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the shrouding of the mighty canes.

One blast of the horn of white hunter or of chance traveler, and the spot had been deserted on the instant, its peopling vanished beyond discovery. But there was no horn of hunter, no sound even of tinkling cow-bell, no voice of youth in song or conversation. Only the sound of the great drum, the drum made years ago and hidden in a spot known to few, spoke out its sullen summons, slowly, in savage deliberation. Its sound had a carrying quality of its own, unknown in white men’s instruments. It was heard at the Big House, five miles away, though it was not recognized as an actual and distinct sound, white ears not being attuned to it. Even here at the hidden temple it seemed not more than the whisper of a sound, scarce louder than it appeared miles away. It was bell and drum in one, and trump of doom as well.

The drum spoke on, the drum of the jungle. It whispered of revenge to those who crept up to the dusky drummer and stood waiting to drink in at each long interval this deep intoxicating stimulus, the note of the priestly drum. And each deep throb of the drum carried a greater frenzy, a frenzy still suppressed, yet mysteriously growing. The riot of the ominous clanging sank into the blood of these people, though still it only caused them to shiver and now and then to sob—to sob! these giants, these tremendous human beings, these black or bronze Titans of the field, transplanted—in time, perhaps, to have their vengeance of the ages! They stood, their eyes rolling, their mouths slavering slightly, the muscles of their shoulders now and again rolling or relaxing, their hands coming tight together, palm smitten to palm, jaw clenched hard upon its fellow.

The drum spoke on. Inside the low log building certain preparations progressed, mummeries peculiar to the tribesmen, not to be described, strange, grotesque, sickening, horrible. A few donned fantastic uniforms cut out from colored oil-cloths. They placed upon their heads plumed hats of shapes such as white men do not create. They buckled about their bodies belts spangled with bits of shining things such as white men do not wear. They drew slowly together and passed apart. They seated themselves now, in long rows, upon logs hewn out as benches, on either side of the long room; but restless of this, they rose again and again to pace, walking, walking, uneasy, anxious. Now and then an arm was flung up. Outside, where ranks of eyes gazed unwinking, hypnotized, upon the door of the temple, there rose no sound save now and then this strange sobbing.

And still the drum throbbed on, the drum of the jungle, whose sound not all white men have heard as yet. The forest shivered across its miles of matted growth, as it heard the growling voice which called, “The Time! The Time!” Relentless, measured, so spoke the savage drum.

CHAPTER VII THE BELL

Meanwhile at the Big House there was no suspicion of what was going forward in the forest beyond; indeed the occupants had certain problems of their own to absorb them. A strange unrest seemed in possession of the place. Decherd had disappeared for a time. Mrs. Ellison, in her own room, rang and called in vain for Delphine. The master himself, moody and aloof, took saddle and rode across the fields; but if there were fewer hands at labor than there should have been, he did not notice the fact as he rode on, his hat pulled down over his face, and his mind busy with many things, not all of which were pleasing to him.

As for Miss Lady, she occupied herself during the afternoon much after the fashion of any young girl of seventeen left thus, without companions of her own sex and age. She strolled about the yard, finding fellowship with the hounds, with the horses in the neighboring pasture. She looked up in pensive question at the clouds, feeling the soft wind, the hot kiss of the sun on her cheek. Upon her soul sat the melancholy of youth. In her heart arose unanswered queries of young womanhood.

Now, as to this young man, Henry Decherd, thought Miss Lady, why should he trouble her by being continually about when she did not care for him? Why had he been so eager, even from the first day when he met her at the Big House? What had he to do with her coming to the Big House? Why did her mother now leave her with him, and, then again, capriciously call her away from him? And why should she herself avoid him, dismiss him, and then wonder whither he had gone?

Miss Lady, with one vague thought or another in her mind, wandered idly back to the great drawing-room where but an hour ago she had last seen Henry Decherd. He was not there as she peered in at the door; wherefore she needed no excuse, but stepped in and dropped into a chair which offered invitation in the depths of the half-darkened room.

A beautiful girl was Miss Lady, round of throat and arm, already stately, quite past the days of flat immaturity. A veritable young goddess one might have called her, with her high, short mouth and upright head, and her shoulders carried back with a certain haughtiness. Yet only a gracious, pensive goddess might have had this wistfulness in the deep eyes, this little pensive droop of the mouth corners, this piteous quality of the eye which left one saying that here, after all, was a maiden most like to the wild deer of the forest, strong, beautiful, yet timid; ready to flee, yet anxious to confide.

As she sat thus, the idle gaze of Miss Lady chanced upon an object lying on the floor, fallen apparently by accident from the near-by table. She stooped to pick it up, examining it at first carelessly and then with greater interest. It was a book, a little old-fashioned book, in the French language, the covers now broken and faded, though once of brave red morocco. The type was old and quaint, and the paper yellow with age. Miss Lady had never seen this book before, and now, failing better occupation, fell to reading in it. Presently she became so absorbed that once more she was surprised by the quiet approach of Mrs. Ellison. The latter paused at the door, looked in and coughed a second time. Miss Lady started in surprise.

“You frightened me, mamma,” said she, “coming up so close. You are always frightening me that way. Do you think I need watching all the time?”

“Well, you know, my child, we must not keep Colonel Blount waiting for his dinner.”

“But tell me, what book is this, mamma?” said Miss Lady to her. “It’s French. See, I can read some of it. It is about people in St. Louis years and years ago. It tells about a Louise Loisson—isn’t that a pretty name!—who was a captive among the Indians, or something of that sort. She was an heiress, like enough, too, I can’t make out just what, but certainly well-born. I think her father was a count, or something. Mamma, you should have insisted upon my taking up French more thoroughly when I was at the Sisters’. Now, this is the strangest thing.”

“Nonsense, child. Can’t you spend your time better than fooling with such trash?”

“It isn’t trash, mamma. The girl went to France, to Paris, and she danced—she was famous.”

Mrs. Ellison shifted uneasily. “You are old enough to begin reading books of proper sort. I don’t know how you pick up such notions as this,” said she.

“Is not the book yours, mamma?”

“Why, no, of course not. I don’t know whose it is.”

How much it might have saved Mrs. Ellison later had she now simply picked up this book, admitted its ownership and so concealed it for ever! How much, too, that had meant in the life of Miss Lady, its chance finder! Yet this was not to be. Fate sometimes teaches a woman to say the thing which at the instant relieves, though it later damns. It was Mrs. Ellison’s fate to deny all knowledge of this little volume.

“Come, we must hurry, my child,” she repeated. Miss Lady resolved to come back after dinner and look further into this interesting book. Mrs. Ellison resolved the same. Her interest in the little volume was far greater than she cared to evince. She hesitated. Her eyes turned to it again and again, her hands longed to clutch it. Once more in her possession, she resolved that never in the future should it be left lying carelessly about, to fall into precisely the wrong hands. She hurried Miss Lady away from the place.

“Go and get ready for dinner,” she commanded, “and try to look your best tonight; you know we’ve Mr. Decherd, and perhaps other company. That girl Delphine has run away, and I had to look after things myself; I don’t want you to disgrace me—”

“I’ll try not,” said Miss Lady, coolly, and swept her a mocking courtesy.

Mrs. Ellison gazed after her with ill-veiled hostility, but turned away presently, quite as anxious as she was angry. This girl was a problem, and a dangerous one as well.

Things were not going smoothly at the Big House. Sam, the curly-headed, embryonic butler, who gazed out over Colonel Blount’s dinner-table each evening in solemn dignity, knew that something was wrong with his people that evening, though he could not tell what. Some of them talked too much. Miss Lady laughed too much. The boss was too thoughtful, and young Massa Decherd—whom Sam had never learned to like—was too scowling. Little Sam was almost relieved when a knock summoned him without, and he betook his ten years of dignity from Colonel Blount’s right hand, to learn what might be wanted at the door.

“What is it, Sam?” asked Colonel Blount.

“M-m-m-m-man outside, sah, h-h-h-he wants to see you, sah.”

“Well, Sam, if there is a gentleman outside, why don’t you ask him to come in and eat with us? Don’t you know your manners, Sam? Why do I give you this place to run if you can’t ask a gentleman to come in and sit at your table when we are having dinner?”

“D-d-did as-s-s-sk him, sah,” said Sam, “b-b-but he wouldn’t c-c-c- come in; n-n-n-no, sah, wouldn’t c-c-c-come in.”

“What, wouldn’t come in, eh?”

“No, sah, s-s-s-says you must come out, sah. W-w-w-wants to see you, sah. H-h-h-he won’t wait.”

It was the claim agent of the Y. V. railroad who stood on the gallery awaiting the appearance of Colonel Blount. The latter looked at him quietly for a moment, and held out his hand.

“Come in,” said he, “you are just in time for dinner. I’m glad to see you back.”

“Colonel Blount,” said Eddring, in spite of himself grown again swiftly choleric, “damn your dinner! I have come back because as a white man I’ve got to tell you what you ought to know.” There was an eagerness in his tone whose import was recognized by Blount.

“What’s up?” said he, shortly. “Niggers?”

“Yes, down below there.”

“Down towards the Sands’ place?”

“Yes, they’ve been holding a meeting all the afternoon; they’ve got a regular church over there in the cane. They’ve got a leader this time, of some sort; I can’t find out who it is, but it all means trouble. There has been a plot going on for a long time. They think you have been too rough with them, and, in fact, I reckon they are just generally right desperate and dangerous. They’ve heard a lot of this political and educational talk from up North, and it’s done what might have been expected

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