ension. They evidently thought that you would try to leave in the
day-time, and had things all arranged for taking a shot at you
somewhere, but your nocturnal skedaddle knocked their plans galley west.
There is one thing dead sure, those Voodoo priests are bad medicine, as
we used to say out West, and you want to keep your weather-eye open
until you are safe on board a steamer and out of the harbor. I wouldn't
give five cents for your life if you walked about the streets of Porto
Prince. When the time comes to leave I will have you smuggled on board.
The authorities would wink at your assassination, but they would not
openly countenance it."

Jones remarked wearily that he had begun to believe it might be as well
for him to rest quietly in the consulate, and not give them another
chance.

The soft flower-scented breeze blew softly in through the open window
and was soothing to Jones. Lying there on the lounge with his eyes
closed, he soon fell asleep, and the consul left him to attend to his
various duties. When Jones awoke he lay in a sort of drowsy
condition--half asleep and half awake. Through his partly open eyes he
looked through the open door leading out on the broad piazza. There was
a chair in front of the door, and over the top of this he saw a face and
a pair of very black eyes looking at him intently. For a moment he
imagined it was some freak of his imagination, as the face was as still
as though it was carved in wax. Right in line with Jones' eyes, and
within a foot of his half extended arm, was the little table, and the
handle of the revolver seemed to stand out as though placed there for
his especial benefit. That was certainly real, and it required a very
slight movement for his fingers to close over the pistol handle; but he
did not move and lay watching the figure, which began to rise slowly and
developed into the form of a large, ugly-looking negro. Jones remembered
particularly noticing a white scar across the cheek just under the eye.
The man was not looking at him now, but was glancing about with the
stealthy look of a hunted animal. At the same time he drew from under
his coat a long, unpleasant-looking knife. As he did so Jones lifted his
pistol, and, aiming hurriedly at the breast, fired. The man dropped,
grasping at the chair as he did so, but immediately rose to his feet,
swaying unsteadily. Bang! went Jones' pistol again. This time the negro
did not fall, but stood seeming half dazed, steady