He gazed into her damp, mossy recesses where high-piled riven trees
decayed under coats of living green, where dainty vines swayed and
clambered, and here and there a yellow leaf, fluttering down, presaged
the coming of winter. His love of the swamp laid hold of him and shook
him with its force.
Compellingly beautiful was the Limberlost, but cruel withal; for inside
bleached the uncoffined bones of her victims, while she had missed
cradling him, oh! so narrowly.
He shifted restlessly; the movement sent the snake-feeders skimming. The
hum of life swelled and roared in his strained ears. Small turtles, that
had climbed on a log to sun, splashed clumsily into the water. Somewhere
in the timber of the bridge a bloodthirsty little frog cried sharply.
"KEEL'IM! KEEL'IM!"
Freckles muttered: "It's worse than that Black Jack swore to do to me,
little fellow."
A muskrat waddled down the bank and swam for the swamp, its pointed nose
riffling the water into a shining trail in its wake.
Then, below the turtle-log, a dripping silver-gray head, with shining
eyes, was cautiously lifted, and Freckles' hand slid to his revolver.
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