I had seen him before in the dream of some mediaeval
saint, with a thief sagging at either side, surrounded with crisp angels.
Tonight he was alone; save for myself, and the moon's minute flower
pushing between slabs of fractured cloud.
I was wrong, the moon and I and he were not alone.... A glance up the
road gave me two silhouettes at pause. The _gendarmes_ were waiting. I
must hurry to catch up or incur suspicions by my sloth. I hastened
forward, with a last look over my shoulder ... the wooden man was
watching us.
When I came abreast of them, expecting abuse, I was surprised by the
older's saying quietly "We haven't far to go," and plunging forward
imperturbably into the night.
Nor had we gone a half hour before several dark squat forms confronted
us: houses. I decided that I did not like houses--particularly as now my
guardian's manner abruptly changed; once more tunics were buttoned,
holsters adjusted, and myself directed to walk between and keep always up
with the others. Now the road became thoroughly afflicted with houses,
houses not, however, so large and lively as I had expected from my dreams
of Marseilles. Indeed we seemed to be entering an extremely small and
rather disagreeable town.
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