he had been longing for some time to put his mark upon him and make him innocuous.
He was glad he had met Jurko. Perhaps he would now be able to come to grips with the satirist. He quietly went in the direction whence Jurko the fool had come.
Heavy clouds were hanging low above the forest, the air was full of early spring scents. The earth’s eternal youth was intoxicating him, and setting his blood on fire. He was thirsting for life, for action. Men’s thirst for action, for something to do, is ever unquenchable.
Martin’s thirst was to shoot at a soft human body, to cause suffering, to deal retribution.
‘You wait!’ he hissed through his teeth. He felt as if he had already got hold of the rascal who always escaped him as by a miracle.
He had reached the path which skirted the hill like a ring. He carried his gun in his hand and stooped low, as though on the scent of the poacher’s traces underneath the thick pine boughs.
Something suddenly stirred in the thicket without a sound.
‘There!’
Two hands, two powerful hands were knotting a sling.
‘At last!’
