Page:Weird Tales Volume 4 Number 2 (1924-05-07).djvu/75

 teen feet high. The forest at this point consisted of a pure stand of pine, mostly longleaf, with some loblolly admixture, which was a great piece of luck for us, as this pine is highly resinous.

Our preparations were now all made; the wind only was wanting. We made a number of porches and got everything in readiness. Then, while waiting for the weather to change, tried our luck with the blue clay once more, but with no success.

Four days passed. Then one night I was awakened by feeling a strong breeze from the northwest blowing over me. Quickly rousing the Doctor we sat up and listened.

"It's rising," I said.

"Yes, it's rising, but we're going to have rain. We haven't a minute to lose."

Hurrying down to the raft we paddled across.

When we got back to the island our landing was as bright as day in the light of that enormous fire, which, fanned by the rising wind, was roaring above the tops of the nearest trees.

"Let's go up to the highest point of the island," I suggested, "so that we can follow the course the fire takes with our field glasses."

The conflagration was now well within the pine stand, and was already beginning to spread fanwise; momentarily the wind increased, driving clouds of sparks and dense clouds of smoke high into the air. We watched it fascinated; our lives hung upon the result.

I handed the glasses to the Doctor. "The fire has reached the mixed forest. Will the deciduous trees burn?"

The Doctor pointed to the East. "Look, Gerald, the dawn."

"I feel a drop of rain," I said.

Overhead heavy gray rain clouds were tearing across the sky.

"Let's cross," suggested the Doctor.

"No use," I replied. "We'll have to wait until tomorrow morning."

Late in the afternoon we crossed to have a look at things. The rain was coming down in torrents, and the wind had dropped to gusty breeze. We made our way into the charred forest for a couple of hundred yards. Nothing molested us; apparently our way lay open.

The next morning we made an early start, for the weather had cleared and a bright sun was shining. We followed the path of the fire all morning until we reached the edge of the green morass where Tom had disappeared. Here the fire had burned itself out, but its purpose had been accomplished. We were safe.

The object of the expedition from an official point of view had been achieved, but at a terrible cost. Poor Tom had paid with his life, and to us the price seemed far too high. It is true that no trace of the last of the murderers, Blake, had been found, but we had had sufficient proof of the impossibility of escaping from the island in any other way than that which we had taken.

He had tried to pass the forest and had—failed.

N the parish of Severin in Paris, there lived an individual, who exteriorly was of the most regular conduct, and enjoyed the reputation of loving virtue, and delighted in good: assiduous to every exercise of religion, he seemed to follow its maxims with exemplary fervour. The clergy and the inhabitants of the parish were edified by his behaviour, he was looked up to as a paragon of the piety, and named the holy man. He was far from being what he appeared. Under the veil of devotion he concealed the most atrocious and depraved soul. When out of church, his sole occupation was to inveigle poor young girls into his house, and promise to put them apprentices with honest people. But far from fulfilling such respectable engagements, the wretch sold the unhappy victims, and delivered them up to the most shameful prostitution. One of the unhappy girls, who for three days was struggling for her virtue, had courage enough, not only to resist, but to form the praise-worthy resolution of making the suborner known to the police. She found a bit of paper in her place of confinement, and with her blood traced the detail of her misfortunes on it, and then threw it out of the window, after having directed it to the rector of the parish. Luckily it was found by a gentleman who brought it to the priest, and told him where he had picked it up. The priest went to the attorney-general, and made him acquainted with the subject of the note he had received. The attorney-general said, he had for a long time been searching, but in vain, for a wretch in that predicament: he assured the ecclesiastic that he would, without loss of time, bring the villain to condign punishment: he accordingly wrote to him in the following terms: "Being informed that your charity is become proverbial in the parish you live in, I wish you could grant me half an hour's conversation at my hotel, I have something important to communicate to you, and that you may favour me sooner with your company, I do not hesitate to tell you that it has reference to some pious designs." The man full of confidence, flies to the attorney-general, who received him with the most apparent cordiality, and told him that he had some thoughts of proposing to his Majesty the creation of a new office, and that he destined him for it, that the title of, "Father of the Poor," would perfectly agree with his virtuous conduct. In the meantime a commissary and four agents of the police were rummaging his house. They there found twelve young girls in the greatest misery, most of whom had already sacrificed their virtue. They reported the whole affair to the attorney-general, who had the hypocritical villain arrested and conducted to prison, where he was destined to pass the remainder of his days. The young girls were taken care of by the parish.