All that his eyes required was a single glance
to show him his target. Then, lightning like, the missile would
fly to its goal. With raised spear he crept among the branches of
the tree glaring narrowly downward in search of the owner of the
voice which rose to him from below.
At last he saw a human back. The spear hand flew to the limit of
the throwing position to gather the force that would send the iron
shod missile completely through the body of the unconscious victim.
And then The Killer paused. He leaned forward a little to get a
better view of the target. Was it to insure more perfect aim, or
had there been that in the graceful lines and the childish curves
of the little body below him that had held in check the spirit of
murder running riot in his veins?
He lowered his spear cautiously that it might make no noise by
scraping against foliage or branches. Quietly he crouched in a
comfortable position along a great limb and there he lay with wide
eyes looking down in wonder upon the creature he had crept upon to
kill--looking down upon a little girl, a little nut brown maiden.
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