Some of the water ran into the freshly replenished fire, creating a plume of steam and smoke that would be easily visible to the observer. Just to make sure he got the full picture, Horace aimed a kick at the bucket, sending it spinning away, and said in a loud voice:

'Damn it!'

He was rather proud of that bit of byplay. He recalled a conversation at Castle Araluen some months prior, with a member of a touring acting company. The actor had advised Horace to take a seat a little way down the hall for their performance, not right at the front.

'We have to play to the back of the house,' he had explained, 'so our expressions and gestures are somewhat larger than life. Sit too close and it becomes unrealistic.'

At the time, Horace had thought he was simply creating an excuse for what seemed to be excessive over-acting. But now he saw the sense of it.

I certainly played to the back of the house then, he thought with grim satisfaction.

Halt had stirred and murmured briefly when Horace swore and kicked at the offending bucket. Horace checked on him now, reassuring himself that the Ranger had settled. He winced as he moved. His toe was bruised from the solid contact with the bucket and he knew it would ache for a day or two. He shrugged philosophically. Sometimes, an actor had to suffer for his art.

He moved to retrieve the bucket then, walking through the camp, he bent quickly to his pack and picked up his sword and scabbard, holding them close against his side, out of sight. With any luck, the distant watcher wouldn't have seen what he'd picked up.

Trying to look casual, he strolled across the grass to the pond. He walked down the shallow incline to the bank, dropping below ground level as he did so. As soon as the horizon was concealed from his sight – and, by the same token, he was concealed from anyone watching from there – he went into a crouch and placed the bucket on the ground. Staying in the crouch, he moved quickly to the cover of the trees and bushes, where he dropped belly down on the ground.

Pushing himself along on elbows and knees, he squirmed carefully through the undergrowth until he could see the distant ridge.

He began to scan it carefully, dividing it into sectors and searching methodically back and forth, keeping his eyes moving so they wouldn't become fixed to one focus. It took a couple of minutes, but finally he saw a quick movement. He caught it with his peripheral vision, then swung his eyes and focused on it. The watcher had edged forward. Perhaps, after Horace had dropped from sight, he was trying to find a better vantage point to catch sight of the young warrior again.

Now his head and shoulders were visible above the ridge line. If he hadn't seen that small movement, chances are Horace would never have noticed. But now he could see the shape clearly. And he fancied he could also see a faint tinge of dull purple.

'So you've come back, have you?' he muttered. He glanced around, searching the surrounding countryside, looking for a way he could approach the watcher without being seen.

'I need a gully or a stretch of dead ground somewhere,' he said to himself. But he could see no such feature in the land between him and the ridge. Ruefully, he decided that if he were a Ranger, he would have the skill to ghost forward unseen and unheard through the long grass. But, even though Halt had given him a camouflage cloak, he knew the task was beyond him. And the thought of approaching an expert crossbowman across open ground was not an inviting one.

Besides, it would take too long. The Genovesan would be expecting him to reappear in the next few minutes, heading back to the camp site with a replenished water bucket. If he became suspicious, who knew what his next action might be? No, Horace decided, since he couldn't get close to the man, it was best to pretend he hadn't spotted him. It would be a sleepless night tonight, he thought.

He retrieved the bucket and, at the last moment, remembered to refill it. His mind was so preoccupied with the problem of the watching Genovesan that he nearly forgot that small detail. If he'd had to make a return trip, that would really have roused the observer's suspicion, he thought.

When he arrived back at the camp, the problem of the hidden watcher was pushed from his mind for a few minutes. He was delighted and surprised to find Halt awake and lucid.

As they talked, it became apparent that Halt knew where they were and what had happened. He no longer mistook Horace for Crowley and his mind was well and truly back in the present.

His throat was dry, however, and Horace fetched him a cup of coffee. He could see the colour flowing back into Halt's face as he drank the reviving beverage. After a few appreciative sips, Halt looked around the neat camp site.

'Where's Will? I assume he's gone on after Tennyson?'

Horace shook his head. 'He's gone to fetch Malcolm,' he replied and, as Halt momentarily puzzled over the name, he added, 'The healer.'

That brought a frown of disapproval to Halt's face and he shook his head.

'He shouldn't have done that. He should have left me to my own devices and followed the Outsiders. They'll be miles away by now! How long did you say I've been unconscious?'

'Tomorrow will be the third day,' Horace said and the frown on Halt's face deepened.

'That's too big a lead to give them. They could give you the slip. He shouldn't have wasted time going after Malcolm.'

Horace noted the phrase they could give you the slip. Obviously, Halt had ruled himself out of further action against the Outsiders. He hesitated, wondering whether to tell him about the Genovesan who had been keeping watch on them. If the Genovesan was reporting back to Tennyson, the Outsiders couldn't be too far away, he thought. But he decided, on balance, it might be better not to trouble Halt with the news that they were being observed. Instead, he replied:

'Would you have done that in his place? Would you have left him and gone on?'

'Of course I would!' Halt replied immediately. But something in his voice rang false and Horace looked at him, raising one eyebrow. He'd waited a long time for an opportunity to use that expression of disbelief to Halt.

After a pause, the Ranger's anger subsided.

'All right. Perhaps I wouldn't,' he admitted. Then he glared at Horace. 'And stop raising that eyebrow at me. You can't even do it properly. Your other eyebrow moves with it!'

'Yes, Halt,' said Horace, in a mock-subservient tone. He felt an indescribable tide of relief sweeping over him now that Halt seemed to be getting back to normal. Perhaps they wouldn't need Malcolm after all, he thought.

He fixed Halt a light meal of broth and damper. At first, he tried to feed the grey-bearded Ranger. Halt's indignant refusal lightened his spirits even more.

'I'm not an invalid! Give me that damned spoon!' the Ranger said and Horace turned away to hide his grin. That was more like the loveable Halt of old, he thought.

Late in the afternoon, with Halt sleeping calmly, he became aware of a strange sensation. Or, more correctly, a lack of sensation. Since the morning, he had felt the constant scrutiny of the Genovesan's eyes. Now, suddenly, the feeling was gone.

With apparent casualness, he scanned the horizon around the camp. He knew where the Genovesan had lain up during the day. Several times, without appearing to look, he had seen a brief flicker of movement from the ridge as the man changed position or eased his cramped muscles.

'You'd never make a Ranger,' he muttered. Time and again he'd seen Halt and Will's uncanny ability to maintain a position without moving for hours on end. 'Then again,' he'd continued, grinning, 'neither would I.' He knew he didn't have the patience or the self-discipline that the Rangers seemed to possess in large amounts.