Genre Adventure. Page - 19

t for my hate, oh scaled and shining One!The sun was setting, etching the green and hazy blue of the forest in brief gold. The waning beams glinted on the thick golden chain which Dion of Attalus twisted continually in his pudgy hand as he sat in the flaming riot of blossoms and flower­-trees which was his garden. He shifted his fat body on his marble seat and glanced furtively about, as if in quest of a lurking enemy. He sat within a circular grove of slender trees, whose interlapping branches

>"I b'lieve, Cap'n," remarked Trot, at last, "thatit's time for us to start."The old man cast a shrewd glance at the sky, thesea and the motionless boat. Then he shook his head. "Mebbe it's time, Trot," he answered, "but I don'tjes' like the looks o' things this afternoon." "What's wrong?" she asked wonderingly. "Can't say as to that. Things is too quiet to suitme, that's all. No breeze, not a ripple a-top the water,nary a gull a-flyin'

"The night can hear," answered Ka-nu obliquely. "There are worlds within worlds. But you may trust me and you may trust Brule, the Spear-slayer. Look!" He drew from his robes a bracelet of gold representing a winged dragon coiled thrice, with three horns of ruby on the head."Examine it closely. Brule will wear it on his arm when he comes to you tomorrow night so that you may know him. Trust Brule as you trust yourself, and do what he tells you to. And in proof of trust,

d bobtail of insignificant satellites, wefloat under the same daily conditions towards some unknown end,some squalid catastrophe which will overwhelm us at the ultimateconfines of space, where we are swept over an etheric Niagara ordashed upon some unthinkable Labrador. I see no room here forthe shallow and ignorant optimism of your correspondent, Mr.James Wilson MacPhail, but many reasons why we should watch witha very close and interested attention every indication of changein those cosmic

man devils I had met in plenty, but never a single angel--at least, of the male sex. Also there was always the possibility that I might get a glimpse of the still more angelic lady to whom he was engaged, whose name, I understood, was the Hon. Miss Holmes. So I said that nothing would please me more than to see this castle.Thither we drove accordingly through the fine, frosty air, for the month was December. On reaching the castle, Mr. Scroope was told that Lord Ragnall, whom he knew well, was

eye could reach. In all its vast expanse there was no break but for a single galley, which was slowly making its way from the direction of Sicily and heading for the distant harbour of Carthage.Seen from afar it was a stately and beautiful vessel, deep red in colour, double-banked with scarlet oars, its broad, flapping sail stained with Tyrian purple, its bulwarks gleaming with brass work. A brazen, three-pronged ram projected in front, and a high golden figure of Baal, the God of the

used a youngman, the following day in the little hamlet of Tafelberg, towhistle as he carefully read it over."I am glad that I am not the mad king of Lutha," he saidas he paid the storekeeper for the gasoline he had just pur-chased and stepped into the gray roadster for whose greedymaw it was destined. "Why, mein Herr?" asked the man. "This notice practically gives immunity to whoever shootsdown the king," replied the traveler. "Worse still, it givessuch an

to remembrance of the laws under which yelive."At this sudden outflame of wrath the two witnesses sank theirfaces on to their chests, and sat as men crushed. The Abbotturned his angry eyes away from them and bent them upon theaccused, who met his searching gaze with a firm and composedface. "What hast thou to say, brother John, upon these weighty thingswhich are urged against you?" "Little enough, good father, little enough," said the novice,speaking English with a

g to Gavrillac on a November morning, laden with news of thepolitical storms which were then gathering over France, Philippefound in that sleepy Breton village matter to quicken his alreadylively indignation. A peasant of Gavrillac, named Mabey, had beenshot dead that morning in the woods of Meupont, across the river,by a gamekeeper of the Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr. The unfortunatefellow had been caught in the act of taking a pheasant from a snare,and the gamekeeper had acted under explicit

ttered nerves, Professor Maxon sailed with his daughter for a long ocean voyage, which he hoped would aid him in rapid recuperation, and permit him to forget the nightmare memory of those three horrible days and nights in his workshop.He believed that he had reached an unalterable decision never again to meddle with the mighty, awe inspiring secrets of creation; but with returning health and balance he found himself viewing his recent triumph with feelings of renewed hope and anticipation. The