Turnbull was wholly unaffected by any written or spoken poetry; his was a powerful and prosaic mind.  But even upon him there came for the moment something out of the earth and the passionate ends of the sky.  The only evidence was in his voice, which was still practical but a shade more quiet.

“Do you see that summer-house-looking thing over there?” he asked shortly.  “That will do for us very well.”

Keeping himself free from the tangle of the hedge he strolled across a triangle of obscure kitchen garden, and approached a dismal shed or lodge a yard or two beyond it.  It was a weather-stained hut of grey wood, which with all its desolation retained a tag or two of trivial ornament, which suggested that the thing had once been a sort of summer-house, and the place probably a sort of garden.

“That is quite invisible from the road,” said Turnbull, as he entered it, “and it will cover us up for the night.”

MacIan looked at him gravely for a few moments.  “Sir,” he said, “I ought to say something to you.  I ought to say——­”

“Hush,” said Turnbull, suddenly lifting his hand; “be still, man.”

In the sudden silence, the drumming of the distant horses grew louder and louder with inconceivable rapidity, and the cavalcade of police rushed by below them in the lane, almost with the roar and rattle of an express train.

“I ought to tell you,” continued MacIan, still staring stolidly at the other, “that you are a great chief, and it is good to go to war behind you.”

Turnbull said nothing, but turned and looked out of the foolish lattice of the little windows, then he said, “We must have food and sleep first.”

When the last echo of their eluded pursuers had died in the distant uplands, Turnbull began to unpack the provisions with the easy air of a man at a picnic.  He had just laid out the last items, put a bottle of wine on the floor, and a tin of salmon on the window-ledge, when the bottomless silence of that forgotten place was broken.  And it was broken by three heavy blows of a stick delivered upon the door.

Turnbull looked up in the act of opening a tin and stared silently at his companion.  MacIan’s long, lean mouth had shut hard.

“Who the devil can that be?” said Turnbull.

“God knows,” said the other.  “It might be God.”

Again the sound of the wooden stick reverberated on the wooden door.  It was a curious sound and on consideration did not resemble the ordinary effects of knocking on a door for admittance.  It was rather as if the point of a stick were plunged again and again at the panels in an absurd attempt to make a hole in them.

A wild look sprang into MacIan’s eyes and he got up half stupidly, with a kind of stagger, put his hand out and caught one of the swords.  “Let us fight at once,” he cried, “it is the end of the world.”

“You’re overdone, MacIan,” said Turnbull, putting him on one side.  “It’s only someone playing the goat.  Let me open the door.”