I stood over him, staring down at his broad back. His face had fallen into a mossy pool, the fingers of his left hand clutched the moss and short-cropped grass; he had a heavy gold ring on the forefinger of his left hand. It shone amongst the yellowing grass. Blood stained the hand at his throat and darkened his jacket sleeve. I heard a shout far away beneath me, and looking in the direction of the noise I saw several tiny figures climbing up the hill towards me. A bullet splattered on a stone and screamed over my head. The shrill whine of the ricochet was still in my ears when the voice of a rifle followed its messenger. I ran to snatch the dead man’s rifle from where it lay. I aimed it downhill and emptied its magazine at my pursuers as fast as I could work the bolt. I laughed to see them halt and scatter, and take refuge behind stones. A fusillade of slots answered me without giving me any feeling of danger. I trailed the body of my enemy over on his back and tore the bandolier from his chest. His cheeks were wet and dirty with the water of the pool, his eyes outstared the sky. I could not make myself lay fingers on his eyelids to close his eyes. He had a satchel by his side. I flung it and the bandolier of cartridges across my own shoulder. I took the bolt from his rifle and dropped it into a marshy hag where it would sink, never to be found, and flung his rifle into another pool. It was a .303, like my own. My hands were imbrued with blood.

Bullets screamed overhead. I cast a final glance at my pursuers from the lee of a boulder. They had given up shouting to conserve their breath for the ascent. I had no fear of them. I knew the country too well to be overtaken or driven into a corner. I had only a vague plan in my head, to lead them on until it was dark, to draw them far away from this part of the country and then, eluding them, to return.