o make them tick louder until Louis cried out in his
fever that all the world was a great clock that ticked. They gave us
leave to hunt in their country for butterflies, and the head men told
off six to help us. One was very clever. He used to wear his net
on his head, with the stick hanging down behind, and he snared the
butterflies with a loop of grass as if they were birds.

"'Our tents were of cheap cotton stuff that would not keep the rain
out, and the wet came in on Louis and made him worse. But he was
young, and I saw to it that he had food, and your men loved him. I do
not think he would have died if the clocks had ticked properly.'

"'I do not understand,' said Henkel, blinking his heavy brown eyes.

"'No? They were so cheap that they broke at the first winding. The
Indies brought them back and asked for better ones. I had no better
ones.'

"'Still I do not understand,' said Henkel, smoothly, and blinked in
the lamplight.

"Scott's tired voice went on. 'The Indios were very angry. They
brought us no more butterflies, and no more food. And presently, as
we went about the camp, or the paths of the forest, the little arrows
began to fall in front of us and behind us, though we never saw those
who shot at us.'

"'The little arrows?' asked Henkel, heavily. 'I do not understand. Go
on.'

"'There is very little to tell. Only a nightmare of hunger, of wet,
of fever, of silence, and the little poisoned arrows quivering
everywhere. And one day a little dart flickered through a rent in the
cotton tenting and struck Louis. He died in five minutes. Then I and
the men who were left broke through and came down the Mazzaron. The
Indies followed us, and I am the only one left. It is a pity the
clocks wouldn't tick, Mister Henkel.'

"'Ya, ya,' said Henkel, leaning over the table, 'but the butterfly?
The golden butterfly? You have found it?'

"Scott opened the tin case slowly and clumsily, drew out the perfect
insect, and laid it on the table. But it is wrong to speak of that
wide-winged loveliness of glittering and transparent gold as an
'insect.' Henkel sat staring at it, one big yellowish hand curved on
either side of it, too happy to speak. His lips moved, and I fancied
he was saying to himself, 'Cheap, cheap.'

"'It is very good,' he said at last, cunningly, 'but I am sorry there
is only one. I do not know that it is worth very much. But now I will
pay you as I promised. There was no agreement that you should re