Once, as he walked on his way, he turned and paused--looking back--he raised his hat to enjoy the coolness of the breeze on his forehead and hair.

The light of the moon fell full on his features and showed them in profile, like a finely-cut cameo against the dense dark-blue background of the evening sky.

I gazed at him with a sort of grim fascination--the fascination of a hunter for the stag when it stands at bay, just before he draws his knife across its throat.

He was in my power--he had deliberately thrown himself in the trap I had set for him.

He lay at the mercy of one in whom there was no mercy.