The door to the Lodge stood open. I remembered distinctly drawing it to after me when I came out, although I never locked it. The night was calm. It could not have been blown wide by the wind. Not alarmed, but vaguely uneasy, I entered and walked to the table. I knew a box of matches was here, and I thrust out my hand. It encountered something upright in the darkness; something which did not belong there, for the object yielded to the force of my touch, to fly back in place when I removed my hand. Nervously I fumbled about until I grasped the matches. Swiftly I struck one, and in the light of its tiny flare I saw what the foreign thing was. But I lighted my lamp very calmly, in spite of the disturbing nature of my discovery. Then I thrust my hands in my pockets and stood staring at the long hunting knife which had been driven through the orderly pile of manuscript composing my journal, deep into the oak top of the table. There it was, horn-handled, hafted, with a murderous blade six inches long. I could not doubt its meaning, were I so inclined, any more than I could doubt the big brown hand which had planted that steel blade so deeply and firmly in the wood. It was a warning; a warning such as was given in the middle ages, but the man who had delivered it belonged by right just there. He dwelt in the same mental and moral atmosphere as did his forebears hundreds of years ago. And his declaration of war was assuredly convincing. Nothing could be more real, more significant, more productive of contemplation, than that bit of imbedded steel, shining threateningly in the lamplight. I gathered one comforting fact from this sinister messenger. All was not well between Buck and Celeste. He, too, was in the dark as to her whereabouts, and he, too, failed to nurse in his heart any reassuring message given before she went away. Plainly this man had reached a stage in his infatuation where he would employ any means to rid himself of me. Doubtless he had come to square accounts that night. He had found me out, had very likely waited, and when I had not come his wild hate and mad rage had found expression in the savage act whose result now confronted me. I remained for a long time looking at that knife, and my thoughts were many. Grave, too, they grew to be, as I traced the near future to a climax as fixed as Fate. There were two ways, as there always are, but no third consistent with honor. I must give up the Dryad, or I must kill or be killed. Neither alternative bore rosy tints. The thought of taking a human life filled me with a rebellious horror, but the thought of resigning Celeste--my golden-haired, gray-eyed Dryad--to the uncouth caresses of the smith of Hebron charged my inmost soul with a white-hot denial. I would not do it. I could not do it. The decision had passed from my control. I would wait for her; I would yearn for her sweet presence with all the power of my spirit, and I would fight for her unto the death! Strange that not