It was not murder at all. Payne was more methodical than that. He was merely clearing a way to what he had to do.

He ran for the sick room, found his pistol was broken, and threw it away. A knife would do. From childhood he had known all about knives. Someone blocked the door from inside. He smashed it in and tumbled into darkness. He saw only dimly moving figures, but when he slashed them they yelled and fled. He went for the bed, jumped on it, and struck where he could, repeatedly. It was like finally getting into one's own nightmares to punish one's dreams.

Two men pulled him off. Nobody said anything. Payne hacked at their arms. There was a lady there, in a nightdress. He would not have wanted to hurt a lady. Another man approached, this one fully dressed. When the knife went into his chest, he went down at once.

``I'm mad,'' shouted Payne, as he ran out into the hall. ``I'm mad,'' and only wished he had been. That would have made things so much easier. But he was not mad. He was only dreaming.

He clattered down the stairs and out of the door. Somewhere in the fog, the nigger boy was still yelling murder. One always wakes up, even from one's own dreams. The clammy air revived him. Herold, he saw, had fled.

Well, one did not expect much of people like Herold.

He unhitched his horse, walked it away, mounted, and spurred it on. The nigger boy was close behind him. Then the nigger boy turned back and he was alone. He rode on and on. He had no idea where he was. After some time he came to an open field. An open field was better than a building, that was for sure, so he dismounted, turned off the horse, and plunged through the grass.