The handwriting was shaky and irregular, and so faint that even in the strong, sweet light of the morning sunshine Trent had difficulty in reading it.

He tore it open and drew out a half-sheet of coarse paper.

It was a message from the man who for long he had counted dead.
"BEKWANDO.
"MY DEAR TRENT,-I have been drinking as usual! Some men see snakes, but I have seen death leering at me from the dark corners of this vile hut, and death is an evil thing to look at when one's life has been evil as mine has been.

Never mind! I have sown and I must reap! But, my friend, a last word with you.

I have a notion, and more than a notion, that I shall never pass back alive through these pestilential swamps.