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Studying his nature as one can do on the Road, I perceived also that in him there was no guile. He was a good-minded, God-fearing man according to his simple lights, who had done many kindnesses and contributed liberally towards the wants of the poor, though as he had been very rich, it had cost him little thus to gratify the natural promptings of his heart.

Moreover he was what Jorsen calls a “young soul,” quite young indeed, by which I mean that he had not often walked the Road in previous states of life, as for instance that Eastern woman had done who accosted me before the arrival of the Hare. So to speak his crude nature had scarcely outgrown the primitive human condition in which necessity as well as taste make it customary and pleasant to men to kill; that condition through which almost every boy passes on his way to manhood, I suppose by the working of some secret law of reminiscence.

It was this thought that first led me to connect the new-comer with the Red-faced Man of the Hare’s story. It may seem strange that I should have been so dense, but the truth is that it never occurred to me, any more than it had done to the Hare, that such a person would be at all likely to tread the Road for many years to come. I had gathered that he was comparatively young, and although I had argued otherwise with the Hare, had concluded therefore that he would continue to live his happy earth life until old age brought him to a natural end. Hence my obtuseness.

The man was drifting towards me thoughtfully, evidently much bewildered by his new surroundings but not in the least afraid. Indeed there none are afraid; when they glide from their death-beds to the Road they leave fear behind them with the other terrors of our mortal lot.

Presently he became conscious of the presence of the Hare, and thoughts passed through his mind which of course I could read.

“My word!” he said to himself, “things are better than I hoped. There’s a hare, and where there are hares there must be hunting and shooting. Oh! if only I had a gun, or the ghost of a gun!”

Then an idea struck him. He lifted his hunting-crop and hurled it at the Hare.

As it was only the shadow of a crop of course it could hurt nothing. Still it went through the shadow of the Hare and caused it to twist round like lightning.

“That was a good shot anyway,” he reflected, with a satisfied smile.

By now the Hare had seen him.

“The Red-faced Man!” it exclaimed, “Grampus himself!” and it turned to flee away.

“Don’t be frightened,” I cried, “he can’t hurt you; nothing can hurt you here.”

The Hare halted and sat up. “No,” it said, “I forgot. But you saw, he tried to. Now, Mahatma, you will understand what a bloodthirsty brute he is. Even after I am dead he has tried to kill me again.”

“Well, and why not?” interrupted the Man. “What are hares for except to be killed?”

“There, Mahatma, you hear him. Look at me, Man, who am I?”

So he looked at the Hare and the Hare looked at him. Presently his face grew puzzled.

“By Jingo!” he said slowly, “you are uncommonly like–you are that accursed witch of a hare which cost me my life. There are the white marks on your back, and there is the grey splotch on your ear. Oh! if only I had a gun–a real gun!”

“You would shoot me, wouldn’t you, or try to?” said the Hare. “Well, you haven’t and you can’t. You say I cost you your life. What do you mean? It was my life that was sacrificed, not yours.”

“Indeed,” answered the Man, “I thought you got away. Never saw any more of you after you jumped through the French window. Never had time. The last thing I remember is her Ladyship screaming like a mad cockatoo, yes, and abusing me as though I were a pickpocket, with the drawing-room all on fire. Then something happened, and down I went among the broken china and hit my head against the leg of a table. Next came a kind of whirling blackness and I woke up here.”