them mechanically and rested on the place where they had disappeared.
Suddenly something in his breast leaped up: surely some one was dogging his footsteps! It could not be one of the foresters or beaters—impossible. It was a face he knew well, both in reality and in his dreams; he saw it more often than he wished. It was the pale face of Novák.
The poacher’s leg was still swathed in rags it had not healed properly; he was thin and emaciated.
He was creeping after Martin, but he had no gun. Was he stealing about here for love of the forests and the excitement of the hunt, or was he shadowing him? Eager to avail himself of the chance which he had demanded of fate, Martin said: ‘Novák, what are you doing here?’
His tone was kind and humble.
Novák did not answer. Martin went up to him with his gun in his hand. Novák gave him a scornful glance.
‘You owe me a debt,’ said Martin, ‘and you have the right to pay it in my own coin. Look here, there is no one within earshot, no one will see or hear us. You have no gun, take mine and shoot.’
