nd plant some of
those purple orchids at its head. I'll cut a cedar headstone, too, and
mark it so that nobody else shall desecrate it as we have done."

"You mustn't touch it! It's nobody's--only a warning."

"A warning, surely; that we must take great care lest a like fate come
on us; but somebody lies under that mound and I pity him. Most
probable that he lost his life in that very whirlpool which wrecked
us. Twice I've been upset and lost all my belongings, but escaped
safe. I hope I'll not run the same chance again. Come. Lie down again,
and go to sleep."

"Couldn't sleep; to try in such a haunted place would be to be
'spelled'----"

"Pierre Ricord! For a fellow that's so smart at some things you are
the biggest dunce I know, in others. Haven't we slept like lords ever
since we struck this camp? I'm going to make my bed up again and turn
in. I advise you to do the same."

Adrian tossed the branches aside, then rearranged them, lapping the
soft ends over the hard ones in an orderly row which would have
pleased a housewife. Thus freshened his odorous mattress was as good
as new, and stretching himself upon it he went to sleep immediately.

Pierre fully intended to keep awake; but fatigue and loneliness
prevailed, and five minutes later he had crept close to Adrian's side.

The sunshine on his face, and the sound of a knife cutting wood awoke
him; and there was Adrian whittling away at a broad slab of cedar,
smiling and jeering, and in the best of spirits, despite his rather
solemn occupation.

"For a fellow who wouldn't sleep, you've done pretty well. See. I've
caught a fish and set it cooking. I've picked a pile of berries, and
have nearly finished this headstone. Added another accomplishment to
my many--monument maker. But I'm wrong to laugh over that, though the
poor unknown to whom it belongs would be grateful to me, I've no
doubt. Lend a hand, will you?"

But nothing would induce Pierre to engage in any such business. Nor
would he touch his breakfast while Adrian's knife was busy. He sat
apart, looking anywhere rather than toward his mate, and talking over
his shoulder to him in a strangely subdued voice.

"Adrian!"

"Well?"

"Most done?"

"Nearly."

"What you going to put on it?"

"I've been wondering. Think this: 'To the Memory of My Unknown
Brother.'"

"Wh-a-a-t!"

Adrian repeated the inscription.

"He was no kin to you."

"We are all kin. It's all one world, God's world. All the p