"What ?" "Look--a--here, now, Tom Jamison--now--it ain't--" The youth went on.

Turning at a distance he saw the tattered man wandering about helplessly in the field.
He now thought that he wished he was dead.

He believed he envied those men whose bodies lay strewn over the grass of the fields and on the fallen leaves of the forest.
The simple questions of the tattered man had been knife thrusts to him.
They asserted a society that probes pitilessly at secrets until all is apparent.

His late companion's chance persistency made him feel that he could not keep his crime concealed in his bosom.

It was sure to be brought plain by one of those arrows which cloud the air and are constantly pricking, discovering, proclaiming those things which are willed to be forever hidden.