est of that conversation concerned football.

CHAPTER VI

THE WATCHERS

1

He was running--running for his life. Behind stretched the long white
road rising like a great bloated, warning finger out of the misty trees.
Heavy cushions of grey cloud blotched the sky; through the mist ridges
of ploughed field rose like bars.

The dog, Bunker, was running beside him, his tongue out, body solid grey
against the lighter, floating grey around. His feet pattered beside his
master, but his body appeared to edge away and yet to be held by some
compelling force.

Olva was running, running. But not from Carfax. There in the wood it
lay, the leg doubled under the body, the head hanging limply back. . . .
But that was nought, no fear, no terror in that. It could not pursue,
nor in its clumsy following, had it had such power, would there have
been any horror. There was no sound in the world save his running and
the patter of the dog's feet. Would the lights never come, those sullen
streets and at last the grateful, welcome crowds?

He could see one lamp, far ahead of him, flinging its light forward to
help him. If he might only reach it before the pursuer caught him. Then,
behind him, oh! so softly, so gently, with a dreadful certainty, it
came. If he did but once look round, once behold that Shadow, his defeat
was sure. He would sink down there upon the road, the mists would crowd
upon him, and then the awful end. He began to call out, his breath came
in staggering gasps, his feet faltered.

"O, mercy, mercy--have mercy." He sank trembling to his knees.

"Dune, Dune, wake up! What's the matter? You've been making the most
awful shindy. Dune, Dune!"

Slowly he came to himself. As his eyes caught the old familiar objects,
the little diamond-paned window, the books, the smiling tenderness
of "Aegidius," the last evening blaze lighting the room with golden
splendour, he pulled himself together.

He had been sitting, he remembered now, in the armchair by the fire.
Craven had come to tea. They had had their meal, had talked pleasantly
enough, and then Olva had felt this overpowering desire for sleep come
down upon him. He knew the sensation of it well enough by now, for his
nights had often been crowded with waking hours, and this drowsiness
would attack him at any time--in hall, in chapel, in lecture. Sometimes
he had struggled against it, but to-day it had been too strong for him.
Craven's voice had grown fainter and fai