stitious, and while he
could and did change the bottles and place the poison within his
cousin's reach, while he placed the rusty pin in the crutch where it
would inflict a wound on Zaidos' body, while he could plan endlessly to
rid himself of his cousin, he would not _himself_ directly aim the blow
or fire the deadly shot. He rejoiced in the battle that was
threatening. Zaidos would die, and he wanted the evidence of his own
eyes. Also he wanted the statements of witnesses. Sometimes when he
heard Zaidos' ready laugh, and saw his bright, straightforward look, a
flicker of pity shadowed his dastardly resolve. Then he remembered the
soft living, the ease and luxury of the house of Zaidos, and
remembering that he, as Velo Kupenol, must be all his life nothing but
a dependent on his cousin's bounty, he steeled his wicked heart to its
self-appointed task.

But he must change his tactics. Zaidos as usual was surrounding
himself with friends. Velo felt that he must be doubly careful. There
must be no more strange, unaccountable accidents to Zaidos. When the
blow fell it must crush him utterly; until then, he must be left to
move securely.

Velo thought of all this as he sat talking to the soldier beside him
and eating the plain fare of the men in the field.

The talk was all of the coming attack. Spies had reported a movement
of preparation in the enemy's ranks, and there was a stir of warning in
the very air. To Velo's amazement, no one seemed worried or anxious.
The conversation moved smoothly on, as though the battle was a test of
skill on a chess-board. Not a man there seemed to regard the coming
event in a personal light. Even the uncertainty did not distress
anyone. The attack would surely come, but whether it would come the
following night or in a week's time did not seem to matter in the
least. Velo had expected to see in an event like this a lot of men
brooding gloomily over the possible outcome, a dismal time with last
farewells, and touching letters written home. He watched the young
officer beside him. He had finished his meal and had taken out a pad
of paper and an indelible pencil. He wrote rapidly, but with a calm
and smiling face. Velo could not imagine any tragic farewells in
_that_ letter.

Velo, still staring at the writer, listened to the conversation along
the wall of the trench. It had at last turned from war to out-door
sports. Velo, who never exercised if he could avoid it, li