smash and tinkle against the rock. As he stooped again for the pan she saw him fumble for it uncertainly, groping in the dirt. His fingers came in contact with the hot ashes and he withdrew them with a string of oaths.
He straightened up once more, his face showing drawn and puzzled, pressing his fingertips closely to his eyeballs, the wonder on his features changing to dismay, to fear. The girl held her breath. Something was happening.
A broken cry came from him. He staggered back, drawing his hands away slowly from his face, extending them gropingly at arms' length. He took uncertain steps forward and walked fairly into the fire, knocking over the coffee pot. His repeated cry, shrill, tremulous, held the swift horror of a wild thing that has stepped into a trap.
"God! I'm blind. Blind!"
He had sprung back from the hot ashes, losing his bearings, retreating out of the zone of firelight into the shadows, where she could see him only as a vague and wavering figure, coming back again into her view, his jaw fallen, his eyes crimsonly reflecting the fire, horror stamped on his face while her own heart leaped. Hollister was blind. His corrupt habits had defeated his more evil purposes. The crude, undistilled brew had paralyzed his optic nerves. Frenzied rage, coupled to fear, possessed him.
"Where are you?" he cried. "Damn you, slide out of that and come down to me. You can't get away. Come down!"
Some feel of draught from the entrance gave him
