way; bodily strength was not the only thing in the world. He looked
about him, seeking for inspiration; his eyes, wandering here and
there, lighted upon something, then remained fixed. The room was
dimly lighted by a small lamp, but the corners were dark, and in one
of these dark corners something was shining with a faint, uncertain
light. The phosphorescent match-box! He had made it himself, and had
ornamented it with a grotesque face in luminous paint. This face now
glimmered and glowered at him from the darkness; and Don Alonzo lay
still and looked back at it. Lying so and looking, there crept into
his mind an old story that he had once read; and he laughed to
himself, and then nodded at the glimmering face. "Thank you, old
fellow!" said Don Alonzo.

Was there a noise? Was it his imagination, or did a branch snap, a
twig rustle down the road? The hunchback had ears like a fox, and in
an instant he was at the window, peering out into the darkness. At
first he could see nothing; but gradually the lilac bushes at the
gate came into sight, and the clumps of flowers in the little garden
plot. Not a breath was stirring, yet--hark! Again a twig snapped, a
branch crackled; and now again! and nearer each time. Don Alonzo
strained his eyes to pierce the darkness. Were those bushes, those
two shapes by the gate? They were not there a moment ago. Ha! they
moved; they were coming nearer. Their feet made no sound on the
soft earth, but his sharp ears caught a new sound,--a whisper, faint,
yet harsh, like a hiss. Don Alonzo had seen and heard enough. He
left the window, and the next moment was diving under the bed.

* * * * *

Mira Pitkin usually slept like a child, from the moment her head