For, as he now saw it, he really was not guilty — was he, since at the last moment he had experienced that change of heart?
But who was going to believe that now, since he did not go back to explain?
And it would never do to go back now!
For if Sondra should hear that he had been on this lake with this factory girl — that he had registered with her as husband and wife . . .
God!
And then trying to explain to his uncle afterwards, or his cold, hard cousin — or all those smart, cynical Lycurgus people!
No! No!
Having gone so far he must go on.
Disaster — if not death — lay in the opposite direction.
He would have to make the best of this terrible situation — make the best of this plan that had ended so strangely and somewhat exculpatorily for him.
And yet these woods!
This approaching night.
The eerie loneliness and danger of it all now.
How now to do, what to say, if met by any one.
He was so confused — mentally and nervously sick.
The crackle of a twig and he leaped forward as a hare.
And in this state it was that, after having recovered his bag and changed his clothes, wringing out his wet suit and attempting to dry it, then packing it in his bag under some dry twigs and pine- needles and burying the tripod beneath a rotting log, that he plunged into the woods after night had fallen.
Yet meditating more and more on his very strange and perilous position.
For supposing, just as he had unintentionally struck at her, and they had fallen into the water and she uttered those piercing and appealing cries, there had been some one on the shore — some one watching — one of those strong, hardy men whom he had seen loitering about during the day and who might even at this moment be sounding a local alarm that would bring a score of such men to the work of hunting for him this very night!
A man hunt!
And they would take him back and no one would ever believe that he had not intentionally struck her!
They might even lynch him before he could so much as secure a fair trial.
It was possible.
It had been done.
A rope around his neck.
Or shot down in these woods, maybe.
And without an opportunity to explain how it had all come about — how harried and tortured he had been by her for so long.
They would never understand that.
And so thinking he hurried faster and faster — as fast as strong and serried and brambly young firs and dead branches that cracked most ominously at times would permit, thinking always as he went that the road to Three Mile Bay must be to his right hand, the moon to his left when it should rise.
But, God, what was that?
Oh, that terrible sound!
Like a whimpering, screeching spirit in this dark!
There!
What was it?
He dropped his bag and in a cold sweat sunk down, crouching behind a tall, thick tree, rigid and motionless with fear.
That sound!
But only a screech-owl!
He had heard it several weeks before at the Cranston lodge.
But here!
In this wood!
This dark!
He must be getting on and out of here. There was no doubt of that.
He must not be thinking such horrible, fearful thoughts, or he would not be able to keep up his strength or courage at all.
But that look in the eyes of Roberta!
That last appealing look!
God!
He could not keep from seeing it!
Her mournful, terrible screams!
Could he not cease from hearing them — until he got out of here anyhow?
Had she understood, when he struck her, that it was not intentional — a mere gesture of anger and protest?