Monk had not stirred from his room all day. The feverish sleep into which he had fallen fled from him before noon, and now he stood at his window looking out into the blackness. A clammy air blew against his face. He stretched out his hand and drew it back suddenly, as if he had touched the dead. It was cold and moist. He rubbed it violently against his clothes, as though he could not wipe off the dampness. A tremor seized upon him. Hark! was that the dripping of water? No. A sickly smile played over his countenance. He went to the table and tapped lightly with his fingers, as he had done before. In another moment the taps were answered, and he involuntarily counted as they came, one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—then all was silent. He made the call a second time, he tried it over and over, and at each response it ticked seven times, never more, never less, but seven times clearly, distinctly. Suddenly he sprang up, and through shut teeth hissed,— “The seventh day, by Heaven! But I’ll cheat you—I’ll not kill him!” He darted noiselessly down the stairs, and struck out through the woods. In half an hour he emerged on the edge of a clearing, a dozen yards from a chopper’s cabin. Creeping stealthily to the door he shook it, then after a moment’s irresolution cried out,— “Peters! Peters! look out for Shiflet. He has sworn to murder you to-night.” Without waiting for a reply he sprang away, and was quickly lost among the trees. A moment afterward a tall form arose out of the shadow of a stump near the cabin, and passed rapidly in an opposite direction. At the summit of the hill east of Agatha, a steep precipice is formed by a great, bare, projecting rock. From the valley, its outline resembles an enormous face in profile, and they call it “The Devil’s Head.” The full moon rendered the unbroken mass of cloud translucent, producing a peculiar sinister effect. The mist still blew through the air, but in the zenith there was a dull ashen hue, and the surrounding cloud was the color of earth. The far-off hills loomed up majestic, terrible, against the gloom; nearer objects were strangely magnified in the tawny light. At the foot of this phantom crag, on a terrace, is the ore-bank and blackened coal-shed. Below rose the metal-stack, from whose stone hearth a waste of sand sloped gently to the creek. The furnace squatted grim and black. Its blood-shot eye was shut; its gaping throat uttered no sigh, no groan; its throbbing pulse was stilled—the fierce, struggling monster was dead. The only bright spot in all the valley was the yellow circle made by the watchman’s lantern in the coal-shed.