before. A wave of apprehension overcame
Peter as he realized the old flip attitude of Mirestone's was coming
back. That meant definite trouble, and Peter began to fear the
consequences.

"So, why not pay me and leave?" he again ventured. "Or do you want
something else?" Peter knew that he didn't need to ask that last
question, for already he realized the grim experiment that was playing
about in Mirestone's head.

"Yes. I just told you what I wanted. I want to see the hex on a human
before I go."

"Why? You have your information. Why do you want to see it work on a
man?"

"My stupid, little peasant friend, do I look like a student of history?"

For the first time Peter actually looked at Mirestone and saw him for
what he was. Of course, he couldn't be a student. No student would act
as he did, or even look as he did. The words jammed in his throat as he
was about to voice a reply.

"Ha--Martin G. Mirestone, student of history, student of German history.
No my little oxen friend. I am no more a student of history than you
are, but I need the hex for other reasons which do not concern you."
Then as if he were contemplating a great new joke he continued. "But on
the other hand, maybe the future of the white feather hex does concern
you."

Mirestone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of thunder and the
increased splashing of rain on the windows. But somehow Peter seemed not
to notice.

* * * * *

Somewhat later Mirestone stepped quietly over to the sleeping form of
his host. Peter had been over twenty-four hours now without sleep, and
although the old Dutchman had tried desperately to fight off the
drowsiness that overcame him, the recent excitement of the day had
finally taken its toll. Lightning struck near by followed with an ear
splitting blast that shook the house to its rocky foundations. Pieces of
slate flew off the roof and were carried away into the night. The rain
poured down in a great deluge, blurring the window, making it impossible
to see in or out.

Mirestone held out a glistening white feather in his long spidery
fingers. He placed it within a few inches of Peter's nose and watched
the delicate edges riffle in the Dutchman's breath. Crossing to the
table, he leaned over the white fluff and breathed the short German
incantation over it. How it glistened in the firelight! He bent closer
and closer as he whispered the magic words that Peter had taught him,