There was not a sound but his own breathing; on the face of the desert not a grain of sand was in motion.

McTeague looked furtively and quickly from side to side, his teeth set, his eyes rolling.

Once more the rowel was in his flanks, once more an unseen hand reined him toward the east.

After all the miles of that dreadful day's flight he was no better off than when he started.

If anything, he was worse, for never had that mysterious instinct in him been more insistent than now; never had the impulse toward precipitate flight been stronger; never had the spur bit deeper.