No wonder the ancients had chosen yellow as the color to represent victory, for the fierce, conquering hue of the sun was in it.  They had done well, too, in selecting purple as the emblem of royalty.  It was a dignified, compelling color, while in its warm tone there was a hint of blood.

It was the Limberlost’s hour to proclaim her sovereignty and triumph.  Everywhere she flaunted her yellow banner and trailed the purple of her mantle, that was paler in the thistle-heads, took on strength in the first opening asters, and glowed and burned in the ironwort.

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.  Higher and higher came the head, a long, heavy, furcoated body arose, now half, now three-fourths from the water.  Freckles looked at his shaking hand and doubted, but he gathered his forces, the shot rang, and the otter lay quiet.  He hurried down and tried to lift it.  He scarcely could muster strength to carry it to the bridge.  The consciousness that he really could go no farther with it made Freckles realize the fact that he was close the limit of human endurance.  He could bear it little, if any, longer.  Every hour the dear face of the Angel wavered before him, and behind it the awful distorted image of Black Jack, as he had sworn to the punishment he would mete out to her.  He must either see McLean, or else make a trip to town and find her father.  Which should he do?  He was almost a stranger, so the Angel’s father might not be impressed with what he said as he would if McLean went to him.  Then he remembered that McLean had said he would come that morning.  Freckles never had forgotten before.  He hurried on the east trail as fast as his tottering legs would carry him.

He stopped when he came to the first guard, and telling him of his luck, asked him to get the otter and carry it to the cabin, as he was anxious to meet McLean.