Speaks the Nightbird (Matthew Corbett #1)

Speaks the Nightbird (Matthew Corbett #1) Page 14

WITH THE FaDING of the light, the rats grew bold. Matthew had heard their squeakings and rustlings all the afternoon, but they'd not yet made an appearance. He'd been relieved to find that the rodents had not emerged to attack either his lunch or supper - meager beef broth and two slices of black bread, humble but stomach-filling - but now, ever since Green had closed the roof hatch and left only a single lantern burning on its hook, the creatures were creeping out of their nooks and crannies to claim the place.

"Watch your fingers," Rachel told him, sitting on her bench. "They'll give you a bite if you try to strike them. If one crawls on you tonight, it's best to lie perfectly still. They'll be sniffing at you, that's all."

"The one that bit your shoulder," Matthew said. He was standing up, his back against the wall. "Was it only sniffingi"

"No, I tried to get that one away from my waterbucket. I found out they can jump like cats, and I also learned they're going to have your water no matter what you do."

Matthew picked up his own bucket of water, which Green had recently filled from a larger container, and he drank copiously from it. Enough, he hoped, to quench his thirst for the night.

Then he placed the bucket on the floor in the opposite corner, as far away from his bed of straw as possible.

"Green only brings fresh water every other day," Rachel said, watching him. "You won't mind drinking after the rats when you get thirsty enough."

another quandary had presented itself to Matthew, far worse than the problem of the rodents and the waterbucket. Green had also brought in a fresh bucket to be used for elimination. Matthew had realized he was going to have to pull down his breeches and use it - sooner or later - right in front of the woman. and, likewise, she would be using her own without benefit of a shade or screen. He thought he might endure two more lashes added to his sentence if he could have at least a modicum of privacy, but it was not to be.

Suddenly a dark shape darted from a small crevice in the wall of Matthew's cell and went straight for the bucket. as Matthew watched, the rodent - black-furred, red-eyed, and as long as his hand - climbed swiftly up the bucket's side and leaned over its rim to lap the water, its claws gripping the wood. a second one followed, and then a third. The things interrupted their drinking to chatter like washerwomen trading gossip at the common well, and then they broke ranks and squeezed their bodies again into the crevice.

It was going to be a very long night.

Matthew had several books on hand, courtesy of the magistrate, who'd brought the tomes from Bidwell's library that afternoon, but as the light was so meager there would be no reading tonight. Woodward had told him he'd had an interesting conversation with Dr. Shields, and would reveal more when Matthew was set free. Now, though, Matthew felt the walls and bars closing in upon him; without proper light by which to read or write, and with rats scratching and scurrying in the logs, he feared he might lose his grip on his decorum and shame himself before Rachel Howarth. It shouldn't matter, of course, because after all she was an accused murderess - and much worse - but still he desired to present himself as a sturdy oak, not the thin willow he felt to be.

It was warm and steamy in the gaol. Rachel cupped her hands into her waterbucket and dampened her face, washing off the salty perspiration that had collected on her cheeks and forehead. She cooled her throat with the water as well, and paid no heed when two rats squeaked and fought in the corner of her cage.

"How long is it that you've been herei" Matthew asked, sitting on his bench with his knees pulled up to his chin. "This is the second week of May, is it noti"

"Yes."

"I was brought here on the third day of March."

Matthew flinched at the very thought of it. No matter what she might have done, she was made of sterner stuff than he. "How do you stand it, day after dayi"

She finished bathing her throat before she replied. "Do I have any choice but to stand iti I suppose I could become a gibbering fool. I suppose I could break down, fall to my knees, and confess witchcraft at the boots of fine Mr. Bidwell, but should I go to my death that wayi"

"You could recite the Lord's Prayer before him. That might win you some mercy."

"No," she said, and she aimed those fierce amber eyes at him, "it would not. as I told you, I refuse to recite something that has no meaning in this town. and my recitation of it would change no one's mind about my guilt." She cupped her hands again and this time let the water flow through her wild mane of ebony hair. "You heard what the magistrate said. If I spoke the Lord's Prayer, it might be a trick of the Devil to save my skin."

Matthew nodded. "I grant you, you're right. Bidwell and the others have made their opinions about you, and nothing will shake them."

"Except one thing," she said firmly. "Discovering who really murdered the reverend and my husband, and who plotted this evil against me."

"Discovery is only half the solution. The other half would be the presentation of proof, without which discovery is hollow."

When Matthew was silent again he was aware of the noises the rats were making, so he chose to speak in an effort to keep his mind busied. "Who would have cause to commit those crimesi Do you have any ideai"

"No."

"Did your husband anger someonei Did he cheat someonei Did he - "

"This is not about Daniel," she interrupted. "It is about me. I was chosen as the object of this farce because of the very reasons I was hounded from their church. My mother was Portuguese, my father a dark Irishman. But I have my mother's color and her eyes. They mark me as surely as a raven among doves. I alone am of this color, here in this town. Who would not look upon me as someone different. . . someone to be feared, because I am differenti"

Matthew had thought of another reason, as well: her exotic beauty. He doubted that a woman more comely than Rachel Howarth had ever set foot in Fount Royal. Her nigrescent coloring was surely objectionable to many - if not most - in this society of pallid whitebreads, but that very same hue was as the burnished flesh of a forbidden fruit. He'd never in his life seen anyone the equal of her. She seemed more proud animal than suffering human, and he thought that this quality too could stir the fire of a man's lust. Or fan the crackling embers of another woman's jealousy.

"The evidence against you," he said, and quickly amended himself: "The apparent evidence against you is overwhelming. Buckner's story may be riddled with holes, but he believes what he said today to be true. The same with Elias Garrick. He firmly believes he witnessed you in . . . shall we say . . . intimate accord with Satan."

"Lies," she said.

"I have to disagree. I don't think they're lying."

"So you do believe me to be a witch, theni"

"I don't know what I believe," he said. "Take the poppets, for instance. They were found under a floorboard of your kitchen. a woman named Cara - "

"Grunewald," Rachel said. "She pinched her husband's ear for speaking to me, long before any of this happened."

"Madam Grunewald saw the location of the poppets in a dream," Matthew continued. "How do you account for thati"

"Simply. She made the poppets and put them there herself."

"If she hated you so deeply, then why did she leave Fount Royali Why did she not stay to testify before the magistratei Why did she not satisfy her hatred by remaining here to watch your executioni"

Now Rachel was staring at the floor. She shook her head.

Matthew said, "If I had made the poppets and hidden them beneath the floorboard, I would make certain to be in the crowd on the day of your departure from this earth. No, I don't believe Madam Grunewald had a hand in creating them."

"Nicholas Paine," Rachel said suddenly, and looked again at Matthew. "He was one of the three men who broke down my door that March morning, bound me with ropes, and threw me into the back of a wagon. He also was one of the men who found the poppets."

"Who were the other two men who took you into custodyi"

"Hannibal Green and aaron Windom. I never shall forget that dawn. They dragged me from my bed, and Green locked his arm around my throat to stop my screaming. I spat in Windom's face and got a slap for it."

"Paine, Garrick, James Reed, and Kelvin Bonnard discovered the poppets," Matthew said, recalling what Garrick had said on the night of their arrival. "Can you think of any possible reason Paine or any of those others might have fashioned them and hidden them therei"

"No."

"all right, then." Matthew saw another dark streak go across the floor. He watched the rat climb up the side of the waterbucket and drink. "Let us say that Paine, for whatever reason, did make the poppets and put them under the floorboard. Why should it be Madam Grunewald who saw their location in a dreami Why should it not be Paine himself, if he was so eager to present physical evidence against youi" He pondered the question and thought he might have an answer. "Did Paine have . . . uh . . . a relationship with Madam Grunewaldi"

"I don't think so," Rachel replied. "Cara Grunewald was as fat as a pig and had half her nose eaten away by the pox."

"Oh." Matthew pondered some more. "Less reason she should leave Fount Royal, then, if she had made the poppets and knew you to be falsely accused. No, whoever fashioned them is still here. Of that I'm positive. a person who would go to the effort of such deceit would make sure he - or she - had the satisfaction of watching you die." He glanced through the bars at her. "Pardon my bluntness."

Rachel said nothing for a while, as the rats continued to squeak and scurry in the walls. Then, "You know, I'm really beginning to believe you've not been sent here to spy on me."

"You should. I'm here - unfortunately - on a criminal offense."

"Involving the blacksmith, did you sayi"

"I entered his barn without permission," Matthew explained. "He attacked me, I injured his face, and he desired satisfaction. Therefore the three-day sentence and three lashes."

"Seth Hazelton is a very strange man. I wouldn't doubt that he attacked you, but what was the reasoni"

"I discovered a sack hidden in the barn that he desired not to have brought to light. according to him, it was full of his wife's belongings. But I think it was something else altogether."

"What, theni"

He shook his head. "I don't know, but I do intend to find out."

"How old are youi" she asked suddenly. "Twenty years."

"Have you always been so curiousi"

"Yes," he answered. "always."

"From what I saw today, the magistrate doesn't appreciate your curiosity"

Matthew said, "He appreciates the truth. Sometimes we arrive at it from different routes."

"If he chooses to believe what's claimed about me, he is lost in the wilderness," she said. "Tell me why it is that you - a clerk - seem to grant me more innocence than does a learned magistrate of the law."

Matthew thought about this point before he gave a reply. "Perhaps it's because I never met a witch before."

"and the magistrate hasi"

"He's never tried a witch, but he does know judges who have. I think also that he was more impressed by the Salem trials than I, since I was only thirteen years at the time and still in an almshouse." Matthew rested his chin upon one of his knees. "The magistrate has in his sphere of learning all the accumulated knowledge of English law," he said. "Some of that knowledge is built on a framework of medieval belief. as I am a lowly clerk and have not yet been immersed in such knowledge, I do not hold so strongly to its conceptions. You should realize, however, that Magistrate Woodward is indeed a liberal jurist. If he were entirely of the medieval mind, you would be burnt by now."

"What's he waiting for, theni If I'm going to burn anyway, why hear these witnessesi"

"The magistrate wants to give you an opportunity to answer all the charges. It's the proper way of procedure."

"Damn the procedure!" Rachel snapped, and she stood up. "Damn the charges! They're all lies!"

"Profanity will not help your position," Matthew said calmly. "I'd suggest you refrain from it."

"What will help my positioni" she demanded, approaching the bars. "Shall I fall on my knees and beg mercy for crimes I haven't committedi Shall I sign over my husband's land and all my possessions and swear upon the Bible that I shall never bewitch the citizens of Fount Royal againi Tell me! What can I possibly do to save my lifei"

It was a good question. So good, in fact, that Matthew was unable to supply an answer. The best he could manage was: "There is some hope."

"ah, hope!" Rachel said bitterly. Her hands curled around the bars. "Perhaps you're not a spy, but you're a liar and you know you are. There is no hope for me. There never was any hope, not since that morning I was dragged from my house. I am going to be executed for crimes I have not committed, and the murderer of my husband will go free. Where's the hope in thati"

"Hey, there! Quiet down!" It was Hannibal Green, thundering from the entrance. He came into the gaol, bearing a lantern, and behind him trudged the filthy, ragged figure Matthew had last seen by the light of a burning house. Gwinett Linch had his ratsack at his side, a cowhide bag over his shoulder, and his sticker in his hand.

"Brought you some company," Green rumbled. "Gonna clean this hole up a bit."

Rachel didn't respond. Tight-lipped, she returned to her bench and sat down, then she covered her head and face with her cowl again.

"Which one'll do yei" Green asked of the ratcatcher, and Linch motioned toward the cage opposite Matthew's. Linch entered the cell and used his foot to brush aside the layer of dirty straw from the floor in a small circle. Then he reached into a pocket of his breeches and his hand emerged to throw a few dozen dried kernels of corn into the circle. again his hand went into his pocket, and then a number of small pieces of potato joined the corn kernels. He produced a wooden jar from the cowhide bag, out of which he shook a brown powdery substance around the circle's perimeter. The same brown powder was shaken here and there in the straw, and applied at the base of the cell's walls.

"You gonna need mei" Green asked.

Linch shook his head. "I mi' be a while."

"Here, I'll give you the keys. You can lock up when you're done. Remember to put out the lantern."

The exchange of the keys was made, after which Green hurried out. Linch shook more of the brown powder into the straw, making trails between the corners of the walls and the circle.

"What is thati" Matthew inquired. "Some kind of poisoni"

"It's most ground sugar," Linch answered. "With a teech of opium mixed to it. Got to get them rats drowsy, slow 'em down some." He returned the lid to the wooden jar and put it back in the cowhide bag. "Whyi You thinkin' of robbin' my jobi"

"I think not."

Linch grinned. He was listening to the squeakings and squealings of the rats, which had obviously caught scent of the feast that was being offered to them. Linch put on his deerskin gloves and then with smooth familiarity removed the piece of wood that secured the single blade at the end of his sticker. From his bag he brought out a fearsome appliance that had five curved blades, much like small scythes, and this he twisted into position on the sticker's tip. Two metal clips were forced into grooves to lock the ugly implement, and then Linch regarded it with obvious pride. "Ever see such a thing, boyi" he asked. "I can strike two or three at a time with this. Thought it up myself."

"an artful device, I'm sure."

"a useful device," Linch corrected. "Hazelton fashioned it for me. He's an inventor, once he puts his mind to a task." He cocked his head toward a rustling in the corner.

"ah, listen to 'em! Fightin' to eat their last meal!" His grin widened. "Hey, witch!" he called to Rachel. "You gonna give me a tumble 'fore you burni"

She didn't dignify his request with a reply or even a movement.

"You get over close to her, boy, and stick out your cock," Linch said. "She mi' suck it for you." He laughed as Matthew's face bloomed red, and then he pulled the cell's bench next to the cleared-off circle. When it was situated as he pleased, Linch left the cell to pluck the lantern from its hook and he brought it into the cage with him. He put it down on the floor a few feet away from the circle, then he sat upon the bench with his legs crossed beneath him and the five-bladed sticker held in a two-handed grip. "Won't be long now," he announced. "They're gettin' 'em-selves a taste of that sweet stupidity."

Matthew saw the ratcatcher's luminous pale gray eyes glitter in the dim candlelight. They might have been the icy eyes of a specter rather than those of a human being. Linch spoke again, in a low, soft, almost singsong cadence: "Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies." He repeated it twice more, each time becoming softer and more song than speech.

and then, indeed, a large black rat did enter the deadly circle. It sniffed at a piece of potato, its tail twitching; then it grabbed up a corn kernel between its teeth and fled for the darkness again.

"Come out, come out," Linch sang, all but whispering. He stared at the circle, waiting for the rodents to appear in his field of vision. "Come out, come out, and taste my candies."

another rat appeared, grabbed up a corn kernel, and fled. But the third rat that entered the circle moved more sluggishly, and Matthew knew it must be feeling the effects of Linch's sugared opium. This benumbed rodent chewed on one of the potatoes for a moment, then stood up on its hind legs to stare at the candleflame as if it were a celestial light.

Linch was very fast. The sticker whipped down in a blur of motion and there was a high-pitched squeal as the rat was impaled. at once Linch snapped the small beast's neck, then plucked the carcass from its blade and made a deposit in his sack. all of this had taken only a very few seconds, and now Linch held the sticker ready again and he was softly singing. "Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies ..."

Within a minute, Matthew had witnessed two more executions and a near-miss. Linch might be disgusting, Matthew thought, but he was certainly proficient at his task.

The rats that were entering the circle now showed signs of lethargy. Feasting on the sugar and opium had clearly robbed them of much of their survival instinct. a few of them still had the speed to escape Linch's blades, but most perished before they could turn tail. Several died so bewildered they didn't even squeal as they were pierced.

after twenty or more executions there was quite a lot of rodent blood in the circle, yet the rats kept coming, too drug-fogged to be daunted from the promise of such treats. Every once in a while Linch would repeat in that soft, singsong tone his little ditty about dandies and candies, but it was such an easy massacre that it seemed a waste of breath. Down came the sticker, and rarely did Linch misjudge his aim. Soon the ratcatcher was killing them two at a time.

In forty minutes or so, the number of rodents began to subside. Matthew presumed that either Linch had killed the majority of gaolhouse rats, or that at last the odors of blood and carnage were strong enough to warn them away even through the numbing effects of the - as Linch had put it - "sweet stupidity." The ratcatcher, too, seemed thoroughly fatigued by the slaughter, which had bloodied his gloves and bulged his sack.

One small gray specimen, weaving around like a drunken lord, entered the circle. as Matthew watched, intrigued not by the grisly spectacle but by Linch's speed and surety of dispatch, the little rat nibbled at a kernel of corn and then began to chase its tail with ferocious intent. around and around it went in a mad spin, with Linch's sticker poised above it waiting to strike. at last the rat gave up the chase and lay on its belly as if exhausted. Matthew expected the sticker to flash down and a blade to bite deep, but Linch stayed his hand.

The ratcatcher gave a long, weary sigh. "You know," he said quietly, "they ain't such terrible creatures. Got to eat, just like anybody. Got to live. They came over on the ships, same as the people did. They're smart beasts; they know that where the people are, that's where they'll find food. No, they ain't so terrible." He leaned over and touched a finger to some of the sugared opium he'd scattered on the floor, and then he pressed the finger to the rat's mouth. Whether it ate the offering or not,

Matthew couldn't tell, but the rodent was far too stupified to flee.

"Hey, watch this trick," Linch said. He reached over, picked up the lantern, and began to move it in a slow, sinuous circle above the gray rat. The rodent just lay there, seemingly uninterested, its body stretched out next to a gnawed lump of potato. Linch kept the movement slow and steady, and presently Matthew saw the rat's tail twitch and its head angle up toward the mysterious glow that was circling its theater of night. a minute passed. Linch kept moving the lantern around and around, with no discernible reduction or addition of speed. The candlelight glinted red in the eyes of the rat, and ice-white in the eyes of the ratcatcher.

Linch whispered, "Up, my pretty. Up, up, my pretty." The rat's tail continued to twitch, its eyes followed the light, but otherwise it remained stationary.

"Up, up," Linch whispered, again almost in a singsong cadence. "Up, up, my pretty." The lantern went around and around again. Linch bent his head toward the rodent, his untamed brows knitting with concentration. "Up, up," he spoke, a compelling note entering his voice. "Up, up."

Suddenly the rat gave a shiver and stood on its hind legs. Balancing on its tail, it began to circle with the progress of the lantern, like a tiny dog begging for a bone. Matthew watched with absolute fascination, realizing the rat in its bewildered state was transfixed by the candle. The rodent's eyes were directed to the flame, its stubby front legs clawing at the air as if desiring union with that which made such a strange and beautiful illumination. Who knew what the rat was seeing - by benefit of the sugared opium - there at the center of the firei

"Dance for me," Linch whispered. "a reel, if you please." He circled the lantern a bit faster, and it seemed the rodent turned faster as well, though this might have been Matthew's imagination. Indeed, one might imagine the rat had become a dancer in accord with Linch's command. Its hind legs were shivering, about to collapse, yet still the rat sought communion with the flame.

"Pretty, pretty one," Linch said, in a voice as soft as a touch of mist on the cheek. and then he brought the sticker down, not hurriedly but rather with an air of resignation. Two of the blades pierced the rat's exposed belly and the rodent stiffened and shrieked. It bared its teeth and gnashed at the air, as most of its brothers and sisters had done in their death agonies. Linch put the lantern aside, broke the rat's neck with a quick jerk of his right hand, and the bloody carcass went into the sack with the others.

"How'd you like thati" he asked Matthew, his grin wide and expectant of praise.

"Quite impressive," Matthew said. "You might find employ in a circus, if you would spare the life of your partner."

Linch laughed. He removed a dark-stained cloth from his bag and began to clean the sticker's five blades, which meant the executions had come to an end. "I was in the circus," he said as he blotted away the blood. "Nine, ten years ago back in England. Used rats in my act. Dressed 'em up in little suits, made 'em dance just as you saw. They have a taste of ale or rum - or stronger - and a candle makes 'em think they're seein' God. Whatever God is to a rat, I mean."

"How come you to leave the circusi"

"Didn't get on so well with the bastard who owned it. I was makin' the lion's share of money for him, but he was payin' me lamb's wages. anyhow, the plague's got so bad over there your audience is all ribs and teeth." He shrugged. "I found me a better way to earn my livin'."

"Ratcatchingi" Matthew realized he'd spoken it a shade distastefully.

"Gainful elimination of pests," Linch answered. "Like I told you, every town's got to have a ratcatcher. If there's anythin' on earth I know about, it's rats. and people, too," he added. "I know enough about people to be happy I spend most of my time with rats." He shook the heavy sack full of carcasses. "Even if they are dead ones."

"a delightful sentiment," Matthew said.

Linch stood up, the ratsack attached to his belt. He returned the bloodied cloth to the cowhide bag and slipped its strap around his shoulder. "I been here near two years," he said. "Long enough to know this is a good town, but it ain't got a chance while that witch stays alive." He nodded toward Rachel in her cage. "Ought to take her out come Monday mornin' and finish her off. Put her out of her misery and the rest of us out of ours, too."

"Has she done anything against youi" Matthew asked.

"No. Not yet, I mean to say. But I know what she's done, and what she's like to do 'fore it's over." He held the sticker in his right hand and picked up the lantern with his left. "If I was you, boy, I'd watch my back tonight."

"Thank you for your concern, sir."

"You're so very welcome." Linch gave a mocking bow. When he had straightened up, he narrowed his eyes and looked around the cell. "Believe I've cleaned the place might fairly. Maybe a few more still hidin', but none much to worry about. I'll say good night to you and the witch, then." He left the cell and started off, still carrying the lantern.

"Wait!" Matthew said, his hands clenching the bars. "aren't you going to leave the lighti"

"What, this stub of a candlei ain't an hour of burnin' left in it. anyway, how am I supposed to see to lock upi No, I'm takin' it with me." Without a further word Linch walked out of the gaol and the darkness was total. There was the sound of a chain rattling as Linch secured the entrance, and then the awful silence descended.

Matthew stayed exactly where he was for a minute or more, still gripping the bars. He stared toward the gaol's doorway, hoping beyond hope that Linch, or someone, would return with a lantern, because this darkness was a brutally terrible thing. He could smell the blood of rats. He felt his nerves starting to unravel like axe-hacked ropes.

"I told you," Rachel said in a quiet but very calm voice. "The darkness is bad. They never leave a lantern in here at night. You might have known that."

"Yes." His voice sounded thick. "I might have."

He heard her stand up from her bench. He heard her footsteps through the straw. Then there came the rustling of her sackcloth gown and the scrape of a bucket. What followed next was the noise of a stream of water.

One problem, he realized grimly, had been solved.

He would have to bear the dark, though it was almost beyond endurance. He would have to bear it anyway, because if he did not fight its pressure upon his mind, then he might scream or weep, and what good would come of those actionsi Surely he could bear it for three nights, if Rachel Howarth had borne it for three months. Surely he could.

From the logwall behind him he heard a squeaking and scurrying. He knew full well that now had come the night that would test his mettle, and if his mettle be found cracked he was lost.

Rachel's voice suddenly came from just beyond the bars that parted them. "Try to sleep, if you can. There's no use in standing up all night."

at last Matthew reluctantly loosened his grip on the iron and made his way past the desk to the place in the straw where he'd decided to sleep. That had been before the light had been taken, of course. He knelt down, feeling around to make sure no rats were waiting to attack him. There were none, though they sounded alarmingly near. He lay on his side and curled himself up into a tight ball, his arms around his knees. It seemed eons until the dawn.

He heard the woman lie down in the straw. Then silence reigned, except for the rodents. He clenched his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps he made a noise of despair - a gasp, a moan, something - but he wasn't sure.

"May I call you Matthewi" Rachel asked.

It wasn't proper. Wasn't proper at all. He was the magistrate's clerk, and she the accused. No, such familiarity was not proper.

"Yes," he said, his voice strained and near cracking. "Good night, Matthew."

"Good night," he answered, and he almost said Rachel but he closed his mouth before the name could emerge. He did speak it, though, in his innermost voice.

He waited, listening. For what, he did not know. Perhaps the buzz of a luminous, witch-directed fly. Perhaps the cold laughter of a demon who had come to visit for obscene purposes; perhaps the sound of raven's wings flitting in the dark. None of those sounds occurred. There were just the furtive noises of the surviving rodents and then, a while later, the soft breathing of Rachel Howarth in sleep.

What she needs is a champion of truth, he thought.

and who in this town could be that champion but himselfi But the evidence . . . the apparent evidence . . . was so damning.

Damning or not, there were so many questions. So many whys, he could scarce list them all in his mind.

One thing was certain: if the woman was not a witch, someone in Fount Royal - perhaps more than a single person - had gone to great and evil effort to paint her as one. again the question: whyi

In spite of his trepidations, his body was relaxing. He felt sleep coming nearer. He fought it by going over in his head the testimony of Jeremiah Buckner. at last, though, sleep was the victor, and he joined Rachel in the land of forgetting.