is own heart, and the wheezing of his breath, thick and laboured.

Then, at last, during one of those silences, he heard something moving
in the darkness near at hand. Something--some one was coming toward him
through the underbrush. He called out hoarsely: "Philippa!" The sound
ceased instantly, and then he heard a whispered execration. Wild rage
possessed him. He plunged forward into the brush. Something crashed down
upon his head, and he felt himself falling forward. The next he knew,
he was trying vainly to rise to his feet. Something hot was running into
his eyes,--hot and sticky. He lifted his hand to his head; it came away
wet. He put his fingers into his mouth,-and tasted blood! It was
enough. His strength came back. He sprang to his feet and rushed onward,
shouting, cursing, calling upon God! He had no recollection of finding
his girl. Apparently everything was a blank to him until long afterwards
he saw lights moving among the trees, and voices were calling his name.

Percival and other cool-headed men were hard put to check the fury of
the mob. Men and women, bent on vengeance, made the night hideous with
their curses, howls and shrieks. In their senseless fury they prepared
to kill. They had heard the stories about Manuel Crust and his
disciples. Only the determined stand taken by the small group that
rallied to Percival's support kept the maddened crowd from seeking out
these men and rending them limb from limb. The sailors from the Doraine
were the first to listen to the pleas of the level-headed,--just as they
had been the first to demand the lives of Manuel Crust and his gang.
Individually they were rough men and lawless, collectively they were
the slaves of discipline. It was to their vanity that Percival and the
others appealed,--only they called it honour instead of vanity. The mob
spirit was--quelled for the time being, at least. No one was so foolish
as to believe that it was dead, however. Unless the man guilty of the
shocking crime was found and delivered up for punishment, the inevitable
would happen.

"We'll get the right man," said the voice of universal fury, "if we have
to cut the heart out of every one of Manuel Crust's gang."

The women were the worst. They fought like wildcats to reach the cabins
occupied by the known followers of Manuel Crust. With knives and axes
and burn-ing faggots they tried again and again to force their way
through the stubborn wall of men that had been raised aga