give her up, the idol of my life, when my heart is swelling, aching with the excess of love that has made me a coward? God help me? God pity her, for she loves me! she loves me! and I-merciful Saviour, I am but human! I am but human, and this love has conquered me!" A rain of tears fell from his proud eyes, his broad breast heaved, his arms closed more closely about the slender figure. "She is mine! mine! I will not give her up!" he cried, exultingly, almost fiercely, and the cry rang out in strange echoes, breaking the solemn silence. And in spite of his own volition, the speaker turned his gaze upon the face of the dead, framed in by the narrow coffin, and to his distorted vision a spasm of anger appeared to contract the rigid lips, the sunken eyelids seemed to quiver as if about to unclose. The play of the moonbeams had mocked him, but the spell was broken as if dissolved by a voice from the tomb. A sob choked his utterance, the deep heaving of his chest partially aroused Damaris, and she raised her arms feebly, clasping his neck. None save God knew the mighty struggle between stern duty and the soul worship he had given. One more embrace, a lingering pressure of the lips-such a kiss as we give the dead ere the beloved face is shut forever from our sight, and the temptation that had nearly overcome him was conquered. Very gently he unclasped the clinging arms, still holding the soft hands in his warm clasp, while he pleaded the cause of his unworthy rival, a man whom, in his secret heart, he despised. Dizzy with the pain that shot like needle-points through her throbbing temples, Damaris released her hands, turned, almost coldly, walked to the side of the coffin, and dropping upon her knees laid her cheek against the pall. "Father, father!" she wailed, "I will obey, I will be Guy's wife!" Her vow was registered, and like one in a dream she rose to her feet and glided away, pausing upon the threshold and taking the hand the lover held out in a parting clasp. She was gone, and Henry Lawrence closed the door softly as if he feared a sound might disturb the sleeping dead. The vow is fulfilled!" he moaned, "but at what a fearful cost only Thou, the searcher of all hearts, canst know! Cornelius Gordon, dead in your coffin though you are, I could almost find it in my heart to curse your memory for the woe you have wrought! It was but fancy, he knew, but it seemed as if a smile of triumph and derision played about the marble lips as the watcher closed the coffin lid and shut out the gruesome spectacle. He reeled to the couch, as one drunken with strong wine. Smothered groans shook his stalwart frame as he lay there, face downward, while the tempest of grief and indignation held sway, until at length even his iron strength succumbed and he fell into a profound slumber, which held his senses benumbed until the grey dawn was stealing through the window panes. CHAPTER XLIII CUT-WAS, THE ARROW-MAKER "Nor custom, nor example, nor vast numbers Я N indispensable functionary in every Indian tribe is the arrow-maker, the artificer and custodian of the weapons of war and the chase, an artisan on whose skill in the manufacture of his wares so much depends. His occupaton is the most diversified and distinctively constructive of any among his people. He is the designer and maker of spear-heads, lances, arrow-heads, stone axes or tomahawks in constant use by the warriors and hunters of his tribe, and, as the lapidary of more favoured races is a virtuoso in determining the uses and value of gems or works of art, so is the Indian arrow-maker a connoisseur in selecting, with unerring judgment, from the vast storehouse of nature the materials best suited for the manufacture of the weapons he fashions with wonderful skill. The trade of the arrow-maker is the oldest known. In prehistoric ages man was an artificer in stone implements, the only art of the primitive period that has not been lost in the turmoil of centuries of evolu |