His footsteps sounded hollow
between the walls of the narrow lane. Then he reached the turf of
the meadow, and the sound ceased suddenly.
I wanted--wanted desperately--to break down and run after him.
By a bodily effort--something like a long pull on a rope--I held
myself steady and braced my back against the bole of the ilex tree,
which I had chosen because it gave a view through the gateway towards
the forest. Upon this opening and the glade beyond it I kept my
eyes, for the first minute or two scarcely venturing to wink, only
relaxing the strain now and again for a cautious glance to right and
left around the deserted enclosure. I could hear my heart working
like a pump.
The enclosure--indeed the whole valley--lay deadly silent in the
growing heat of the morning. On the hidden summit behind the wood a
raven croaked; and as the sun mounted, a pair of buzzards, winging
their way to the mountains, crossed its glare and let fall a
momentary trace of shadow that touched my nerves as with a whip.
But few birds haunt the Corsican bush, and to-day even these woods
and this watered valley were dumb of song.
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