A meadow followed, and then he dropped over the hedge into the high road.
Here he stopped, set down the portmanteau, and looked about him.
All was quiet.

So vivid was the moonlight that as looking down the road he could mark every bush, every tuft of grass almost, on the illumined side.

Not a soul was in sight.
The night was warm, and his flight had heated him intolerably.
He felt for his handkerchief to mop his brow, but snatched his hand away.
His coat was burning.

It was the lantern.

Like a fool he had forgotten to blow it out, and an abominable smell of oil and burning cloth now arose from his pocket.