re!" Constance
said. Thirty hours before, when she had told Henry of the Drum, she
had done it without belief herself, without looking for belief in him.
But now, whether or not she yet believed or simply clung to the
superstition for its shred of hope, it gave her a weapon to terrify
him; for he believed--believed with all the unreasoning horror of his
superstition and the terror of long-borne and hidden guilt.

"The Drum, Henry!" she repeated. "The Drum you've been listening to
all day upon the beach--the Indian Drum that sounded for the dead of
the _Miwaka_; sounded, one by one, for all who died! But it didn't
sound for him! It's been sounding again, you know; but, again, it
doesn't sound for him, Henry, not for him!"

"The _Miwaka_! What do you mean by that? What's that got to do with
this?" His swollen face was thrust forward at her; there was threat
against her in his tense muscles and his bloodshot eyes.

She did not shrink back from him, or move; and now he was not waiting
for her answer. Something--a sound--had caught him about. Once it
echoed, low in its reverberation but penetrating and quite distinct.
It came, so far as direction could be assigned to it, from the trees
toward the shore; but it was like no forest sound. Distinct too was it
from any noise of the lake. It was like a Drum! Yet, when the echo
had gone, it was a sensation easy to deny--a hallucination, that was
all. But now, low and distinct it came again; and, as before,
Constance saw it catch Henry and hold him. His lips moved, but he did
not speak; he was counting. "Two," she saw his lips form.

The Indian woman passed them and opened the door, and now the sound,
louder and more distinct, came again.

"The Drum!" she whispered, without looking about. "You hear? Three,
I've heard. Now four! It will beat twenty; then we will know if more
are dead!"

The door blew from the woman's hand, and snow, swept up from the drifts
of the slope, swirled into the room; the draft blew the flame of the
lamp in a smoky streak up the glass chimney and snuffed it out. The
moonlight painted a rectangle on the floor; the moonlight gave a green,
shimmering world without. Hurried spots of cloud shuttered away the
moon for moments, casting shadows which swept raggedly up the slope
from the shore. The woman seized the door and, tugging it about
against the gale, she slammed it shut. She did not try at once to
relight the lamp.

The sound