The Tabor independent. [volume] (Tabor, S.D.) 1913-19??, 1918-11-07

means your death, too. When you
think that your object is attained,
when your hand is raised against
me and you utter words Of tri-
umph, at the same moment the
ground will open beneath your
feet. The place of your death is
chosen. The snare is laid. Be-
ware, Lupin!
The whole letter passed
through his brain, with its for
midable threat. And he felt a
shivcr of fear. But no fear could
stay the man that he was. He had
already taken hold of the
branches with his hands aud was
clearing a way for himself.
He stopped. A last bulwark Of
leaves hid him from sight. He
pulled some of them aside at the
level of his eyes.
And he saw
First of all, he saw Florence,
alone. at this moment, lying on
the ground, bound, at thirty
yards in front Of him and he at
once perceived, to his intense de-
light, from certain movements Of
her head that she was still alive.
He had come in time. Florence
was not dead. She would not die.
That was a certainty against
which nothing could prevail. Flor
ence would not die.
Then he examined the things
around. To the right and left
of where he stood the screen of
laurels curved and embraced a
sort of arena in which, among
yews that had once been clipped
into cones, lay capitals, columns,
broken pieces of arches and
vaults, obviously placed there to
adorn the formal garden that had
been laid out on the ruins of the
ancient donjon-keep.
In the middle was a small cir
cular space reached by two mar
row paths, one Of which presented
the same traces of trodden grass
and was a continuation of that by
which Don Luis had come, while
the other intersected the first at
right angles and joined the two
ends of the screen of shrubs.
Opposite was a confused heap
of broken stones and natural
rocks, cemented with clay, bound
together by the roots of gnarled
trees, the whole forming at the
back of the picture a small, chal-
low grotto, full of crevices that
admitted the light. The floor,
which Don Luis could easily dis
tinguish, consisted of three or
four flagstones.
Florence Levasseur lay inside
this grotto, bound hand and foot,
looking like the victim of some
mysterious sacrifice about to be
performed on the altar of the
grotto, in the amphitheater of this
old garden closed by the wall of
tall laurels and overlooked by a
pile of ancestral ruins.
In spite of the distance, Don
Luis was able to make out every
detail of her pale face. Though
convulsed with anguish, it still
retained a certain serenity, an ex-
preston of waiting and even of
expectancy, as if Florence, believ-
ing, until the last moment, in the
possibility of a miracle, had not
yet relinquished all hope of life.
Nevertheless, though she was
not gagged she did not call for
help. Perhaps she thought that
it was useless, and that the road
which she had strewn with
marks of her passing was more
likely to bring assistance to her
side than cries, which the villain
would soon have stifled. Strange
to say, it seemed to Don Luis as
if the girls eyes were obstinately
fixed ON the very spot where he
was hiding. Possibly she sus-
lpected his presence. Possibly she
foresaw his help.
Suddenly Don Luis clutched
one one Of his revolvers and half
raised his arm, ready TO take aim.
The sacrificer, the butcher, had
just appeared, not far from the
altar on which the victim lay.
He came from between two
rocks, Of which a bush marked
the intervening space, which ap-
parently afforded but a very low
outlet, for he still walked as
though bent double, with his head
bowed and his long arms swinging
so low as to touch the ground.
He went to the grotto and gave
his horrible chuckle:
you're still there, / see," he
said. "No sign of the rescueEY
Perseus is a little late, i fear.
He'd better hurry"