His feet thudded ahead. I could not see him. The general puffed around from the other side of the house.
“You have him?”
“No.”
In front of us was a stone-faced bank, on top of which ran a path. On either side of us was a high and solid hedge.
“But, my friend,” the general protested. “How could he have—?”
A pale triangle showed on the path above a triangle that could have been a bit of shirt showing above the opening of a vest.
“Stay here and talk!” I whispered to the general, and crept forward.
“It must be that he has gone the other way,” the general carried out my instructions, rambling on as if I were standing beside him, “because if he had come my way I should have seen him, and if he had raised himself over either of the hedges or the embankment, one of us would surely have seen him against …”
He talked on and on while I gained the shelter of the bank on which the path sat, while I found places for my toes in the rough stone facing.
The man on the road, trying to make himself small with his back in a bush, was looking at the talking general. He saw me when I had my feet on the path.
He jumped, and one hand went up.
I jumped, with both hands out.
A stone, turning under my foot, threw me sidewise, twisting my ankle, but saving my head from the bullet he sent at it.