"That's where we want the numbers. About a mile up that way there's the main road, and the more we've got there the better. It isn't likely to be on any road—not even this one—unless it just dashes across, so you'll be pretty safe, safer along here than you will be across the fields with us. Unless you're used to country by night."

"No," Anthony admitted, "not beyond an occasional evening like this." He looked at Quentin, who looked back with an expression of combined anxiety and amusement, murmuring, "I suppose we go on, then—as far as the main road."

"Yoicks—and so on," Anthony assented. "Good night then, unless we see you at the end. Good luck to your hunting."

"It ought to be forbidden," a man who had hitherto been silent said angrily. "What about the sheep?"

"O keep quiet," the first man snapped back, and during the half-suppressed wrangle the two friends parted from the group, and stepped out, with more speed and more excitement than before, down the road in front of them.

"What enormous fun!" Anthony said, in an unintentionally subdued voice. "What do we do if we see it?"

"Bolt," Quentin answered firmly. "I don't want to be any more thrilled than I am now. Unless it's going in the other direction."

"What a day!" Anthony said. "As a matter of fact, I expect it'd be just as likely to bolt as we should."

"It might think we were its owners," Quentin pointed out, "and come trotting or lolloping or whatever they do up to us. Do you save me by luring it after you, or do I save you?"

"O you save me, thank you," Anthony said. "These hedges are infernally low, aren't they? What I feel I should like to be in is an express train on a high viaduct."

"I hope you still think that ideas are more dangerous than material things," Quentin said. "That was what you were arguing at lunch."

Anthony pondered while glancing from side to side before he answered, "Yes, I do. All material danger is limited, whereas interior danger is unlimited. It's more dangerous for you to hate than to kill, isn't it?"

"To me or to the other fellow?" Quentin asked.

"To—I suppose one would have to say—to the world in general," Anthony suggested. "But I simply can't keep it up now. I think it's splendid of you, Quentin, but the lioness, though a less, is a more pressing danger even than your intellectual errors. Hallo, here's a gate. I suppose this is one of the houses they were talking about."

They stopped before it; Quentin glanced back along the road they had come, and suddenly caught Anthony by the arm, exclaiming, "There! There!"

But his friend had already seen. A long low body had slithered down the right-hand bank some couple of hundred yards away, had paused for a moment turning its head and switching its tail, and had then begun to come leaping in their direction. It might have been mere friendliness or even ignorance—the two young men did not wait to see; they were through the gate and up the short garden path in a moment. In the dark shelter of the porch they paused. Anthony's hand touched the knocker and stayed.

"Better not make a row perhaps," he said. "Besides, all the windows were dark, did you notice? If there's no one at home, hadn't we better keep quiet?"

There was no reply unless Quentin's renewed clasp of his arm could be taken for one. The straight path to the gate by which they had entered divided a broad lawn; on each side of it the grass stretched away and was lost in the shade of a row of trees which shut it off from the neighbouring fields. The moon was not high, and any movement under the trees was invisible. But the moonlight lay faintly on the lawn, the gate, and the road beyond, and it was at the road that the two young men gazed. For there, halting upon her way, was the lioness. She had paused as if she heard or felt some attraction; her head was turned towards the garden, and she was lifting her front paws restlessly.