e. Too late! Too late!"

The wondering, troubled eyes that had looked into his here appeared to
clear and brighten with a sweet prescience. Was it the wind moaning in
the chimney that seemed to whisper to him: "Too late, beloved, for ME,
but not for you. I died, but Love still lives. Be happy, Philip. And in
your happiness I too may live again"?

He started. In the flickering firelight the chair was empty. The wind
that had swept down the chimney had stirred the ashes with a sound like
the passage of a rustling skirt. There was a chill in the air and a
smell like that of opened earth. A nervous shiver passed over him. Then
he sat upright. There was no mistake; it was no superstitious fancy,
but a faint, damp current of air was actually flowing across his feet
towards the fireplace. He was about to rise when he stopped suddenly and
became motionless.

He was actively conscious now of a strange sound which had affected him
even in the preoccupation of his vision. It was a gentle brushing of
some yielding substance like that made by a soft broom on sand, or the
sweep of a gown. But to his mountain ears, attuned to every woodland
sound, it was not like the gnawing of gopher or squirrel, the scratching
of wildcat, nor the hairy rubbing of bear. Nor was it human; the long,
deep respirations of his sleeping companions were distinct from that
monotonous sound. He could not even tell if it were IN the cabin or
without. Suddenly his eye fell upon the pile in the corner. The blanket
that covered the treasure was actually moving!

He rose quickly, but silently, alert, self-contained, and menacing. For
this dreamer, this bereaved man, this scornful philosopher of riches had
disappeared with that midnight trespass upon the sacred treasure. The
movement of the blanket ceased; the soft, swishing sound recommenced. He
drew a glittering bowie-knife from his boot-leg, and in three noiseless
strides was beside the pile. There he saw what he fully expected to
see,--a narrow, horizontal gap between the log walls of the cabin and
the adobe floor, slowly widening and deepening by the burrowing of
unseen hands from without. The cold outer air which he had felt before
was now plainly flowing into the heated cabin through the opening. The
swishing sound recommenced, and stopped. Then the four fingers of a
hand, palm downwards, were cautiously introduced between the bottom
log and the denuded floor. Upon that intruding hand the bowie-knife of