the muzzle of a
pistol and--cursed luck--his own rifle along with the empty pail in
the raging fire.

Therese was passing a restless night. She had lain long awake,
dwelling on the insistent thoughts that the day's happenings had given
rise to. The sleep which finally came to her was troubled by
dreams--demoniac--grotesque. Hosmer was in a danger from which she was
striving with physical effort to rescue him, and when she dragged him
painfully from the peril that menaced him, she turned to see that it
was Fanny whom she had saved--laughing at her derisively, and Hosmer
had been left to perish. The dream was agonizing; like an appalling
nightmare. She awoke in a fever of distress, and raised herself in bed
to shake off the unnatural impression which such a dream can leave.
The curtains were drawn aside from the window that faced her bed, and
looking out she saw a long tongue of flame, reaching far up into the
sky--away over the tree tops and the whole Southern horizon a glow.
She knew at once that the mill was burning, and it was the affair of a
moment with her to spring from her bed and don slippers and wrapper.
She knocked on Melicent's door to acquaint her with the startling
news; then hurried out into the back yard and rang the plantation
bell.

Next she was at the cottage rousing Hosmer. But the alarm of the bell
had already awakened him, and he was dressed and out on the porch
almost as soon as Therese had called. Melicent joined them, highly
agitated, and prepared to contribute her share towards any scene that
might be going forward. But she found little encouragement for heroics
with Hosmer. In saddling his horse rather hastily he was as unmoved as
though preparing for an uneventful morning canter. He stood at the
foot of the stairs preparing to mount when Gregoire rode up as if
pursued by furies; checking his horse with a quick, violent wrench
that set it quivering in its taut limbs.

"Well," said Hosmer, "I guess it's done for. How did it happen? who
did it?"

"Jocint's work," answered Gregoire bitingly.

"The damned scoundrel," muttered Hosmer, "where is he?"

"Don' botha 'bout Jocint; he ain't goin' to set no mo' mill afire,"
saying which, he turned his horse and the two rode furiously away.

Melicent grasped Therese's arm convulsively.

"What does he mean?" she asked in a frightened whisper.

"I--I don't know," Therese faltered. She had clasped her hands
spasmodically together, at Gregoire's word