The White Feather Hex | Page 5

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 fringed softness. He hung up
the feather by a thread and watched it hop back and forth in the center
of the room.
* * * * *
Peter awakened and saw Mirestone sitting by the fire noting every
movement of the feather. "What are you doing, heh?"
Mirestone swung around and glared at the bleary eyed Dutchman. "Sit
down," he commanded. "Sit down and watch the feather turn red."
Peter didn't need to be told that it was his feather. He knew by the
merciless eyes of Mirestone that everything was over. "So, you were
determined to find out what would happen if the hex were tried on a
man?"
Peter was surprised at how easily he took his fate. There was no need of
excitement--this was his end and there was no changing it.
"Yes, I had to know, for I can't leave until I have a complete record of
all the results." Mirestone certainly was not cocky now. He looked
almost ashamed of himself as he sat there nervously watching a man's
fate swing by a silken thread. "I'm sorry, Peter, my friend, but that is
how it must be. You are a stepping stone to a glorious reckoning that
will soon take place. The hex of the white feather--I can hardly believe
that I have at last tracked it down. And you, Peter, are the last witness,
the last link in the chain of those who know the secret, and how can it
better end than by your becoming a part of the secret?"
Peter realized that he had not much longer to live and nothing he could
do to Mirestone would change his fate. Perhaps he could save others,

though.
"What is this glorious reckoning you were speaking about?"
"As soon as I see how your case ends, I'll be able to go ahead and
release my vengeance on those stupid, bungling fools who have
thwarted my progress in the black arts. They claim to speak in the name
of humanity, no less!"
"In that case," exclaimed Peter, "I won't let myself be a foothold for
your damned work--it is of the devil and I'll have no part of it."
"Shut up, fool. You are a part of it already."
"Not if my body is destroyed before you can get hold of it."
Peter played his trump card. He quickly sprang back and slipped out
the door into the storm. Mirestone jumped up after him, but it was too
late. He peered out into the raging tempest making out the figure of
Peter struggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled his cloak
about him and started towards Peter to stop him. The rain beat his face,
blinding him momentarily, and before he could see clearly a dark mass
pounded by, swift hoofs spattering mud all over him.
Down the road sped Peter on the horse--down the road and towards the
foot-bridge. Mirestone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the hollow
staccato of horse's hoofs on the planks for an instant, followed by a
splintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge. A long, guttural cry
pierced