Mirestone's was coming back. That meant definite trouble, and Peter began to fear the consequences.

"So, why not pay me and leave?" he again ventured. "Or do you want something else?" Peter knew that he didn't need to ask that last question, for already he realized the grim experiment that was playing about in Mirestone's head.

"Yes. I just told you what I wanted. I want to see the hex on a human before I go."

"Why? You have your information. Why do you want to see it work on a man?"

"My stupid, little peasant friend, do I look like a student of history?"

For the first time Peter actually looked at Mirestone and saw him for what he was. Of course, he couldn't be a student. No student would act as he did, or even look as he did. The words jammed in his throat as he was about to voice a reply.

"Ha—Martin G. Mirestone, student of history, student of German history. No my little oxen friend. I am no more a student of history than you are, but I need the hex for other reasons which do not concern you." Then as if he were contemplating a great new joke he continued. "But on the other hand, maybe the future of the white feather hex does concern you."

Mirestone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of thunder and the increased splashing of rain on the windows. But somehow Peter seemed not to notice.

Somewhat later Mirestone stepped quietly over to the sleeping form of his host. Peter had been over twenty-four hours now without sleep, and although the old Dutchman had tried desperately to fight off the drowsiness that overcame him, the recent excitement of the day had finally taken its toll. Lightning struck near by followed with an ear splitting blast that shook the house to its rocky foundations. Pieces of slate flew off the roof and were carried away into the night. The rain poured down in a great deluge, blurring the window, making it impossible to see in or out.

Mirestone held out a glistening white feather in his long spidery fingers. He placed it within a few inches of Peter's nose and watched the delicate edges riffle in the Dutchman's breath. Crossing to the table, he leaned over the white fluff and breathed the short German incantation over it. How it glistened in the firelight! He bent closer and closer as he whispered the magic words that Peter had taught him, his breath ruffling the feather, playing about in the 

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