Drawing a little nearer and feeling a quiver of apprehension run over him, Chester bent and turned the prostrate lad upon his back. As he did so he saw a streak of blood across Merriwell’s temple. A gasp came from the lips of the young scoundrel and he straightened up. “Heavens!” he muttered, “I believe I have fixed him! Must have hit him fairly on the temple. If I did he’s dead, that’s all!” Fear grew upon him as he stared at the pallid face of the unconscious lad. Bending over, he placed his hand on Dick’s breast. With a cry he started back. “He’s dead!” he whispered. “I have killed him! Good Lord! what a scrape!” He was trembling in every limb. Suddenly he crouched like a hunted thing and began staring around. “No one saw me!” he whispered. “They can’t prove it! What will I do? Darrell will find him when he comes back!” Through his mind ran a wild plan to carry the body away into the woods and conceal it somewhere. With this object in view, he again bent over Merriwell; but suddenly terror seized him to such an extent that he could not touch the silent figure. “No, no!” he half screamed, as he quickly drew back. “I can’t do it—I can’t! I won’t put my hands on him again!” With his heart pounding furiously in his bosom, he began to retreat, his eyes still fixed on the boy he had so treacherously struck down. Step by step, foot by foot, he backed away. The bushes closed around him. He paused a moment to take a last look at that still form and then vanished. With a feeling of horror and guilt growing upon him, he hurried away into the silent woods. Now and then he cast an apprehensive glance backward over his shoulder, for time after time he felt that the spirit of the lad he had slain was following him. “They will call it murder!” he groaned. “But I’ll deny it! I’ll swear I never did it! How can they prove it against me?” The woods grew thicker and thicker. Finally he found himself crashing and floundering through a dense jungle. Before him the tangled bushes seemed to bar his way, and, as he sought to force a passage, they resisted and held him back. “You can’t stop me!” he snarled. “You can’t hold me! I know what you are trying to do. You want him to catch me!” At length he paused, panting and exhausted. For some moments he stood listening to the silence of the forest. Behind him at a distance a twig snapped. It seemed as loud as a pistol shot, and he gave a great start. “He’s coming! he’s coming!” he palpitated, and then tore his way through the tangled underbrush. The branches whipped his face and tore his clothes. He tripped and fell on his hands and knees. He crept onward. Finally he sank on his stomach, prostrate on the dank ground, where he lay trembling and breathing heavily. Somewhere in the dense wood a tree toad piped mournfully. “Peep! peep! peep!” cried the little fellow, and there was unutterable sadness and lamentation in the sound. “Dry up!” whispered the haunted lad. “Be still and let me listen!”