Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 129: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

— 4 = * clanking of a bit, or the clang of a spear- haft against a stirrup, OF the scuffle of a quick-turning horse’s hoofs, a silence rested upon that vast throng. Wild, barbaric faces held a look of expectancy, of wonder- ment, for no one knew why the order had been passed that they were to assemble at that point. Kassim caught sight of Barlow as he drew near, and raising his hand in a salute, said: “Come close, sakib. The slayer of Amir Khan, in accordance with my prom- ise, is to go from our midst a free man. His punishment has been left to Allah, the one God.” Without more ado he stretched forth his right arm impressively toward the murky stream, where it rippled at some disturb- ance carried on its bosom ribbons of gold where the sun fell, saying: “ Yonder lies the way, infidel, strangler, slayer of a follower of the Prophet! De- part, for failing that, it lacks but an hour ch. is not in the coven ger, its blade still carrying th of the chief—* this is thine to kee life if you can. Seest thou if the wee is still wedded to thy hand. It is that goest hand in hand with thy crime.” He handed the knife to a soldier with a word of command, and the man thrust ‘it in the belt of Hunsa. 1 Even as Kassim ceased speaking two — round bubbles floated upon the smooth — waters of the sullen river, and above them was a green slime; then a square shovel just topped the water, and Barlow could hear, issuing from the thing of horror, a breath like a sigh. He shuddered. It was a square-nosed mugger —crocodile — waiting. And beyond, the water here and there swirled, as if a powerful tail swept it. TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK U 1°} 10} IN AN OLD HOME “THE thoughts of other days they keep; They will not brook a newer thing. From smoke-stained rafters, where they sleep, The boneset and lobelia swing; The old-time carpet on the floor, The hair-cloth sofa, straight and grim; While from those falls watch evermore Ancestral portraits, quaint and dim. And yet their rooms a Jurking power Of sleep to wakeful eyelids bear, As if some dream-filled poppy-flower Had died, and left its essence there. A strange allurement, where my heart Feels ail earth’s hopes and pleasures cease; Yet finds, from modern ways apart. A refuge, and a sense of peace.