of a million hells! Falling chandeliers, the agonized shrieking of the blacks—but the eyes of Atma have not left mine. They sparkle, they flash as horrible black pools.
The heat! Blazing—crashing of lofty towers!
Now she stands before me, and beyond the blackened clouds of smoke comes an ever-increasing stamping—a bestial treading. The gun—the black gun is slowly being raised as a weird cat-like purr springs from those blood-red lips.
The walls are falling!
She is going to shoot! Yes, she is going to kill me! The long fingers are tightening—I am doomed! There is no—that awful treading is nearer!
What—what's that strange form coming out from the flames?
Oh! Oh God, I see . . .
[Here the manuscript ends abruptly.]
THE END
Sea-Wind
By MINNA IRVING
The sea-wind is a pirate bold
Whose ghost will not be laid,
But scourges still the sandy shores
That once he used to raid.
He left his bones in gibbet-chains
To haunt the dark sea-caves,
And beaches bare, and stony cliffs,
Far isles and stormy waves.
His cutlas whistles to and fro,
His voice is in the gales;
Of scuttled barks and drowning men
He tells unholy tales.
He cannot rest without a ship;
So his uneasy ghost
Goes seeking for his vanished crew
From lonely coast to coast.
