ered
by his new surroundings but not in the least afraid. Indeed there none
are afraid; when they glide from their death-beds to the Road they leave
fear behind them with the other terrors of our mortal lot.

Presently he became conscious of the presence of the Hare, and thoughts
passed through his mind which of course I could read.

"My word!" he said to himself, "things are better than I hoped. There's
a hare, and where there are hares there must be hunting and shooting.
Oh! if only I had a gun, or the ghost of a gun!"

Then an idea struck him. He lifted his hunting-crop and hurled it at the
Hare.

As it was only the shadow of a crop of course it could hurt nothing.
Still it went through the shadow of the Hare and caused it to twist
round like lightning.

"That was a good shot anyway," he reflected, with a satisfied smile.

By now the Hare had seen him.

"_The Red-faced Man!_" it exclaimed, "Grampus himself!" and it turned to
flee away.

"Don't be frightened," I cried, "he can't hurt you; nothing can hurt you
here."

The Hare halted and sat up. "No," it said, "I forgot. But you saw, he
tried to. Now, Mahatma, you will understand what a bloodthirsty brute he
is. Even after I am dead he has tried to kill me again."

"Well, and why not?" interrupted the Man. "What are hares for except to
be killed?"

"There, Mahatma, you hear him. Look at me, Man, who am I?"

So he looked at the Hare and the Hare looked at him. Presently his face
grew puzzled.

"By Jingo!" he said slowly, "you are uncommonly like--you _are_ that
accursed witch of a hare which cost me my life. There are the white
marks on your back, and there is the grey splotch on your ear. Oh! if
only I had a gun--a real gun!"

"You would shoot me, wouldn't you, or try to?" said the Hare. "Well, you
haven't and you can't. You say I cost you your life. What do you mean?
It was my life that was sacrificed, not yours."

"Indeed," answered the Man, "I thought you got away. Never saw any more
of you after you jumped through the French window. Never had time. The
last thing I remember is her Ladyship screaming like a mad cockatoo,
yes, and abusing me as though I were a pickpocket, with the drawing-room
all on fire. Then something happened, and down I went among the broken
china and hit my head against the leg of a table. Next came a kind of
whirling blackness and I woke up here."

"A fit or a stroke," I suggested.

"Both, I think, sir. The fit first--I