“Mr. Wannock,” said Long, “lockup this pistol till Mr. Meadow calls for it.”

“It is not mine,” said Field:  “I gave it to you, and you took it.”

Long went out without a word.

Field did not go home.  He was back and forth about the lakes, mostly about the upper one, for a week or two after that.  He turned up in all sorts of places, fished in deep water and shoal, rowed and shot and climbed the mountains.  He fell in with the Wanita and her people very often.  One evening—­it was Thursday, the twentieth—­he was in the village of Ti, and walked out with his cigar, alone.  He strolled up the road to the high levels and walked on.  The moon was high and bright, and the country about him surpassingly peaceful and beautiful under the white sheen.  He came at last to the old fort and wandered through the ruins, ghostly and weird in the calm moonlight.  A flock of sheep was lying under the trembling old walls.  “Peace and war,” he muttered to himself, and leaned against a crumbling wall a little while, looking at the dreamy picture.  He got up on the old ramparts and picked his way out till he stood on the outermost point of the star, where the massive wall stands almost as solid as when the Frenchmen built it a century and a half ago.  This outer angle of the fort rises sheer from the edge of the perpendicular cliff whose foot is washed by the waters of the lake.

Field sat down on the stones with his feet hanging over, and looked down and around.  The still, bright water, the hills bright and black in light or shadow, and the serene sky made a scene exceedingly solemn and impressive.  Below, in the sombre shadow of the cliff, Field heard the faint, musical bubble of the water among the rocks, and a sheep bleated once behind the ruined fort:  those were the only sounds.  He dropped the end of his cigar, and watched the spark till it went out suddenly far down.

The scene very naturally reminded him of his friend.  Down there they had rowed together—­twice was it, or three times?  Strange that he had forgotten already, but it seemed a long time since.  Below this wall on the left they had stood the first day they were here, and chipped bits of mortar and stone for mementoes.  He remembered how Phil had hunted the whole place for a flower without finding one—­he wondered whether it was for any one in particular that he had wanted it so much.  Yes, it seemed an age since that day, and how everything had changed!  Under the cliff there to the left—­he could not see it, but he knew it was there—­was the little wooden wharf where he had parted from Phil between night and morning.  And he wished to God he had gone home with him.

He heard a crunching sound behind him, and looked round sharply.  Then he turned and got up on his feet, and stood with his back to the precipice.  The long fellow stood in the path facing him, with his hands in his pockets and his dark face in the shadow.  A glance told Field, what he knew already, that there was only one way to go back.  His face was white, but there was no more tremor in his voice than if he had leaned against a pyramid instead of a hundred feet of thin air, when he said, “Well?”