Lawrie did not answer for the reason that at the word 'spurs,' a queerly premonitory chill passed over him. Uneasily, he recalled the other's parting word and the cold, evil hatred of the other's glance. He tried to shake off the cold, chilly feeling that was settling over him, but without success. There seemed to be an indefinable change in the atmosphere, a sense of something horrible about to happen. They all felt it, in a lesser degree. The gray day dragged along, and conversation lagged. By common consent, they all avoided glancing at the empty cell. It seemed too potent a reminder of the thing that waited for them all. Dusk settled down and shadows began to fill the corners. And then Lawrie glancing idly out the door of his cell, gave a startled cry. There in the shadows before his cell door, he saw something. A shadow that formed, that seemed to pause and linger before him. Then, as he cried out, it melted into nothing and was gone. His heart was beating fast, pounding with the nameless fear that held him in an ever-tightening grip. The sense of impending calamity drew closer. He began to shake. "What's wrong?" called Claffin, curiously, his voice low. Lawrie, eyes fastened on the empty cell next to him, did not answer. He could not. He was watching something--something that formed before his eyes into a man, a shadowy figure that smiled horribly and wore gleaming spurs. He saw it form, growing clearer and drawing nearer the bars. The shadowy eyes gazed back into his terrified ones, and then he screamed at the thing he read in them. A scream that died in his throat in a gurgle as he fell heavily. The guard came running. "What's going on here?" he demanded, angrily. He peered in suspiciously at the fallen figure. At last they entered the silent cell and raised him to his cot. He was dead. And across the horror that death had stamped indelibly on his face, there ran the livid gash of a spur! ABOUT AUTHORS