ls to loosen the fastening. Farther down is a
rowboat, in which they start out on the lake.

Moving along with the breeze, both yield to meditation. Former tragic
happenings upon this peaceful lake come to mind. Each ripple is
tremulous with saddened retrospect. Every voice of wind and branch is
keyed to minor utterance. These, with monotonous swish of slow waves,
blending with notes of leaf-hid birds, seem miserere and requiem.

At this projecting shrub, bright-eyed, sweet-voiced, vivacious, loving,
impulsive Alice Webster had been rescued by Oswald Langdon; yonder is
the wooded point toward which Paul Lanier was sailing when, maddened by
her frightened resistance and stinging protests, he roughly pushed Alice
overboard. Here is the bank upon which the body again became instinct
with life's returning pulses.

Such panorama, with varying lines of sorrowful perspective, passed
before Sir Donald's and Esther's view. Each colored the pathetic
pictures with like yet different hues, from peculiar tints of inner
consciousness.

Sir Donald is struck by singular grouping of assault, projecting shrub,
knotted tie, Oswald's sail and opportune rescue; Esther's memory reverts
to that eloquent avowal beyond the distant ravine. Some misgivings as to
her own conduct on that occasion are now felt. There is an accusing
sense of vague responsibility for after tragic happenings. That true
penitence often means restitution is a cardinal tenet in Esther's creed.
This is now most soothing conscience specific.

If Esther wrongfully withheld from that earnest, masterful, persuasive
suitor his just dues, she now feels such ethical qualms as to prompt
payment with usury.

Moving with the breeze, the boat is nearing the point where Esther,
Alice Webster, and Oswald Langdon were seated when Paul Lanier listened
to that proposed London trip made necessary by the suit of William
Dodge.

Soon are heard tones of impassioned declamation. With unearthly unction
the voice repeats those dream-lines so dramatically uttered in hearing
of Paul Lanier at Bombay.

Again and again come the words, "Fierce avenging sprite," "till blood
for blood atones," "buried from my sight," "and trodden down with
stones." Then follow loud, hollow, unnatural guffaws, succeeded by, "And
years have rotted off his flesh." There are muttered curses, a
blood-curdling, demoniacal yell, then in solemn, guttural tones, "The
world shall see his bones."

These disconnected y