The wild wind that bent the grasses, the horrible
persistent hoot of the owl in the cypress tree, the night noises of the
black swamp to the west, all mocked and urged and whispered of things
unspeakable.
The camp fell quiet. A black moonless sky brooded above the dying camp
fires. Not until this wild world of swamp and Indian seemed asleep did
the man in the grass stir.
Silently then he crept forward upon hands and knees until he had passed
the first of the Indian wigwams. Here he dropped for a silent interval
of caution into shadow and lay there scarcely breathing. On toward the
door of Diane's shelter he crept and once more lay inert and quiet.
Thunder rumbled disquietingly off to the east, The wind was rising over
the Glades with a violent rustle of grass and leaves. Now that his arm
was nerved at last to its terrible task, it behooved him to hurry, ere
the rain and thunder stirred the camp.
Noiselessly he crawled forward again. As he did so a ragged dart of
lightning glinted evilly in his eyes. With a leap something bounded
from the shadows behind him and bore him to the ground.
In the thick pall of darkness, he fought with infernal desperation.
The rain came fiercely in great gusts of tearing wind. There was the
strength of a madman to-night in Carl's powerful arms.
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