Manchurian Books

In the great emigration of the year before
their route was marked by the skulls set up in prominent places and
bearing messages for the trains behind.
"And are you going to write a letter on that one?" Susan asked.
"No; I do not write English good, and French very bad. But maybe some
one else will use it," and he laughed boyishly and laid the skull by
the fire.
In the depth of the night Susan was wakened by a hand on her shoulder
that shook her from a dreamless sleep. She started up with a cry and
felt another hand, small and cold on her mouth, and heard a whispering
voice at her ear,
"Hush. Don't make a sound. It's Lucy."
She gripped at the figure, felt the clasp of trembling arms, and a
cheek chill with the night cold, against her own.
"Lucy," she gasped, "what's the matter?"
"I want to speak to you. Be quiet."
"Has anything happened? Is some one sick?"
"No. It's not that. I'm going."
"Going? Going where--" She was not yet fully awake, filaments of
sleep clouded her clearness.
"Into the mountains with Zavier."
The filaments were brushed away in a rough sweep.


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