"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.
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