ng
into the ears of my king, at his Great Place yonder. Pass on riding the
beast you have brought with you, for the way is rough; but your waggon,
your oxen, and your servants, save this man only who is of the Children
of Fire, must stay here in my keeping. Fear not, Messenger, I will hold
them safe."

"I do not fear, Chief, there is honour in your eyes."

*****

Some hours later, Owen, mounted on his mule, was riding through the
gorge, a guard in front of and behind him, and with them carriers who
had been sent to bear his baggage. At his side walked his disciple John,
and his face was sad.

"Why are you still afraid?" asked Owen.

"Ah! father, because this is a place of fear. Here in this valley men
are led to die; presently you will see."

"I have seen," answered Owen. "Yonder where we shall halt is a mount,
and on that mount stands a tree; it is called the Tree of Death, and it
stretches a thousand hands to Heaven, praying for mercy that does not
come, and from its boughs there hangs fruit, a fruit of dead men--yes,
twenty of them hang there this day."

"How know you these things, my father," asked the man amazed, "seeing
that I have never spoken to you of them?"

"Nay," he answered, "God has spoken to me. My God and your God."

Another hour passed, and they were resting by the spring of water, near
to the shadow of the dreadful tree, for in that gorge the sun burned
fiercely. John counted the bodies that swung upon it, and again looked
fearfully at Owen, for there were twenty of them.

"I desire to go up to that tree," Owen said to the guard.

"As you will, Messenger," answered their leader; "I have no orders to
prevent you from so doing. Still," he added with a solemn smile, "it is
a place that few seek of their own will, and, because I like you well,
Messenger, I pray it may never be my duty to lead you there of the
king's will."

Then Owen went up to the tree and John with him, only John would not
pass beneath the shadow of its branches; but stood by wondering, while
his master bound a handkerchief about his mouth.

"How did he know that the breath of the tree is poisonous?" John
wondered.

Owen walked to the bole of the tree, and breaking off some of the
finger-like leaves of the creeper that twined about it, he pressed
their milky juice into a little bottle that he had made ready. Then he
returned quickly, for the sights and odours of the place were not to be
borne.

Outside the circle of