"Nonsense. Extinct, this
hundred years."
"Extinct? They meet to-night," said the outcast, in sudden grief and
passion. "They drink blood--plan blood. Extinct? Are _you_ married to
these people? Does the knowledge come so cheap, or at a price? All these
years--darkness--sunken--alone"--He trembled violently, but regained his
voice. "O my friend! This very night they swear in recruits, and set the
day. I know their lodge-room. For any sake, believe me! I know!"
"Right," said Heywood, curtly. "I believe you. But why come here? Why
not stay, and learn more?"
Wutzler's head dropped on his breast again. The varnished hat gleamed
softly in the darkness.
"I--I dare not stay," he sobbed.
"Oh, exactly!" Heywood flung out an impatient arm. "The date, man! The
day they set. You came away without it!--We sit tight, then, and wait in
ignorance."
The droll, withered face, suddenly raised, shone with great tears that
streaked the mangrove stain.
"My head sits loosely already, with what I have done to-night. I found a
listening place--next door: a long roof. You can hear and see them--But
I could not stay.
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