This was the tableau photographed on my retina as I sprang forward; but I drew the revolver which had occasioned Winston’s mirth when Molly gave it to me at Brig, and in an instant the picture had dissolved.  The man in brown dropped the ruecksack, and ran as I have never seen man run before—­ran as if he wore seven-leagued boots.  My revolver was not loaded, and all the cartridges were among my shirts and collars, on Finois’ back, therefore I could pursue him with nothing more dangerous than anathemas, unless I had deserted the boy, who seemed at first glance to be almost as near fainting as Innocentina.

Reluctantly letting the man go free, I bent over the little figure in blue, still on its knees.  “Are you hurt?” I asked in real anxiety, such as I had not thought it possible to feel for the Brat.

“No—­only my arm.  He wrung it so.  And perhaps I have twisted my knee.  I don’t know yet.  He pushed me back, and I fell down.”

I lifted him up and supported him for a moment, he leaning against me, the colour drained from cheeks and lips.  But suddenly it streamed back, even to his forehead; and raising his head from my shoulder where it had lain for a few seconds, he unwound himself gently from my arm.  “I’m all right now, thank you awfully,” he said.  “I believe you have saved my life and Innocentina’s.  You see, we fought with the man for our things; and when he saw that he couldn’t steal them without a struggle, he whipped out a knife and—­and then you came.  Oh, he was a coward to attack two—­two people so much weaker than himself, and then to run away when a stronger one came!”

I kept Joseph’s story to myself, and hoped that the boy had not heard it.  Perhaps, after all, this lurking beast of prey had not been the murderer in hiding.  The place was desolate, and evening was falling.  Some tramp, or thievish peasant, taking advantage of the murder-scare, might easily have dared this attack; and when I glanced at the picnic array under a tree near by, I was even less surprised than before at the thing which had happened.

The mouse-coloured pack-donkey had been denuded of his load, and the most elaborate tea basket I had ever seen (finer even than Molly’s) was open on the ground.  If the cups, plates and saucers, the knives, spoons and forks, were not silver, they were masquerading hypocrites; and I now discovered that the large, dark object which I had seen Innocentina putting into the ruecksack (at this moment half on, half off) was a very handsome travelling bag.  It was gaping wide, the mouth fixed in position with patent catches, and it lay where the disappointed thief had flung it, tumbled on its side, with a quantity of gold and crystal fittings scattered round about.  On the gold backs of the brushes, and the tops of the bottles, was an intricate monogram, traced in small turquoises.

“By Jove!” I exclaimed.  “Do you travel with these things?  What madness to spread them out in the woods by an unfrequented mountain road!  That is to offer too much temptation even to the honest poor.”