inn. His friend, the black forester, was sitting alone at a table in the parlour. Not even the innkeeper was there. Martin threw himself on the seat beside the forester Ernest.
‘I have killed a man,’ he said and let his head drop heavily forward on his arms. ***** The two friends searched the woods all that afternoon for the dead poacher. They found no one. The bloodstains on the moss had became clotted; they heard no moans. The place was silent as a cemetery. Martin crept through the bushes on his knees, Ernest had to take him away at last and calm him, for fear of his betraying himself. Darkness had set in, and further search would be useless.
Martin began to brood. He tried to understand the complex of feelings which had led to the shot. What had he been thinking of before it happened? Was there any inevitableness about it? Had it been necessary for him to take human life? If only Jurko had not come along! He hated the sniffing fool, he could have found it in his heart to take his life at this moment, and atone for one murder with another. He
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