pearl-coloured sea. The sun, although unable to penetrate to its depth, now and then reached the small windows of the cottages, and made them sparkle like diamonds.
Towards evening the mist became bloodred, and through it waded the sickle of the moon, and bent its wan light over the red waves of the rapid river. In the course of the drive Martin had become separated from the rest of the party, and found himself isolated on a lonely outpost. Perhaps he had more or less unconsciously sought it; perhaps some inward power, stronger than reason, had led him to it. The cries of the beaters could not be heard in this place, only the distant shots. Martin was walking along a woodland path by the side of a clearing, which was filled with masses of large anemone leaves with white, silky fringes. The wind was swaying them, and the leaves were nodding obstinately, craning their necks, as though they were persuading some one, and repeating with a spiteful pugnacity: ‘No, no, no, no!’
Martin stood still and looked at them.
‘God knows why that family has settled in just that spot,’ he murmured. Two hares ran across the path; he did not shoot, he took no interest in them. His eyes followed
