ubtle, subconscious instinct possessed by all higher and more
sensitive organisms suddenly warned me that I was no longer alone--that
alien eyes were bent on me.

Suspending my movements I reared myself on my knees and peered about me
this way and that. Immediately an irrepressible tremor ran through my
system. Directly behind me, armed with a dangerous pitchfork and
maintaining an attitude combining at once defence and attack, was a
large, elderly, whiskered man, roughly dressed and of a most
disagreeable cast of countenance.

At the same moment I observed, stealing softly on me from an opposite
direction, a younger man of equally formidable aspect; and, to judge by
certain of his facial attributes, the son of the first intruder. I
shortly afterward ascertained that they were indeed father and
offspring. The younger marauder bore a large, jagged club and carried a
rope coiled over his arm.

I will not deny that trepidation beset me. What meant the presence of
this menacing pair here in the heart of the forest? What meant their
stealthy advance, their weapons, their wild looks, their uncouth
appearance? Assuredly these boded ill. Perhaps they were robbers,
outlaws, felons, contemplating overt acts on my life, limbs and
property! Perhaps they were escaped maniacs! With a sinking of the heart
I recalled having heard that the Branch State Asylum for the Insane was
situate but a few short miles distant from Hatchersville!

[Illustration: UNTIL HE LOOMED ALMOST ABOVE MY KNEELING FORM]

It may have been that my cheeks paled, and when I spoke my voice
perchance quivered; but I trust that in all other respects my demeanour
in that trying moment was calm, cool and collected. I meant to temporise
with these intruders--to soften their rough spirits by sweetness and
gentleness of demeanour.

"Good morning!" I said in an affable and friendly tone, bowing first to
one and then to the other. "Is it not, on the whole, a pleasant morning
after the refreshing showers that have fallen?"

Instead of responding in kind to my placating overtures, the attitude of
the whiskered man became more threatening than ever. He took several
steps forward, holding his pitchfork before him, tines presented, until
he loomed almost above my kneeling form; and he then hailed his
accomplice, saying, as nearly as I recall his language:

"Come on, son! We've got him surrounded! He can't git away now! He's our
meat!"

My heart now sank until it could