sion-building.

Less than ten minutes' walking brings him to its walls, by their main
front entrance.

There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. It
is profound, unnatural.

For some moments he remains in front of the massive pile, looking at it,
and listening. Still no sound, within or without.

True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed.

But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, but surely not
sleeping within!

In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intent
determines to enter.

He is not on terms of social equality with those who occupy the mission;
still, under the circumstances, he cannot be considered intruding.

He sees that the great door is closed, but the wicket is ajar;
presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no lights in the
front windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room open
backward.

Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, passes on
through the _saguan_, and once more emerges into moonlight within the
_patio_.

There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight that
almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head.

Down into the hollow quadrangle--enclosed on every side, except that
towards heaven--the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By their
light he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position.
They are human bodies--men and boys, among them some whose drapery
declares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all
spotted and spattered with red--with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing in
the chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink.

The hunter turns faint, sick, as he contemplates this hecatomb of
corpses. A spectacle far more fearful than any ever witnessed upon
battle-field. There men lie in death from wounds given, as received
under the grand, if delusive, idea of glory. Those Cris Tucker sees
must have been struck down by the hand of the assassin!

For a time he stands gazing upon them, scarce knowing what to do.

His first impulse is to turn back, rush out of the courtyard, and away
altogether from the place.

But a thought--a loyal thought or instinct, stays him. Where is
Hawkins? His body may be among the rest--Cris is almost sure it will be
found there--and affection for his friend prompts him to seek for it.
There may still be breath in it--a spark of departing li