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Please, don't let me fall asleep! The Hall of Kings did not respond to the urgency of his plea; the statues remained silent, disinterested, and oblivious. The mountain waited.

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/ have to break free! he howled wordlessly. And then he remembered the visions, or more specifically the first of the three that the Grimpond had shown him, the one in which he had stood on a cloud above the others of the little company that had gathered at the Hadeshom in answer to the summons of the shade ofAllanon, the one in which he had said that he would sooner cut off his hand than bring back the Druids and then lifted his arm to show that he had done exactly that.

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He remembered the vision and recognized its truth. He banished the reaction it provoked in horrified disbelief and let his head droop until it was resting on the cavern stone. He cried, feeling the tears run down his cheeks, the sides of his face, stinging his eyes as they mingled with his sweat. His body twisted with the agony of his choices. No! No, he would not! Yet he knew he must. His crying turned to laughter, chilling in its madness as it rolled out of him into the emptiness of the tomb. He waited until it expended itself, the echoes fading into silence, then looked up again. His possibilities had exhausted themselves; his fate was sealed. If he did not break free now, he knew he never would.

I don't think so.

"Even you?" Par was incensed. "For goodness sake. Coil- he wouldn't even speak with you!'' Coil shook his head and held his gaze steady. "The truth is, Par, we never spoke much as it was. You were the one he cared about, because you were the one with the magic." The Scions of Shannara 117 Par looked at him and said nothing. Walker's exact words, he thought. He was just fooling himself when he tried to equate Coil's relationship with their uncle to his own. It had never been the same. He frowned. "There is still the matter of the dreams. Why doesn't he share my curiosity about them? Doesn't he want to know what Allanon has to say?" Coil shrugged. "Maybe he already knows. He seems to know what everyone is thinking most of the time." Par hesitated. He hadn't considered that. Was it possible his uncle had already determined what the Druid would tell them at the Hadeshom? Could he read the mind of a shade, a man three hundred years dead? He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. He would have said something more than he did about the reason for the dreams. He spent all of his time dismissing the matter as one more in- stance when the Ohmsfords would be used by the Druids; he didn't care what the reason was.''

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Elizabeth looked round the restaurant,

Elizabeth looked round the restaurant, which was filling with shoppers, workers, even tourists who had strayed north of the shops on Oxford Street. These were the lines of her life, these were the things that concerned her. Order books and Lucca's salad; Robert's awaited calls and the criticism of Lindsay and her mother. Strikes and economic crisis. Trying not to smoke yet keeping the endless check on her weight. A planned holiday with three or four others in a rented house in Spain; a snatched weekend with Robert in Alsace, or even in Brussels itself. Her clothes, her work, her flat: its small orderly ways maintained by just one weekly visit from a cleaner while she was at work. No elaborate system of cr鑓he, day care, and mother's help as exhaustively discussed by her married friends. London in approaching winter, the wail of traffic through the park, and cold Sunday morning walks that issued into jovial meetings in the pubs of Bayswater that seemed to last an hour too long. And the sense of a larger life inside her, excited and confirmed by pictures she saw in galleries, books she read, but particularly by pictures; something unfulfilled, something needing to be understood. Sometimes she went away on her own to wilder parts of northern England, where she read or walked. She didn't feel self-pity because she could see nothing to feel sorry for; the mundane concerns and preoccupations of her life were interesting to her. She found bed-and-breakfast cottages and small pubs in guidebooks where she sometimes fell into conversation with the owners or with other guests, and sometimes just read by the fire. Once in a village in the Dales a boy of no more than nineteen began talking to her at the bar of the pub. She was wearing her reading glasses and a thick grey-and-white-speckled sweater. He had fair hair and an unconvincing beard. He was at university and had gone off walking in order to do some reading for his studies. He was awkward with her and used set phrases with signalled irony, as though referring to books or films they both knew. He seemed unable to say things without suggesting that they were quotations from someone else. After he had drunk two or three pints of beer he became calmer and told her about his studies in zoology and about his girlfriends at home. He implied a riotous love life. Elizabeth liked his enthusiasm and the pitch of excitement at which he appeared to be living, even in this primitive pub on a Yorkshire hillside with only the landlord's steak-and-kidney pie to come.

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"I hain't no mo' money," breathed Ransie, heavily. "I done paid you all I had." "Otherwise," said the Justice, looking severely over his spectacles, "you air in contempt of co't." "I reckon if you gimme till to-morrow," pleaded the husband, "I mout be able to rake or scrape it up somewhars. I never looked for to be a-payin' no ali- money." "The case air adjourned," said Benaja Widdup, "till to-morrow, when you-all will present yo'selves and obey the order of the co't. Followin' of which the decrees of divo'ce will be delivered." He sat down in the door and began to loosen a shoestring.

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For one time, at least, in the heart of the supernumerary there rose the killing instinct. For one moment he joined the force of combatants -- orally. "What are you waiting for, Sam?" I said in a whisper. "Let him have it now!" Sam gave a melancholy sigh. "You don't understand; but he does," he said. "He knows. Mr. Tenderfoot, there's a rule out here among white men in the Nation that you can't shoot a man when he's with a woman. I never knew it to be broke yet. You can't do it. You've got to get him in a gang of men or by himself. That's why. He knows it, too. We all know. So, that's Mr. Ben Tatum! One of the 'pretty men'! I'll cut him out of the herd before they leave the hotel, and regulate his account!"

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"I'm shy on one word, lady. Jux--jux--put me wise on dat, will yer?" "Juxtaposition--or you may call it propinquity--or, if you like, being rather too near for one maintaining the position of an ideal." The gravel spun from beneath the boy's feet. He stood by the other bench. The man's eyes interrogated him, hungrily. The boy's were shining with the impersonal zeal of the translator. "De lady says dat she's on to de fact dat gals is dead easy when a feller comes spielin' ghost stories and tryin' to make up, and dat's why she won't listen to no soft-soap. She says she caught yer dead to rights, huggin' a bunch o' calico in de hot-house. She side- stepped in to pull some posies and yer was squeezin' de oder gal to beat de band. She says it looked cute, all right all right, but it made her sick. She says yer better git busy, and make a sneak for de train."

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Even Aileen had not been shot at with a pistol. And then Tildy rather hoped that he would not shoot at her, for she was always loyal to Aileen; and she did not want to overshadow her friend. At 4 o'clock on the afternoon of the third day Mr. Seeders came in. There were no customers at the tables. At the back end of the restaurant Tildy was refilling the mustard pots and Aileen was quartering pies. Mr. Seeders walked back to where they stood. Tildy looked up and saw him, gasped, and pressed the mustard spoon against her heart. A red hair-bow was in her hair; she wore Venus's Eighth Avenue badge, the blue bead necklace with the swinging silver symbolic heart. Mr. Seeders was flushed and embarrassed. He plunged one hand into his hip pocket and the other into a fresh pumpkin pie.

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"By the way," he said, "perhaps you would like to know that you have had royalty for a coachman. Old Caesar's grandfather was a king in Congo. Caesar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed."

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As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Caesar's voice inside: "Did he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?" "Yes, Caesar," I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Caesar drove me back to the hotel.

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Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The rest must be only bare statements of facts. At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Caesar was at his corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster and began his depressing formula: "Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to anywhere in the city--hack's puffickly clean, suh---- jus' got back from a funeral--" And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button-- the button of yellow horn--was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle Caesar!

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Poor Tom. I could scarcely keep from laughing outright to see him struggling against the effects of the opiate. He was distinctly angry, and I didn't blame him. Tom had a Southern temper. His eyes were open now, and they showed a gleam or two of fire. But the drug still clouded his mind and bound his tongue. "C-c-confound you," he stammered, "I'll s-smash you." He tried to rise from the couch. With all his size he was very weak now. I thrust him back with one arm. He lay there glaring like a lion in a trap.

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"That will hold you for a while, you old loony," I said to myself. I got up and lit my pipe, for I was needing a smoke. I walked around a bit, congratulating myself on my brilliant idea. I heard a snore. I looked around. Tom was asleep again. I walked over and punched him on the jaw. He looked at me as pleasant and ungrudging as an idiot. I chewed my pipe and gave it to him hard.

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"Listen to me, Hopkins," I said, in cutting and distinct tones, "you and I have been good friends, but I want you to understand that in the future my doors are closed against any man who acts as much like a scoundrel as you have."

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Tom looked the least bit interested. "What's the matter, Billy?" he muttered, composedly. "Don't your clothes

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fit you?" "If I were in your place," I went on, "which, thank God, I am not, I think I would be afraid to close my eyes. How about that girl you left waiting for you down among those lonesome Southern pines -- the girl that you've forgotten since you came into your confounded money? Oh, I know what I'm talking about. While you were a poor medical student she was good enough for you. But now, since you are a millionaire, it's different. I wonder what she thinks of the performances of that peculiar class of people which she has been taught to worship -- the Southern gentlemen? I'm sorry, Hopkins, that I was forced to speak about these matters, but you've covered it up so well and played your part so nicely that I would have sworn you were above such unmanly tricks"

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"'The relating of anecdotes and humorous occurrences has always seemed to me, Mr. Pescud, to be a particularly agreeable way of promoting and perpetuating amenities between friends. With your permission, I will relate to you a fox-hunting story with which I was personally connected, and which may furnish you some amusement.'

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So he tells it. It takes forty minutes by the watch. Did I laugh? Well, say! When I got my face straight he calls in old Pete, the super-annuated darky, and sends him down to the hotel to bring up my valise. It was Elmcroft for me while I was in the town. "Two evenings later I got a chance to speak a word with Miss Jessie alone on the porch while the colonel was thinking up another story.

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"'It's going to be a fine evening,' says I. "'He's coming,' says she. 'He's going to tell you, this time, the story about the old negro and the green watermelons. It always comes after the one about the Yankees and the game rooster. There was another time,' she goes on, 'that you nearly got left--it was at Pulaski City.'

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"The apple," continued Judge Menefee, charging his jury, "in modern days occupies, though undeservedly, a lowly place in our esteem.

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Indeed, it is so constantly associated with the culinary and the commercial that it is hardly to be classed among the polite fruits. But in ancient times this was not so. Biblical, historical, and mythological lore abounds with evidences that the apple was the aristocrat of fruits. We still say 'the apple of the eye' when we wish to describe something superlatively precious. We find in Proverbs the

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comparison to 'apples of silver.' No other product of tree or vine has been so utilised in figurative speech. Who has not heard of and longed for the 'apples of the Hesperides'? I need not call your attention to the most tremendous and significant instance of the apple's ancient prestige when its consumption by our first parents occasioned the fall of man from his state of goodness and perfection." "Apples like them," said the windmill man, lingering with the objective article, "are worth $3.50 a barrel in the Chicago market."

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Men's G "Never!" I cried. "The memory of our meetings in the past is dear to me; the boy in you is very dear to me, and perhaps, too, that very sincerity . . . you know, I'm a very serious person, I am one of the most serious and gloomy characters among modern women, let me tell you . . . ha--ha--ha! We'll have another talk some time, but now I'm not quite myself, I am upset and . . . I believe I'm a little hysterical. But, at last, at last, HE will let me, too, live in peace." This exclamation broke from her unconsciously; I understood it at once, and did not want to catch it up, but I trembled all over. "He knows I've forgiven him!" she exclaimed suddenly again, as though to herself.

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"Could you really forgive him that letter? And how could he tell that you forgave him?" I could not help exclaiming. "How could he tell? Oh, he knows," she went on answering me, yet she looked as though she had forgotten my existence and were talking to herself. "He has come to his senses now. And how could he not know that I forgave him, when he knows every secret of my soul by heart? Why, he knows that I am a little after his kind myself." "You?" "Why, yes, he knows that. Oh, I'm not passionate, I'm calm: but like him I should like all men to be fine. . . . Of course there was something made him love me." "How could he say that you had all the vices." "He only said that; he has another secret in his heart. And didn't he write an awfully funny letter?"ucci Drivers

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So riddle you diddle you fiddle you do, Your silly old father loves you true, If you're good I'll tell you something more,

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A beech is a tree and a beach is a shore, And if sky is blue and wind blew too, Your silly old father is wiser than you, So weigh my words as you go on your way. Tomorrow's today when the night falls away!' "

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Amid the applause that followed Finnbarr slipped back into the darkness, fading away like a shadow. Log-a-Log followed him, rapier at the ready. Rufe noticed them going and said in a loud voice to Patch, "Where are those two going, mate?" "Keep yer voice down, Rufey, an' act normal like," the Guosim shrew cautioned him. There followed a squeal and a scuffle. Joseph reached for a boarding pike as he whispered, "Stay calm, every-beast, keep your weapons close to paw and wait until Finnbarr or Log-a-Log calls us. There's been something or someone out there since dusk!" "Owow, lemme go! Get y'paws off me, searat!" Durry was startled by the shrill voice. He turned to see Finnbarr hauling a struggling young squirrel over the rail. "Be still, yer liddle rogue, or I'll tan yer 'ide. Ouch! 'E bit me!" Log-a-Log materialized out of the gloom, tugging a 26o BRIAN JACQUES small, sobbing mousemaid behind him. "Here's another one; I reckon there's more out there!"

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The horde swept forward over the bodies of the fallen toward the badger and his ten hares. The hares dropped behind another ten who had been waiting to back them up with bows ready. They fired into the yelling horde as their comrades fitted fresh arrows to their bows and let loose another quick volley. Carried on by the lust for battle, Urthstripe, instead of retreating into the safety of the mountain, flung himself forward into the foe. A burly ferret wielding a pike charged Urthstripe. The badger's spear took him through the chest and lifted him like a rag doll, hurling him into the seething horde. A weasel flung himself on Urthstripe's back and stabbed the big badger between greave and breastplate. Urthstripe slew him with the backward stroke of a huge mailed paw. Three hares were down梩wo to spears, one to slingshot. "I'll try an' get Lord Urthstripe away," Sapwood called out to Oxeye. "Keep the entrance open till we gets back!" Oxeye coolly notched an arrow to his bow and felled a fox. "Righty ho, but put a move on, Sap. We can't keep up this 126 Brian Jacques

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