sought by the Indians. Two of them had already been disposed of, therefore, unless Deacons had already fallen to their flying death, they still remained in the vicinity, awaiting a chance to execute him. We found him alive, hence we knew they had still one-third of their task to perform. So I did bait our trap with Deacons' dummy, for well I knew they would shoot their poisoned darts at him the moment they saw his shadow pass the lighted open window. Morbleu, my friend, how near your own foolish courage came to making you, instead, their victim!"
"Thanks to you, sor, I'm still alive an kickin'," Costello acknowledged. "Shall I be ringin' th' morgue wagon for th' fellies ye shot, sor?"
"I care not," de Grandin responded indifferently, "dispose of them as you will."
"Well, say"—Deacons suddenly seemed to emerge from his trance, and advanced toward de Grandin, his lean hand extended—"I cert'ny got to thank you for pullin' me out of a mighty tight hole, sir."
De Grandin took no notice of the proffered hand. "Pardieu, Monsieur," he responded coldly, "it was from no concern for you that I undertook this night's work. Those Indians had slain a friend of my friend, Sergeant Costello. I came not to save you, but to execute the murderers. You were but the stinking goat with which our tiger-trap was baited."
Lake Desolation
Wan waves lap listlessly the shape-wrapped shore,
Where barren rocks rear shapeless, cold and gray;
Dead-wind echoes make monotonous roar
Amid the sullen, gruesome caves aplay,
Rousing the ghosts of secrets long since dead.
Pale starshine, pure and passionless, looks down
From out her hazy veil, like silvered snow,
Lending her pallid radiance to crown
The desolation broadcast strown below—
Drear desolation, meet but for the dead.
Athwart the pulseless tide a bird of night—
Spirit, perchance, of what trod once as man—
Circles the gloom for aye in aimless flight,
Returning ever where it first began,
Piercing the stillness with weird notes of wo.
The fenlands rank pour forth their pungent breath—
Poisonous breath with deadly agues fraught—
Whose phosphorescent light, a wraith of death,
Woos wanderers will-o'-the-wisplike to the spot.
Here echoe, too, the night bird's notes of wo.
