“I saw a herd of wild asses in a plain; men were creeping around them in the long grass, but the asses ran suddenly, and they killed the men with their hoofs and their teeth; I galloped in the middle of them for half a night, but I remembered Mary Ni Cahan, and when I remembered her I turned from all my companions and I galloped home again.”
“Those were all good sights to see!”
“They were all good sights.”
“Goodbye, little ass,” said I.
“Goodbye, you,” said he.
He lay along the grass then and he closed his eyes, but I turned back and crouched by the brazier, watching the people while they slept, and staring often into the darkness to see did anything stir before the light came.
XXXIII
Mac Cann strode through the darkness for a little time, but when he found himself at sufficient distance from the camp he began to run.
There was not very much time wherein to do all that he had engaged before the morning dawned, and so he took to this mode of activity, which was not one for which he had any reverence. He was a heavy man and did not run with either grace or ease, but he could hasten his movements to a jog-trot, and, as his physical condition was perfect, he could continue such a trot until hunger brought it to a halt, for he was never fatigued, being as strong and tireless as a bear.
He was the most simple-minded of men. When he was engaged in one affair he could not meddle with anything else, and now that he was running he could do nothing but run—he could not think, for instance. When it was necessary to think he would either walk very slowly or stand stock-still, and then he would think with great speed and with great simplicity. His head bade his legs be quiet while it was occupied, and, when they were in motion, his legs tramped hush to his head, which obeyed instantly; and he was so well organised on these lines that there was never any quarrel between the extremities.
It was, therefore, the emptiest of men that now pounded the road. He would deal with an emergency when it was visible, but until then he snapped a finger and forgot it, for he had learned that the first word of an emergency is a warning, the second a direction for escape, its third utterance is in action, and it will only be waited for by a fool.
Exactly what he would do when he arrived at the house he did not know, and as yet he made no effort to deal with that problem: he obeyed the prime logical necessity, which was to get there: once there and the second step would push itself against him, and from that cause the most orderly of results would ensue. If there was no trouble he would succeed in his enterprise; if there was trouble he would fly—that was his simple programme.
And meantime there was nothing in the world but darkness and the rhythmic tramping of his feet. These, with a faintly hushing wind, kept his ears occupied. He had much of the cat’s facility for seeing in the dark, and he had the sense of direction which some birds have, so he made good progress.
After half an hour’s steady movement he came to the house for which he was seeking, and halted there.
It was a long, low building, standing back from the road. There was a stone wall around this house, and the entrance was by an iron gate.
Mac Cann touched the gate, for experience had taught him that gates are not always locked, but this one was locked securely. By the gate was a caretaker’s lodge, so he moved quietly from that place and walked by the wall.
There was glass on the top of the wall which halted him for a few moments while he sucked his incautious hand. To cope with this he gathered several large stones and placed them on top of each other and he stood on these, then he threw his coat and waistcoat over the glass and climbed easily across.
He was in a shrubbery. About him every few paces were short, stiff bushes, some of which were armed with spines, which did their duty on his hands and the legs of his trousers; but he regarded these with an inattention which must have disgusted them. He tiptoed among these guardians and was shortly free of them and on a gravel pathway. Crossing this he came on quiet flowerbeds, which he skirted: the house was now visible as a dark mass distant some hundred yards.
Saving for one window the place was entirely dark, and it was towards that window he directed his careful steps.
“It’s better to look at something than at nothing,” quoth he.
He was again on a gravel path, and the stones tried to crunch and wriggle under his feet, but he did not allow that to happen.
He came to the window and, standing well to the side, peeped in.
He saw a square room furnished as a library. The entire section of the walls which he could spy was covered from floor to ceiling with books. There were volumes of every size, every shape, every colour. There were long, narrow books that held themselves like grenadiers at stiff attention. There were short, fat books that stood solidly like aldermen who were going to make speeches and were ashamed but not frightened. There were mediocre books bearing themselves with the carelessness of folk who are never looked at and have consequently no shyness. There were solemn books that seemed to be feeling for their spectacles; and
