LOST MAN'S PARK 173 



shadows a horde of monsters born from the im- 

 passive trees by the enchantment of the hour. 



Only the mound of stones with the wooden cross 

 at its foot remained, dim and deathlike, but un- 

 changed. And the great fir at its head, the wan- 

 derer's tombstone, stood as of old in massive dig- 

 nity, maintaining an age-long vigil over the poor 

 bones entrusted to its care. 



The ancient tree stood still and grave and silent, 

 but it was a silence pregnant with deep things. It 

 held the wisdom of the centuries in its brooding im- 

 mobility; it hinted, somehow, of old, primordial mys- 

 teries, locked deep in its slumbrous heart. 



But, hush look! What is that? Something, 

 pale and dim, but something, nevertheless, detaches 

 itself from the great fir and creeps slowly along the 

 grave. It straightens and stands swayingly at the 

 foot of the cairn of stones. It faces us, ghostlike 

 arms outstretched in the form of a cross. It ad- 

 vances, step by gliding step. 



My hair stirred from the roots, a rippling shudder 

 ran along my spine. My mouth was dry. I wanted 

 to yell, but could not. For the moment I was dumb, 

 palsied, petrified! And still, step by sliding step, 

 the shining spectre neared. 



A hoarse cry from behind me broke the spell. 

 The others by the fire, which now had burned nearly 

 out, perceived the apparition. 



I glanced around. They were staring, wild-eyed, 

 white faces gleaming in the faint light from the dy- 



