Night, with a rising moon, and over all things a great quietude,

a deep, deep silence. Air, close and heavy, without a breath to

wake the slumbering trees; an oppressive stillness, in which

small sounds magnified themselves, and seemed disproportionately

loud.

And presently, as I went upon my way, I forgot the old man

sleeping so peacefully with the rusty staple clasped to his

shrunken breast, and thought only of the proud woman who had

given her life into my keeping, and who, henceforth, would walk

with me, hand in hand, upon this Broad Highway, over rough

places, and smooth--even unto the end. So I strode on, full of a

deep and abiding joy, and with heart that throbbed and hands that

trembled because I knew that she watched and waited for my

coming.

A sound broke upon the stillness--sudden and sharp--like the

snapping of a stick. I stopped and glanced about me--but it had

come and gone--lost in the all-pervading calm.

And presently, reaching the leafy path that led steeply down into

the Hollow, I paused a moment to look about me and to listen

again; but the deep silence was all unbroken, save for the

slumberous song of the brook, that stole up to me from the

shadows, and I wondered idly what that sudden sound might have

been. So I began to descend this leafy path, and went on to meet

that which lay waiting for me in the shadows.

It was dark here among the trees, for the moon was low as yet,

but, every now and then, she sent a kindly ray through some

opening amid the leaves, so that as I descended the path I seemed

to be wading through small, limpid pools of radiance.

But all at once I stopped--staring at something which lay at the

edge of one of these pools--a white claw--a hand whose fingers,

talon-like, had sunk deep and embedded themselves in the turf.

And, beyond this gleaming hand, was an arm, and beyond that

again, something that bulked across my path, darker than the

shadows.

Running forward, I stood looking down at that which lay at my

feet--so very still; and stooped suddenly, and turned it over

that I might see the face; and, seeing it, started back in

shuddering horror. For, in those features--hideous with blood,

stained and blackened with powder, I recognized my cousin--Sir

Maurice Vibart. Then, remembering the stick that had snapped, I

wondered no more, but a sudden deadly faintness came upon me so,

that I leaned weakly against a tree near by.

A rustling of leaves--a shuddering breath, and, though I did not

raise my head, I knew that Charmian was there.




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