr. Longcluse said. It must be a queer turning of the tables, for a clever chap like you to have to look slippy, for fear other dogs should lag you.’
‘'Tain't me that 'ill be looking slippy, as you and me well knows; and it's jest because you knows it well you're here. I suppose it ain't for love of me quite?’ sneered Paul Davies.
‘I don't care a rush for Mr. Longcluse, no more nor I care for you; and I see he's goin' where he pleases. He made a speech in yesterday's paper, at the meetin' at the Surrey Gardens. He was canvassin' for Parliament down in Derbyshire a week ago; and he printed a letter to the electors only yesterday. He don't care two pins for you.’
‘A good many rows o' pins, I'm thinkin',’ sneered Mr. Davies.
‘Thinkin' won't make a loaf, Mr. Davies. Many a man has bin too clever, and thought himself into the block-house. You're making too fine a game, Mr. Davies; a playin' a bit too much
The rider lifted his hand from his coat-pocket as he said this, but there was no weapon in it. Mistaking his intention, however, Paul Davies skipped behind the tree, and levelled a revolver at him.
‘Down with that, you fool!’ cried the horseman. ‘There's nothing here.’ And he gave his horse the spur, and made him plunge to a little distance, as he held up his right hand. ‘But I'm not such a tool as to meet a cove like you without the lead
Each seemed to wait for the other to add something.