Into the hush of the moonlit night came presently a jarring note, the
infernal racket of a motorcycle. Philip, a lone sentry by the camp of
his lady, stirred and frowned. The clatter ceased. Once again the lap
of the restless river and the rustle of trees were the only sounds in
the silent wood. Philip glanced at the muffled figure of the minstrel
asleep on the ground by the dead embers of the camp fire, and leaning
carelessly upon his elbow, fell again into the train of thought
disturbed by the clatter.
"Herodotus!" said Philip. "Hum!" And roused to instant alertness by
the crackle of a twig in the forest, he glanced sharply roadwards where
the trees thinned.
There was something moving stealthily along in the shadows. With
narrowed eyes the sentry noiselessly flattened himself upon the ground
and fell to watching.
A stealthy crackle--and silence. A moving shadow--a halt!
A patch of moonlight lay ahead. For an interval which to Philip seemed
unending, there was no sound or movement, then a figure glided swiftly
through the patch of moonlight and approached the camp. It was a man
in the garb of a motorcyclist.
Noiselessly Philip shifted his position. The cyclist crept to the
shelter of a tree and halted.
The moon now hung above the wood.
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