"'Yes,' Pedro said, a coward. How they will laugh—when I tell!'
"Had never been called that before—you know. I began walking forward—slowly. My legs trembled, but I walked. Passed through the gate.
"'That's right,' Pedro said. 'There's nothing to be afraid of.'
"'No—nothing.' I answered, my jaws chattering.
"Then Pedro said. 'I'm going to the grave of my friend who was buried to-day and say a prayer, take a rose from his grave and dry it—to carry in a little bag—always—for good luck. No harm comes then. You'll take a rose, too."
"I saw a large mound of flowers. The air was strong with perfume. Roses. . . . We reached the grave. Pedro stopped, knelt down and said a prayer. Shadows under the trees were black and the leaves rattled like bones. I wanted to run—but I stood beside Pedro—and shivered. Pedro took a rose from the grave and put it in his pocket. Then he took another, got up and offered it to me.
"'No!' I cried, drawing away. 'I won't touch it!'
"Pedro said. 'You've got to be cured." He pointed to a large flat stone lying flat on the ground beside him, and explained:
"'Over a hundred years ago—you can see the date when it's light—a funny man had this grave made. Built it like a cistern. Brick walls. Look!' and he slid the stone to one side. Pedro was strong.
"I refused to look. Kept my eyes on the path. A gust of wind blew my hat against Pedro, and it fell to the ground.
"As I stooped to pick it up, he pushed me—into the grave!"
THE horror of this piece of perversity got me.
"Lawrence!" I exclaimed. "You don't mean it!"
"Yes," he answered. in that new tone, so flat and spiritless. "I sank into something—soft. . . . Pedro's laugh sounded far away, and he closed up the grave—with the stone.
"My throat was in a vice. Couldn't make a sound. Tried to gather strength for one big scream—then something somewhere in me snapped. Tsing!' it went, soft and little.
"Don't know how long I was there. It seemed an eternity. I lived on—with the dead man—and crawling things. I don't know. There may have been nothing at all. At last I saw a rift above—the night sky—and Pedro reached down to pull me out.
"When he came the next afternoon I told him I must rest for several days. My nerves were bad. All night I lay awake—and thought—and planned. At daybreak I fell asleep. In the afternoon I went to Boston.
"Three days later, back in Land's End, I settled my accounts. All but one. Told the neighbors I was leaving for New York next day. Gave instructions to have my things packed and shipped to me there.
"Pedro came as usual in the afternoon. I worked as though nothing had happened. He got tired and lay on the floor. I boiled some water for tea. Very, very carefully I made that tea.
"'What kind of tea is this?' Pedro asked. 'It tastes so queer.'
"'A new kind,' I told him.
"He drank. then lay back—asleep.
"From a shelf of etching materials I took a bottle. The liquid inside was clear. So harmless it looked! Poured some into a cup. Filled the cup with water, then knelt down beside the sleeping Pedro—dipped a feather into the liquid—and painted half his handsome face. Nitric acid—bites deep. . . .
"Pedro's groans were silenced with a gag. More tea for rest and sleep.
"The streets that night were empty as I half carried, half dragged Pedro to the shanty where he lived alone. I threw him on the bed and looked without pity on his face.
