k, and were
he a knight-errant and she some gracious princess, what sweeter guerdon
could he claim?

But one thing preoccupied him. In the vertiginous flight she had lost
something--her whip, no, her hat--and it was incumbent on him to restore
it to her. Very softly, then, that he might not disturb her, he opened
the door. The house was hushed, and in a moment he was on the road. He
could see the tower now; it was illuminated, and it seemed to him odd
that he had not noticed the illumination before. It was that way, he
knew, back of Hazard's, and he hurried along in the direction which the
man had indicated. The insects had stilled their murmur, and the sky was
more obscure, but the road was clear.

He hurried on, and as he hurried he heard steps behind him, hurrying
too. He turned his head; behind him was a woman running, and who, as she
ran, cast a shadow that was monstrous. In the glimpse that he caught of
her he saw that she was bare of foot and that her breast was uncovered.
Her skirt was tattered and her hair was loose. He turned again, the face
was hideous. The eyes squinted, lustreless and opaque, the nose was
squat, the chin retreated, the forehead was seamed with scars, and the
mouth, that stretched to the ears, was extended with laughter. As she
ran she took her teeth out one by one, replacing them with either hand.
And still she laughed, a silent laughter, her thin lips distorted as
though she mocked the world.

Tristrem, overcome by the horror of that laughter, felt as agonized as a
child pursued. There was a fence at hand, a vacant lot, and across it a
light glimmered. Away he sped. In the field his foot caught in a
bramble; he fell, and could not rise, but he heard her coming and, with
a great effort just as she was on him, he was up again, distancing her
with ever-increasing space. The light was just beyond. He saw now it
came from the tower; there was another fence, he was over it; the door
was barred; no, it opened; he was safe!

In the middle of the room, circular as befits a tower, was a cradle, and
in the cradle was a little boy. As Tristrem looked at him he smiled; it
was, he knew, the child of the man to whom he had spoken that evening.
One hand was under the pillow, but the other, that lay on the coverlid,
held Viola's hat. He bent over to examine it; the fingers that held it
were grimy and large, and, as he looked closer, he saw that it was not a
child, but the man himself. Before he had an