And then it struck him with a sense of guilt that his mind was wandering
from her, and he turned away from the window. He thought how much more
peaceful it would be for a body to lie out in the moonlight than on
a somber oak bedstead in a shadowy room with yellow, guttering
candle-light and five solemn-looking chairs. And he thought again how
strange it was that on a night like this Kennedy should come as an
avenger seeking to kill rather than as a lover with high hope in his
breast.

Murray slipped into the room again. There was a frown on his face and
his tone was aggressive.

"I tell you, Michael James, we'll have to do something about it." There
was a truculent note in his whisper.

The farmer did not answer.

"Will you let me go down for the police? A few words to the sergeant
will keep him quiet."

Michael James felt a pity for Murray. The idea of pitting a sergeant of
police against the tragedy that was coming seemed ludicrous to him. It
was like pitting a school-boy against a hurricane.

"Listen to me, Dan," he replied. "How do you know Kennedy is coming up
at all?"

"Flanagan, the football-player, met him and talked to him. He said that
Kennedy was clean mad."

"Do they know about it in the kitchen?"

"Not a word." There was a pause.

"Well, listen here, now. Go right back there and don't say a word about
it. Wouldn't it be foolish if you went down to the police and he didn't
come at all? And if he does come I can manage him. And if I can't I'll
call you. Does that satisfy you?" And he sent Murray out, grumbling.

As the door closed he felt that the last refuge had been abandoned. He
was to wrestle with destiny alone. He had no doubt that Kennedy would
make good his vow, and he felt a sort of curiosity as to how it would be
done. Would it be with hands, or with a gun, or some other weapon? He
hoped it would be the gun. The idea of coming to hand-grips with the boy
filled him with a strange terror.

The thought that within ten minutes or a half-hour or an hour he
would be dead did not come home to him. It was the physical act that
frightened him. He felt as if he were terribly alone and a cold wind
were blowing about him and penetrating every pore of his body. There
was a contraction around his breast-bone and a shiver in his shoulders.

His idea of death was that he would pitch headlong, as from a high
tower, into a bottomless dark space.

He went over to the window again and looked out to