Once more the gray, unwavering line of
silver-crested grass tufts was unbroken.
Only the night breeze, wandering caressingly over the grass, might
have told of two dark forms gliding, gliding, gliding so softly, so
surely, so surely toward the forest. Only the moon and the pale
stars had eyes to see these creeping figures.
Like avengers they moved, on a mission to slay and to save!
On over the dark line where plain merged into forest they crawled.
No whispering, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, certain progress
showed their purpose. In single file they slipped over the moss, the
leader clearing the path. Inch by inch they advanced. Tedious was
this slow movement, difficult and painful this journey which must
end in lightninglike speed. They rustled no leaf, nor snapped a
twig, nor shook a fern, but passed onward slowly, like the approach
of Death. The seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an entire
hour was spent in advancing twenty feet!
At last the top of the knoll was reached. The Avenger placed his
hand on his follower's shoulder. The strong pressure was meant to
remind, to warn, to reassure. Then, like a huge snake, the first
glided away.
He who was left behind raised his head to look into the open place
called the glade of the Beautiful Spring. An oval space lay before
him, exceedingly lovely in the moonlight; a spring, as if a pearl,
gemmed the center.
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