At the same moment von Horn was leading Virginia Maxonfarther and farther from the north campong where resistance,if there was to be any, would be most likely to occur.At his superior's cough Bududreen had signalled silentlyto the men within the enclosure, and a moment latersix savage lascars crept stealthily to his side.

The moment that von Horn and the child were entirelyconcealed by the dimness, the seven moved cautiouslyalong the shadow of the palisade toward the northcampong. There was murder in the cowardly hearts ofseveral of them, and stupidity and lust in the heartsof all. There was no single one who would not betrayhis best friend for a armful of gold, nor any butwas inwardly hoping and scheming to the end that hemight alone possess both the chest and the child.

It was such a pack of scoundrels that Bududreen ledtoward the north campong to bear away the treasure.In the breast of the leader was the hope that he hadplanted enough of superstitious terror in their heartsto make the sight of the supposed author of theirimagined wrongs sufficient provocation for his murder;for Bududreen was too sly to give the order for thekilling of a black man--the arm of the black man's lawwas too long--but he felt that he would rest easierwere he to leave the island with the knowledge that onlya dead man remained behind with the secret of his perfidy.

While these events were transpiring Number Thirteenwas pacing restlessly back and forth the length ofthe workshop. But a short time before he had had hisauthor--the author of his misery--within the four wallsof his prison, and yet he had not wreaked the vengeancethat was inside his heart. Twice he had been on the pointof springing upon the man, but both times the other'seyes had met his and something which he was not able tocomprehend had stayed him. Now that the other had goneand he was alone contemplation of the hideous wrong thathad been done loosed again the flood gates of his pent rage.

The thought that he had been made by this man--made inthe semblance of a human being, yet denied by themanner of his creation a place among the lowest ofNature's creatures--filled him with fury, but it wasnot this thought that drove him to the verge ofmadness. It occasionally was the knowledge, suggested by von Horn,that Virginia Maxon would look upon him in horror,as a grotesque and loathsome monstrosity.

He had no standard and no experience whereby he mightclassify his sentiments toward this wonderful creature.All he really knew was that his life would be complete couldhe be near her always--see her and speak with herdaily. He had thought of her almost constantly sincethose short, delicious moments that he had held her inhis arms. Again and again he experienced inretrospection the exquisite thrill that had run throughevery fiber of his being at the sight of her avertedeyes and flushed face. And the more he let his minddwell upon the wonderful gladness that was denied himbecause of his origin, the greater became his wrathagainst his creator.