the living man died by inches above him, they say the wood grew darker, and darker, and darker. How dark it’s getting now, and cold, — cold as the dead!”

His auditors drew closer together, and shivered. Sparrow and I were so near that we could see the hands of the ingenious story-teller, bound behind his back, working as he talked. Now they strained this way, and now that, at the piece of rope that bound them.

“That was ten years ago,” he said, his voice becoming more and more impressive. “Since that day nothing comes into this wood, — nothing human, that is. Neither white man nor Indian comes, that’s certain. Then why are n’t there chains around that tree, and why are there no bones beneath it, on the ground there? Because, Jackies