“Lord, give me strength—­O Lord, give me strength.  Angela!  Angela!  It is so far—­so far—­” And groaning, he sank down again, upon his face.

“You are ill!” said I, bending over him.

“I must reach Deptford—­she’s buried at Deptford, and I shall die to-night—­O Lord, give me strength!” he panted.

“Deptford is miles away,” said I.

Now, as I spoke, he lifted himself upon his hands and stared up at me.  I saw a haggard, hairy face, very thin and sunken, but a fire burned in the eyes, and the eyes seemed, somehow, familiar.

“You!” he cried, and spat up in the air towards me; “devil!” he cried, “Devil Vibart.”  I recoiled instinctively before the man’s sudden, wild ferocity, but, propping himself against the bank, he shook his hand at me, and laughed.

“Devil!” he repeated; “shade!—­ghost of a devil!—­have you come back to see me die?”

“Who are you?” I cried, bending to look into the pale, emaciated face; “who are you?”

“A shadow,” he answered, passing a shaking hand up over his face and brow, “a ghost—­a phantom—­as you are; but my name was Strickland once, as yours was Devil Vibart.  I am changed of late—­you said so in the Hollow, and—­laughed.  You don’t laugh now, Devil Vibart, you remember poor John Strickland now.”

“You are the Outside Passenger!” I exclaimed, “the madman who followed and shot at me in a wood—­”

“Followed?  Yes, I was a shadow that was always behind you —­following and following you, Satan Vibart, tracking and tracking you to hell and damnation.  And you fled here, and you fled there, but I was always behind you; you hid from me among lowly folk, but you could not escape the shadow.  Many times I would have killed you—­but she was between—­the Woman.  I came once to your cottage; it was night, and the door opened beneath my hand—­but your time was not then.  But—­ha!—­I met you among trees, as I did once before, and I told you my name—­as I did once before, and I spoke of her—­of Angela, and cried her name —­and shot you—­just here, above the brow; and so you died, Devil Vibart, as soon I must, for my mission is accomplished—­”

“It was you!” I cried, kneeling beside him,” it was your hand that shot Sir Maurice Vibart?”

“Yes,” he answered, his voice growing very gentle as he went on, “for Angela’s sake—­my dead wife,” and, fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a woman’s small, lace-edged handkerchief, and I saw that it was thickened and black with blood.  “This was hers,” be continued, “in her hand, the night she died—­I had meant to lay it on her grave—­the blood of atonement—­but now—­”

A sudden crash in the hedge above; a figure silhouetted against the sky; a shadowy arm, that, falling, struck the moon out of heaven, and, in the darkness, I was down upon my knees, and fingers were upon my throat.

“Oh, Darby!” cried a voice, “I’ve got him—­this way—­quick—­oh, Darb—­” My fist drove into his ribs; I struggled up under a rain of blows, and we struck and swayed and staggered and struck —­trampling the groaning wretch who lay dying in the ditch.  And before me was the pale oval of a face, and I smote it twice with my pistol-butt, and it was gone, and I—­was running along the road.