THE FLIGHT OF STARS

“Is that you, Mr. Achilles?” she asked—­into the dark.

And the voice of Achilles laughed down to her.  “I’m here—­yes.  It’s me.  We must hurry now—­fast.  Come!”

He gripped the small hand in his and they sped out of the driveway, toward the long road.  Up above them the little stars blinked down, and the warm wind touched their faces as they went.  The soft darkness shut them in.  There was only the child, clinging to Achilles’s great hand and hurrying through the night.  Far in the distance, a dull, sullen glow lit the sky—­the city’s glow—­and Betty’s home, out there beneath it, in the dark.  But the child did not know.  She would not have known which way the city lay—­but for Achilles’s guiding hand.  She clung fast to that—­and they sped on.

By and by he ran a little, reaching down to her—­and his spirit touched hers and she ran without fatigue beside him, with little breathless laughs—­“I—­like—­to run!” she said.

“Yes—­come—­” He hurried her faster over the road—­he would not spare her now.  He held her life in his hand—­and the little children—­he saw them, asleep in their dreams, over there in the glow....  “Come!” he said.  And they ran fast.

It was the first half hour he feared.  If there was no pursuit, over the dark road behind them, then he would spare her—­but not now.  “Come!” he urged, and they flew faster.

And behind them the little house lay asleep—­under its stars—­no sign of life when his swift-flashing glance sought it out—­and the heart of Achilles stretched to the miles and laughed with them and leaped out upon them, far ahead....  He should bring her home safe.

Then, upon the night, came a sound—­faint-stirring wings—­a long-drawn buzz and rush of air—­deep notes that gripped the ground, far off—­and the pulse of pounding wheels—­behind them, along the dark road....  And Achilles seized the child by the shoulder, bearing her forward toward the short grass—­his quick-running hand thrusting her down—­“Lie still!” he whispered.  The lights of the car had gleamed out, swaying a little in the distance, as he threw his coat across her and pressed it flat.  “Lie still!” he whispered again, and was back in the road, his hand feeling for the great banana knife that rested in his shirt—­his eye searching the road behind.  There was time—­yes—­and he turned about and swung into the long, stretching pace that covers the miles—­without hurry, without rest.  The roar behind him grew, and flashed to light—­and swept by—­and his eye caught the face of the chauffeur, as it flew, leaning intently on the night; and in the lighted car behind him, flashed a face—­a man’s face, outlined against the glass, a high, white face fixed upon a printed page—­some magnate, travelling at his ease, sleepless... thundering past in the night—­unconscious of the Greek, plodding in the roadside dust.