A man entered the square
and came along the walk toward me. His hands were
clasped behind him, his head was bowed; he seemed
to observe nothing. As he approached the shadow
in which I sat I recognized him as the man whom I
had seen meet Julia Margovan years before at that
spot. But he was terribly altered--grey, worn and
haggard. Dissipation and vice were in evidence in
every look; illness was no less apparent. His cloth-
ing was in disorder, his hair fell across his forehead
in a derangement which was at once uncanny, and
picturesque. He looked fitter for restraint than lib-
erty--the restraint of a hospital.
With no defined purpose I rose and confronted
him. He raised his head and looked me full in the
face. I have no words to describe the ghastly change
that came over his own; it was a look of unspeakable
terror--he thought himself eye to eye with a ghost.
But he was a courageous man. 'Damn you, John
Stevens!' he cried, and lifting his trembling arm he
dashed his fist feebly at my face and fell headlong
upon the gravel as I walked away.
Somebody found him there, stone-dead. Nothing
more is known of him, not even his name. To know
of a man that he is dead should be enough.
THE HAUNTED VALLEY
1: How Trees Are Felled in China
A HALF-MILE north from Jo. Dunfer's, on the road
from Hutton's to Mexican Hill, the highway dips
into a sunless ravine which opens out on either hand
in a half-confidential manner, as if it had a secret to
impart at some more convenient season.
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