little savanna by the lake, but when he had stalked it with
great care he found that it was not the one he wanted.

A search deeper into the hills revealed another herd, but still the
wrong one. A second day's search disclosed the right group grazing in a
snug little valley, and there was the big bull who had hurt so sorely
his body and his pride. A half hour of creeping in the marsh grass and
thickets and he was within easy range. Then he carefully picked out that
spot on the bull's body beneath which his heart lay, cocked his rifle,
took sure aim, and put his finger to the trigger.

But Robert did not pull that trigger. He merely wished to show to
himself and to any invisible powers that might be looking on that he
could lay the bull in the dust if he wished. If he wanted revenge for
grievous personal injury it was his for the taking. But he did not want
it. The bull was not to blame. He had merely been defending his own from
a dangerous intruder and so was wholly within his rights.

"Now that I've held you under my muzzle you're safe from me, old
fellow," were Robert's unspoken words.

He felt that his dignity was restored and that, at the same time, his
sense of right had been maintained. Elated, he went back to the house
and busied himself, arranging his possessions. They were so numerous
that he was rather crowded, but he was not willing to give up anything.
One becomes very jealous over his treasures when he knows the source of
supplies may have been cut off forever. So he rearranged them, trying to
secure for himself better method and more room, and he also gave them a
more minute examination.

In a small chest which he had not opened before he found, to his great
delight, a number of books, all the plays of Shakespeare, several by
Beaumont and Fletcher, others by Congreve and Marlowe, Monsieur Rollin's
Ancient History, a copy of Telemachus, translations of the Iliad and
Odyssey, Ovid, Horace, Virgil and other classics. Most of the books
looked as if they had been read and he thought they might have belonged
to the captain, but there was no inscription in any of them, and, on the
other hand, they might have been taken from a captured ship.

With plenty of leisure and a mind driven in upon itself, Robert now read
a great deal, and, as little choice was left to him, he read books that
he might have ignored otherwise. Moreover, he thought well upon what he
read. It seemed to him as he went over his Homer agai