I crossed the bridge. The climbing moon, and my accustomed eyes, made my path plain, but my eyes kept turning towards Gallovie. I was devoured with curiosity which would not be gainsaid. I walked a few steps on my homeward path, and halted.

‘It won’t be dawn for a good two hours,’ I told myself. I hid my game-bag under the bridge and, rifle in hand, went to spy round Gallovie. I had no idea what I wanted to find. A fever of curiosity spurred me.

There is often a wind before dawn after windless nights. Such a breath began to stir now amongst the trees, and in the summer-parched grass. I heard it over the woods long before it reached me. While it was still and calm where I stood I heard the sighing in the tree-tops which presaged a breeze; a door banged in the cluster of buildings. I tiptoed up the hill against the cooling breeze. The door banged again. There was no other sound or sign of life amongst the houses and farm buildings. I trod so warily that I could hear the beating of my heart louder by far than my cautious step. But it was dark underfoot and I trod twice on dead branches which snapped with a noise like a rifle, or so it seemed to my ears. I froze at the sound; I dared not turn the safety catch of my rifle in case it was heard; I kept my thumb on the catch and my forefinger on the trigger.