he thing in the cave-man attending the show that made him
take note in other centuries of the rope that began to hang the butcher,
the fire that began to burn the stick, and the stick that began to beat
the dog.

Now the play takes a higher demoniacal plane reminiscent of Poe's Bells.
The boy opens the door. He peers into the darkness. There he sees them.
They are the nearest to the sinister Poe quality of any illustrations I
recall that attempt it. "They are neither man nor woman, they are neither
brute nor human; they are ghouls." The scenes are designed with the
architectural dignity that the first part of this chapter has insisted
wizard trappings should take on. Now it is that the boy confesses and the
Poe story ends.

Then comes what the photoplay people call the punch. It is discussed at
the end of chapter nine. It is a kind of solar plexus blow to the
sensibilities, certainly by this time an unnecessary part of the film.
Usually every soul movement carefully built up to where the punch begins
is forgotten in the material smash or rescue. It is not so bad in this
case, but it is a too conventional proceeding for Griffith.

The boy flees interminably to a barn too far away. There is a siege by a
posse, led by the detective. It is veritable border warfare. The Italian
leads an unsuccessful rescue party. The unfortunate youth finally hangs
himself. The beautiful Annabel bursts through the siege a moment too
late; then, heart broken, kills herself. These things are carried out by
good technicians. But it would have been better to have had the suicide
with but a tiny part of the battle, and the story five reels long instead
of six. This physical turmoil is carried into the spiritual world only
by the psychic momentum acquired through the previous confession scene.
The one thing with intrinsic pictorial heart-power is the death of
Annabel by jumping off the sea cliff.

Then comes the awakening. To every one who sees the film for the first
time it is like the forgiveness of sins. The boy finds his uncle still
alive. In revulsion from himself, he takes the old man into his arms. The
uncle has already begun to be ashamed of his terrible words, and has
prayed for a contrite heart. The radiant Annabel is shown in the early
dawn rising and hurrying to her lover in spite of her pride. She will
bravely take back her last night's final word. She cannot live without
him. The uncle makes amends to the girl. The three are in th