it.
“Yes,” he resumed. “The matter on which you and I are engaged is at this moment really the best copy in England. I am a journalist, and I know. For the first time, perhaps, for many generations, the English are really more angry about a wrong thing done in England than they are about a wrong thing done in France.”
“It is not a wrong thing,” said MacIan.
Turnbull laughed. “You seem unable to understand the ordinary use of the human language. If I did not suspect that you were a genius, I should certainly know you were a blockhead. I fancy we had better be getting along and collecting our baggage.”
And he jumped up and began shoving the luggage into his pockets, or strapping it on to his back. As he thrust a tin of canned meat, anyhow, into his bursting side pocket, he said casually:
“I only meant that you and I are the most prominent people in the English papers.”
“Well, what did you expect?” asked MacIan, opening his great grave blue eyes.
“The papers are full of us,” said Turnbull, stooping to pick up one of the swords.
MacIan stooped and picked up the other.
“Yes,” he said, in his simple way. “I have read what they have to say. But they don't seem to understand the point.”
“The point of what?” asked Turnbull.
“The point of the sword,” said MacIan, violently, and planted the steel point in the soil like a man planting a tree.
“That is a point,” said Turnbull, grimly, “that we will discuss later. Come along.”
Turnbull tied the last tin of biscuits desperately to himself with string; and then spoke, like a diver girt for plunging, short and sharp.
“Now, Mr. MacIan, you must listen to me. You must listen to me, not merely because I know the country, which you might learn by looking at a map, but because I know the people of the country, whom you could not know by living here thirty years. That infernal city down there is awake; and it is awake against us. All those endless rows of windows and windows are all eyes staring at us. All those forests of chimneys are fingers pointing at us, as we stand here on the hillside. This thing has caught on. For the next six mortal months they will think of nothing but us, as for six mortal months they thought of nothing but the Dreyfus case. Oh, I know it's funny. They let starving children, who don't want to die, drop by the score without looking round. But because two gentlemen, from private feelings of delicacy, do want to die, they will mobilize the army and navy to prevent them. For half a year or more, you and I, Mr. MacIan, will be an obstacle to every reform in the British Empire. We shall prevent the Chinese being sent out of the Transvaal and the blocks being stopped in the Strand. We shall be the conversational substitute when anyone recommends Home Rule, or complains of sky signs. Therefore, do not imagine, in your innocence, that we have only to melt away among those English hills as a Highland cateran might into your god-forsaken Highland mountains. We must be eternally on our guard; we must live the hunted life of two distinguished criminals. We must expect to be recognized as much as if we were Napoleon escaping from Elba. We must be prepared for our descriptions being sent to every tiny village, and for our faces being recognized by every ambitious policeman. We must often sleep under the stars as if we were in Africa. Last and most important we must not dream of effecting our—our final settlement, which will be a thing as famous as the Phoenix Park murders, unless we have made real and precise arrangements for our isolation—I will not say our safety. We must not, in short, fight until we have thrown them off our scent, if only for a moment. For, take my word for it, Mr. MacIan, if the British Public once catches us up, the British Public will prevent the duel, if it is only by locking us both up in asylums for the rest of our days.”
MacIan was looking at the horizon with a rather misty look.
“I am not at all surprised,” he said, “at the world being against us. It makes me feel I was right to——”
“Yes?” said Turnbull.
“To smash your window,” said MacIan. “I have woken up the world.”
“Very well, then,” said Turnbull, stolidly. “Let us look at a few final facts. Beyond that hill there is comparatively clear country. Fortunately, I know the part well, and if you will follow me exactly, and, when necessary, on your stomach, we may be able to get ten miles out of London, literally without meeting anyone at all, which will be the best possible beginning, at any rate. We have provisions for at least two days and two nights, three days if we do it carefully. We may be able to get fifty or sixty miles away without even walking into an inn door. I have the biscuits and the tinned meat, and the milk. You have the chocolate, I think? And the brandy?”
“Yes,” said MacIan, like a soldier taking orders.
“Very well, then, come on. March. We turn under that third bush and so down into the valley.” And he set off ahead at a swinging walk.
Then he stopped suddenly; for he realized that the other was not following. Evan MacIan was leaning on his sword with a lowering face, like a man suddenly smitten still with doubt.
“What on earth is the matter?” asked Turnbull, staring in some anger.
Evan made no reply.
“What the deuce is the matter with you?” demanded the leader, again, his face slowly growing as red as his beard; then he said, suddenly, and in a more human voice, “Are you in pain, MacIan?”
“Yes,” replied the Highlander, without lifting his face.
“Take some brandy,” cried Turnbull, walking forward hurriedly towards him. “You've got it.”
“It's not in the body,” said MacIan, in his dull, strange way. “The pain has come into my mind. A very dreadful thing has just come into my thoughts.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” asked Turnbull.
MacIan broke out with a queer and living voice.
“We must fight now, Turnbull. We must fight now. A frightful thing has come upon me, and I know it must be now and here. I must kill you here,” he cried, with a sort of tearful rage impossible to describe. “Here, here, upon this blessed grass.”
“Why, you idiot,” began Turnbull.
“The hour has come—the black hour God meant for it. Quick, it will soon be gone. Quick!”
And he flung the scabbard from him furiously, and stood with the sunlight sparkling along his sword.
“You confounded fool,” repeated Turnbull. “Put that thing up again, you ass; people will come out of that house at the first clash of the steel.”
“One of us will be dead before they come,” said the other, hoarsely, “for this is the hour God meant.”
“Well, I never thought much of God,” said the editor of The Atheist, losing all patience. “And I think less now. Never mind what God meant. Kindly enlighten my pagan darkness as to what the devil you mean.”
“The hour will soon be gone. In a moment it will be gone,” said the madman. “It is
