Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: GLADYS Gordon Trenery was born in England in 1885, and was an author and musician. She wrote as G. G. Pendarves, and to a lesser extent as Marjory E. Lambe. Her work was published in Weird Tales, Argosy, Magic Carpet, and Oriental Stories. She died in 1938. As well as horror and supernatural stories (often involving Sir Donald Fremling as a sort of occult investigator / ghost buster) she also wrote a number of supernatural and semi-supernatural tales set in a mystical version of North Africa. This original collection contains 17 of her stories, collected from magazines and other sources. 1: Th

THE EIGHTH GREEN MAN
and other stories

G. G. Pendarves

2021

Contents

1: The Dark Star

2: Passport to the Desert

3: The Eighth Green Man

4: The Doomed Treveans

5: From the Dark Halls of Hell

6: The Laughing Thing

7: The Power of the Dog

8: The Lord of the Tarn

9: The Devil's Graveyard

10: The Return

11: The Djinnee of El Sheyb

12: The Whistling Corpse

13: El Hamel, the Lost One

14: Werewolf of the Sahara

15: The Altar of Melek Taos

16: The Secret Trail

17: Thirty Pieces of Silver

_____________________

GLADYS Gordon Trenery was born in England in 1885, and was an author and musician. She wrote as G. G. Pendarves, and to a lesser extent as Marjory E. Lambe. Her work was published in Weird Tales, Argosy, Magic Carpet, and Oriental Stories. She died in 1938.

As well as horror and supernatural stories (often involving Sir Donald Fremling as a sort of occult investigator / ghost buster) she also wrote a number of supernatural and semi-supernatural tales set in a mystical version of North Africa.

_______________________

1: The Dark Star

Weird Tales, March 1937

ALAN CLOVA hid the winged exultant uprush of his emotion with habitual control. His face, thin to emaciation, dark and cleanly chiseled, was aloof and proud as a Pharoah's. It was hard to believe he was only thirty. So much experience, so much hard-earned knowledge, so much resolution and critical cool judgment was in his eyes. Beneath straight black brows they gleamed, steady, brilliant and serene. Here was a man of action no less than a man of intellect. Breeding, dignity, pride of race had molded the features, but they were Instinct with a tense fighting awareness that was the New World's gift to the Old.

His cousin, David Wishart Clova, Earl of Glenhallion, narrowly observed his young kinsman. Hope stirred in him once more; hope he had thought was dead —dead and buried with his three sons beneath the sodden earth of Flanders. The words of the creed he had so often repeated in the little gray chapel on his estate, beat in his brain like the portentous opening bars of a tremendous symphony. "I believe in the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come." The words had never passed his lips since 1916, when his third and youngest son fell— 1916, twenty years now.

Now, looking at Alan's six feet five inches of brawn and muscle, the beliefs he had forsworn flashed up again. Here in the flesh once more was an heir to the great name, the centuries of tradition, the wild splendor of Glenhallion estates. Here, under the roof of Gorm Castle, stood a man who might well have been one of his own sons grown older, stronger, more mature. Resurrection!... Yes, it seemed a resurrection indeed.

Alan stood at a great window looking out over Glenhallion estate, from walled grounds about the castle to meadow, forest, craggy hills, and far-distant sky whose April blue darkened to hazy grays and purples above the Kaims of Vorangowl. His absorbed gaze traveled from point to point, then came back to rest on a square gray tower within the grounds, ivy-hung and partly obscured by beech trees. He frowned at sight of a man who was pacing round its battlements. His appearance, a great hulking figure in outlandish-looking gray clothes, stirred a sudden cold antipathy in Alan and he turned abruptly back to the room and its two occupants.

Lady Maisry, the Earl's only surviving child, sat by a log fire. She had a fragile look and shivered now and then at sound of the wind's bluster round the castle of Gorm. She looked, Alan thought, with her golden hair and green sheath dress, as if she had been transplanted from the daffodil-beds in the grounds below.

Some unfathomable instinct of protection for her made him hesitate to speak of the man on the tower roof. He strolled back to the window. Yes, the man was there still, pacing to and fro, to and fro, a long cloak flapping in the wind, hair and beard flaming red in the evening light. Such a fury of rage shook Alan that it was a minute before he could command his voice. Then he asked, "Is that old tower a complete ruin? Or, do— do people live in it ?"

Earl Glenhallion came over to the window. "Birds, bats, spiders! That's all you'll find living in the old Keep. Fine old stronghold, all that's left of the original castle; the rest was burned down about two hundred years ago. No, you'd not find man, woman, or child who'd go inside that tower for five minutes."

"I'm going."

Alan's remark had the effect of a pistol-shot on Lady Maisry. She got to her feet and moved quickly across to him, put a pleading hand on his arm.

"No—no —no! You mustn't! It's dangerous, very dangerous. There's something... there's someone... you never know if—it skips some generations ! My father thinks it all nonsense, but...

Alan almost promised never to set foot in the tower if it worried her. The distress in her gray eyes, the frightened pallor of her cheeks shook him. She interested and gripped his imagination profoundly. Yesterday's first impressions of her were strengthened by today's. Her clear ivory-pale skin, wide gray eyes, gold thick shining hair, gentle slow ease of every movement, and above all to his critical sensitive ear, her low deliberate exquisite voice, immensely charmed him. Beyond these things; though, rare as he had found such physical perfection, he was deeply aware of a mind fully as alive and equipped as his own, of a nature as exacting, and a will as inflexible. But there was something about her that puzzled him; he had the impression of a deeply hidden preoccupation which she dreaded might be discovered.

"She looks as substantial as a dragonfly, but I believe she's made of steel covered with white velvet," he reflected. "I know that fragile-looking type of thoroughbred. She'd live through famine and earthquake— if she felt like living! I know horses and I know dogs, and that gives me a line on humans. She's letting go for some reason, and I'm going to know that reason."

All the same he found it difficult to remember she wouldn't die easily as he met her panic-stricken eyes. A grim thought struck him. Was that man on the battlements her lover?— was she hiding him there from the Earl?

"Why do you feel like that about the tower?" he asked.

Her father drew her to him, an arm about her shoulders. "She's had a queer life here in this old castle. You must forgive her fancies, Alan! The legend about that old Keep dies hard. Everyone on the estate swears by it. Maisry believes it, too."

"Just what is the legend ?"

"A-a-ah! Hrumph!" The older man stalked over to the window and glowered at the gray Keep. "They say it's haunted by an ancestor of ours, who lived some two hundred years ago. He was known as the Red Earl of Glenhallion, or Red Alastair, because of his flaming red beard."

Alan felt his heart jump as if a mine had exploded under the polished flooring under foot. He tried to keep his glance from the old tower, and failed. He must look again; perhaps the setting sun had dazzled him, given a false illusion. He joined the Earl; his keen gazed followed the other's look.

A clear shaft of light struck across the glen from over the high moorland of Vorangowl and picked out the tower like a searchlight; every ivy-leaf stood out like carved metal, every irregularity of weathered stone showed up, discolorations of dripping rain from the roof, the gold patina of lichen, the rusty brown of winter leaves lodged in iron-barred windows— all was mercilessly clear.

And, on the breast-high battlemented wall that ran round the roof, a man leaned with face directly turned to Alan and the castle window at which he stood. The man's hair and beard flamed red as torchlight.

"The story of Red Alastair does us no credit," went on the Earl. "He was a wild, dissolute, savage man, from all the records. You can read him up in the library if you're interested. But as to haunting the Keep— that's nonsense, the talk of ignorant peasants, the sort of story that people like to invent about any old ruin."

"So no one lives there, no one climbs up to the roof to look round, not for any reason?" Alan's voice was harsh.

"No one. It stands there as you see it now— deserted! I've been up, of course. Jamie has the key— the only key. When I succeeded to Glenhallion there were constant scandals and wild tales because visitors were allowed to go over the Keep and explore it. I locked up the place, and since then there've been no more tales of ghosts and people being pushed off battlements or crushed behind doors and all the rest of it. I've not been inside for a year or more, and certainly no one else has. A good specimen of Tenth Century architecture it is, and that's all. If you see Red Alastair when you go over it, let me know. I rule here now; he's had his turn and made a very bad job of it, by all accounts."

The two men turned back to the fire, the Earl chuckling, Alan feeling more angry, more stupidly bewildered than he'd ever felt in his whole vigorous sane existence. He believed in ghosts no more than he believed in the Divine Right of kings; and he connected both beliefs with forgotten centuries when people had no bathrooms, enjoyed heretic burnings in place of cinemas and nightclubs, and fought for "the Glory of God" or some other such unpractical cause.

He thrust the whole thing out of his mind for future cogitation. Maisry was watching him with painful anxiety, as if she divined his inner discomfort. He was determined to share it with no one, and made up his mind to investigate the Keep before he slept that night.

In order to get the legend as it was bandied about the countryside before reading up a literary account, he tried to extract information from the dose-mouthed Jamie, who valetted him as he dressed for dinner. Jamie shied away from the subject like a nervous horse from a white flapping sheet.

"It's not good to talk of him, not about this time of year, my lord." The man spoke the broad Scots of the countryside, and became almost unintelligible as his agitation and embarrassment increased.

Alan turned to the big swinging mirror on his dressing-table, pretending to examine his chin. He saw the reflected Jamie glance over his shoulder.

"Why at this time of year, especially?"

"Eh, my lord?— you that'll be next Earl of Glenhallion to be asking that!"

The thin dark face turned from the mirror with a smile, so pleasant and friendly a smile that the old servant relaxed to it with: "It's not you I'll be blaming, my lord; it's those that brought you up so far from your own land and kinsmen. You that were born to all this!"

"But I wasn't! When I was born, exactly seven other heirs came before me."

"It's the Earl will be telling you all the family history, him and her Ladyship. It's not for me to be havering of the gentry."

"Tell me at least why April's a bad time to discuss Red Alastair? Must a ghost be in season like grouse or blackcock ?"

"Wheest, wheest for pity's sake, my lord! You can't tell what's abroad these evenings. The master hasn't 'the sight'; he could go up into the Keep this very night and not see a thing to fright him. But there's others can— aye, there's others can see! And I tell you this, my lord: the Dark Star is up over the Kaims of Vorangowl again."

"You mean the high moors at the head of the glen?"

"No. Not the moors you've seen. The star's in the Picture, the cursed thing he left in the Keep. Aye, the Picture I'm meaning of the moors and the cliff where the bride he stole from another man jumped to her death."

A deep sonorous booming distracted Jamie from his confidences.

"That's the dinner gong, my lord. I'll not weary you with my tales now. It's all writ In black and white, and every word's true, for all the master's fleering at the legend."

When he made his way down to the lofty, shadow-filled dining-hall, exasperation had rubbed Alan's temper rather raw.

"Am I crazy—or am I crazy?" he demanded of himself, one hand lightly sliding over the broad baluster-rail for the sensuous pleasure of touching the lovely seasoned wood, undesecrated by varnish, worn by time. His reason was floundering and plunging in heavy seas of unfamiliar and unpalatable sensations, ideas and thoughts.

"And, so far, there's nothing in the facts to justify my going up in the air like this," he complained to himself. "Even if I did see— and most certainly I did—a red-bearded man, what of it? They exist— especially here in Scotland; it's almost the hallmark of a Scot. Maybe porridge produces red beards! Jamie's daft about his old legend. Now there's a picture to reckon with, and a dark star, and a lady friend of Red Alastair's! Can you beat it ? Even a Hollywood director couldn't think up this one. But the man— the man on the tower..."

A fighting look came into his dark eyes. "Revolting sight! Don't quite know why— but somehow— filthy ! Reminded me of that fat one in Paris, sitting like a blotchy swollen spider in his den, waiting for his doped girls to be brought along— bah! I'll get Red Beard! Hunt the hairy brute right off the map."

Dinner rather took his mind off his troubles. There were guests he liked. One, an M. P. for one of the Border counties, met him more than halfway on the question of road development. Over some fine old brandy from the cellars of Corm, the two men built bridges and tunnels and roads over Scotland; opened up Northern China; decided on the best type of car for use in desert country; and were passionately reclaiming, for Holland, vast new tracts of submerged country when their host brought them back to social duties of the moment.

Alan, however, was himself again, perfectly confident of being able to deal with life and its problems in his rational systematic way. The old tower and the man on its battlements no longer seemed ominous.

"Liver, I suppose," he told himself. "Never knew I had one before, though. I'll satisfy myself that beggar's not about before I go to bed, though. Might set fire to the trees with his flaming red beard."

In the big drawing-room, where lamps and fires made shadows dance on molded ceilings and white-paneled walls, on the faded coral of brocaded curtains that shut out sky and stars and wind-torn clouds, the Lady Maisry sang to them; of love, of death, of ecstasy, of bitter longing — ballads of olden times. She sang with the last perfect simplicity of a genuine artist; and with smiles, with tears, the listeners paid tribute to her gift.

As the last note echoed in the quiet, spell bound room, Alan knew! He knew he was in love, exquisitely, irrevocably, passionately.

A few hours later, when the guests were gone and the old Earl sleeping in his room, he and Maisry sat and talked together. Her low, shaken voice confided in him the horror that had thrust itself into her life, and he listened with a mounting love and pity and fear for her that carried him like a tidal wave far, far beyond every intellectual boundary his mind had ever recognized.

He wanted to think that she was ill, that her nerves were playing tricks, that the old castle of Gorm with its memories and legends had worked on her, that change of scene would cure her, that she must marry him and come away and live and laugh in the sun and forget. His sane logical mind clamored for such solution of her secret. But below the rational protests of his disciplined clear mind, deeper understanding stirred and apprehended.

The woman he loved looked at him; her haunted eyes besought him. He must make a decision. Now!

He got to his feet, bent down and drew her up beside him, her hands in his strong clasp. He did not kiss her—no, not even the slim, cold hands that trembled in his own. But in the silence his very soul spoke to her, gave lasting deep assurance of his passion.

"I believe you," he said at last. "Every word you've told me. And I'm going to follow this up. It had never occurred to me that things like—like Red Alastair and his Picture could exist. You've convinced me."

"But Alan! Alan!" her low voice broke in fear. "I've told you only because your love for me gives you a right to know my secret, because I want you to see how useless it is to love me. It is hopeless, most dangerous to interfere. This is my fate. All these years, these centuries, he has waited, growing stronger. Perhaps, at first, he might have been sent back — back to his own place. Now it's too late. He's learned the trick of leaving his awful painted moorland and getting into our world."

She shivered at the fierce fighting light of battle her words brought to the dark eyes looking down into her own.

"Alan ! It is fatal —quite fatal to oppose him. You must never put foot inside the Keep. Oh, can't you see, have I not explained it all ? It is hopeless. I told my secret to prevent your interfering, running into hideous peril. To stop you going, Alan ! Not you— not you ..."

His grip of her hands slackened. He stooped; his eyes sought hers in sudden overwhelming wonder.

"D'you mean that you—that you care, too? Maisry! Maisry! If you do, nothing can separate us. No dream or ghost! Now I know the facts. I am prepared. You have armed me against surprise. I'm ready for Red Alastair. Do you think — do you think I'd let man or devil take you from me— now?"

ii

ONE. TWO. THREE.

The strokes tolled out from a church-tower of some nearby village as Alan left the castle and made his way to the old gray Keep. The chimes brought a flash of self-mockery into his face.

"If the old crowd at home could see me now—trotting off in the moonlight at three a. m. to meet a fellow who died two hundred years ago! Mack's waistcoat buttons would shoot clear across Lake Huron with the laugh he'd get out of it!"

The wild clear sky, glittering stars and stinging wind were beginning to put a different complexion on the past few hours at Gorm — vast shadow-filled firelit romantic old castle that it was. Here, striding across the turf, trees tossing and creaking, clouds driving, the shrill mad pipe of the wind in his ears, Alan's body exulted in the challenge to his senses; his physical rather than psychical powers were called upon.

It was extraordinarily difficult for a man of his type to sustain the vision that Maisry's story had called up. With every step, old habits of reasoning took hold more firmly. When he reached the huge, barred, iron-studded door of the Keep he had once more put the Red Alastair legend into the realm of fantasy. He wondered at himself for accepting it at Maisry's valuation even for an hour. He recalled a bit of doggerel he'd chanced on that day, or, rather, the previous day:

Love, love, love love.

Love it is a dizziness !

It winna let a puir body

Gang aboot his bizziness !

"And that explains me to myself." He fitted a big oiled key into the lock and gave a half-shamed laugh at this own expense. "What odds, though! If Maisry wants me to make a fool of myself in this particular way—I'm for it. Anyhow, I intended to see the ugly, hairy beggar off the premises. Might as well take a look at the Picture too, while I'm here. There aren't many back home can beat me at sightseeing, I'll say!" He confided these conclusions to the inner side of the door as he closed and locked it behind him, in order to trap any vagrant lurking inside the tower. He switched on his torch, a large, powerful one with a new battery, and began his strangely timed visit.

"Better check up on the plan again."

He patted the wide pockets of his overcoat, drew out a folded piece of semi-transparent tough paper familiar to architects, opened out the worn crackling sheet and examined once more the scale-drawing and faded cramped letter press.

"H-m-m ! Ground floor. This was where soldiers were lodged."

He forced back a narrow door on its rusted creaking hinges and went in. Silence and darkness. The nine-foot thick walls were cut to north and south exposures, forming huge window-seats, broad and cold as tombstones. The windows were small, narrow, and heavily barred by iron grilles as thick as a man's wrist. A yawning fireplace like a roofless cupboard showed stained and blackened floor and a pair of massive iron dogs.

He stood on the hearth and peered up. A vast chimney gaped to the sky; he could see a pale moon with torn rags of cloud across her face.

Sound of a shuffling, heavy footstep somewhere above took him to the foot of the stairway; he craned his head to listen. The spiral stairs were
steep and a bare two feet in breadth; his shoulders rubbed the outer wall as he climbed. He reached the next level and flashed his torch into the thick, absorbent darkness of another hollow room. The door of it stood wide. He moved cautiously across the threshold; the brilliant spotlight of his torch showed no one there.

This was the dining-hall and a higher ceiling, more windows, a smoother flooring, and less rough-hewn fireplace distinguished it from the room below. Above the hearth, with its hollowed, blackened stones and battered mantelpiece, a startling vivid thing brought Alan's traveling torch to an abrupt halt.

"For heaven's sake! Is that the Picture?"

His dark lean face regarded it with a positive glare of incredulous belief— unwilling furious belief.

"Land of Moses! Just a fake! It's as new as— as the Chrysler Building ! The paint's as fresh as a ship's just out of dry-dock." In the shock of discovery, he forgot the footsteps. He strode across the dusty floor, trained his torch full on the painted scene.

"Damn —and damn —and damn again!" he glowered, swearing in soft whispered fury, eyes narrowed under black impatient brows. "Maisry was dead right about its infernal technique. It's more like Vorangowl than it's like itself. It's damnable!"

It was. The thing confronted him, exquisitely improbable, perfect beyond human hand or brain to conceive and execute. Some six feet square of the rough wall that formed the chimney-breast had been smoothed down and prepared to a surface even and fine as asphalt. Far-reaching miles of country were compressed within that six-foot bit of wall, the whole of Glenhallion estates from castle grounds to the Kaims of Vorangowl—high brooding, eagle-haunted plateau of moor and rock and fir-woods that was the western limit. It was the view that stretched before the windows of the library at Gorm castle where he had watched yesterday's sun go down behind the same craggy ridge of rock portrayed on the painted horizon before him; the view he'd been watching before his eyes dropped to the Keep and that abominable tramp that lounged there on its battlements.

Stranger, newcomer he might be, but he knew that view very thoroughly indeed, and his trained, falcon-keen eye recognized and acknowledged the astounding reproduction of one landmark after another.

"It's like looking through a window at the thing. If it weren't three a.m. and this wall facing due east instead of west, I'd take my oath that I was staring through a sheet of plate-glass at Vorangowl itself as it looked yesterday about five o'clock! The same effect to the last detail —the same feathery cloud-shape over the pointed hill—and blue haze over the patch of wood to the north. It's not just an April evening, it's the identical evening I watched yesterday."

He started, frowned, looked more intently at the Picture on the wall.

"This cursed torch ... if it were only 'daylight! The infernal thing— why—it looks like mist rolling up over the road — actually rolling up before my eyes!"

And then his whole mind and body, every faculty and sense were suddenly sharpened to amazing perception. His breath came in deep sighs as though he were toiling up-hill with a weight to carry; his face hollowed and lost color; sweat stood in great beads on his forehead.

The faint far-off figure of a man on the painted road— a stony track flung down across the heights —was coming nearer, nearer, nearer....

A figure that had been a vague shadow in the mist, when Alan first looked at the Picture, whose minuteness had served to emphasize the deserted aching loneliness of the moors. Now, the figure was moving forward, swiftly, swiftly over the stony endless road—past miles of dark woods, down the steep drop to the glen until it was swallowed up in the trees and shrubberies of Gorm which formed the foreground of the Picture.

A corner of the Keep itself showed in this same foreground, a bit of the gray weathered battlements.

Alan stared, waiting with pulses beating heavy and slow, watching for the man to reappear. Abruptly he came. He was there on the battlemented roof of the Keep, his great red head and fiery beard sharply defined. He turned to look at Alan, flung up a great arm in menace or derisive greeting.

In that instant a sound of high hooting wind filled the Keep, shrieked through the barred windows, roared down the hollow shaft of the stairway. Alan whipped about, torch in hand, to see the door slam in his face. The wind dropped as he flung himself forward to pull and tug with mad violence at the clumsy ring of iron that formed a handle. As he vainly struggled, there was a sound of heavy footsteps coming from above, halting outside his door, moving on downward and out of hearing.

Silence, heavy and sightless as a grave's, closed down on the Keep and its prisoner.

The shock of it roused Alan like a blow in the face. He'd stood bemused, dreaming, hypnotized by a bit of painted wall and let himself be trapped. Tricked ! Some bit of ancient conjuring, some ingenious contraption in the chimney-flue had caused the illusion.

And the uproar of the wild and sudden wind ? He shrugged that problem off. Whoever worked the Picture fake could take care of that too!

He flashed his light up the chimney but could see nothing beyond bare, grimed old stones rising in rough crumbling perpendicular. He examined the rooms opening off the dining-hall; they were merely cells, unlighted, full of dust and rubble. He returned to the main room and looked up at the windows with careful, calculating eye; they were narrow, strongly barred, set high on the walls so that no arrow, glancing through, should strike a human target. No faintest hope from them, even could he climb like a fly or were possessed of the sharpest of files. Only an explosive could burst open his prison bars.

And now that cursed red-bearded man was at large while he was trapped and helpless here. What was the game? Robbery —the old plate at Gorm? Or jewels —would the beast go near Maisry, frighten her, hurt her? What had he plotted and planned as he hid here all those hours?

Not even hidden, though, Alan reflected. The creature had brazened it out on the battlements in full light. How was it no one but himself had seen ? The Earl had been standing beside him when... Hastily averting his mind's eye from the thought that leaped out of ambush to answer his question, Alan said aloud in clearest, concisest tones:

"That's an easy one! The old man's sight is failing!" and this in spite of knowing that only twelve months ago the Earl had once more carried off the Fofarshire trophy for target shooting at the annual sports. "And, after all, it's not likely that people who live here go poking about and staring as I've been doing. It's perfectly simple that I happened to be the only one to see that infernal tramp."

Other explanations buzzed in his brain and he beat them back like a cloud of noisome flies. There was no other explanation.

Maisry's words sounded in his memory. "Only some have the sight. Father hasn't got it, and that's why he's never seen Red Alastair and doesn't believe in the legend—but it's fact and no legend at all. I have the sight. And you have it too, Alan. I knew at once; I always recognize this wonderful, this terrible power in anyone else. You will see Red Alastair — most certainly you will see him — and that is why I can explain to you about his Picture that he lives in."

For some minutes Alan closed his eyes, recalled deliberately scenes and images and places he had left behind in America. He wanted to shake off illusion, to steady his swirling thoughts, to forget the dark disturbance that swelled and rose and battered at his sanity.

He thought of a holiday he had spent loafing in the sun and warm salt water in Florida. He remembered a day in the woods near a logging-camp when an angry she-bear had chased him as he made off with her cub. He saw himself rocking and smoking and yarning on the broad screened porches of his aunt's country-house in the White Mountains; flashed through the hours of last Christmas day, spent with old Friedland in New York... the fires and friends and brilliant dinner-table...

He opened his eyes on the Picture, and had the sensation of dropping from heaven to hell. On the road— returning, retreating to the misty Kaims of Vorangowl— the man was back again. But this time, and Alan watched with all his soul although he denied the thing he watched, a faint shadowy second figure followed after the man. Beyond a rocky cliff-face far up on the Kaims the red-haired figure halted, turned about to beckon the weary shadow that toiled after him, a shadow that grew clearer with every step it took. Suddenly Alan knew it.

"Maisry! Maisry! Maisry! Comeback— come back to me!"

His full-throated anguished cry beat and echoed against the high cold walls of his prison. Again, again he called. He must bring her back, he must, before she set foot on that high narrow trail skirting the precipice.

That meant death to her, lasting, damnable, eternal death. He was conscious of a single overmastering passion of determination to bring her back — back from the cliff-face where she would slip to darkness, where he would lose her in this world and the next.

With a new shock, he recognized that his will was locked with the will of the red-haired man who waited for Maisry beyond the cliff path. The Picture darkened. Mist rolled gray and baffling down from the heights, and in the leaden skies a dark star shone, a star of evil copper-red that changed the green woods and April grass to somber purples.

Old Jamie's warning darted across his memory: "The Dark Star is up over the Kaims of Vorangowl."

He saw Maisry move forward, saw Red Alastair beckon with insistent hand. Deathless love. Deathless hate. The twin fires leaped up, all his conscious being focused to a single point—to conquer Red Alastair.

He knew his antagonist, acknowledged him at last. He knew his own weapon too. His only weapon. The Will. A clean strong sword that all hell tried to tear from his grasp.

And now Maisry was coming back, back to him from the dark cliff, from engulfing mists, from Red Alastair, slowly, moving wraith-like past wood and glen and through the enfolding trees in the grounds at last. As she vanished, she turned to smile at him.

His torch fell from his nerveless hand. He sagged to the ground, huddled with head on knees; he felt old and worn and done. His next recollection was of light at the windows. Dawn, and the high sweet note of skylarks on the wing.

And the Picture showed a fresh and verdant April evening, an empty road wound up over far-distant heights, a clear tender sky shone above all. It was a magic tender exquisite study of a northern spring. Alan looked and experienced emotions he had never dreamed of possessing.

"And that was her dream! That child caught— held — dragged to hell!

"Maisry!" he addressed the Picture as if she were still on the road before his eyes. "Forgive me. My faithlessness, my stupidity. You shall never tread that road again. It is my fight now. It is between me and Red Alastair. And— I— will — win."

The last words fell with slow, deadly emphasis, a vow abruptly extinguished, the echo of the last word torn from his lips by an inferno of wind. The Keep rocked in its fury, vibrating ominously to its high tremendous shriek.

He turned to the door, prepared for assault, and was faced by a new shock of surprise. The door stood wide open. Cool morning air, bearing a tang of pine and freshness of young wet leaves and grass, met him as he ran to the lower floor, to find the outer door unlocked and opened to the misty morning.

Soberly, slowly, thankfully he returned to Gorm, deeply aware that the Keep was solitary now; no need to search. Its demon was not there. For the moment there was no enemy, no battlefield.

There was only Maisry, and he must go to her.

iii

"AND MAISRY ?" Alan looked at the breakfast table laid for two and his eyes lost their eagerness. "Not joining us. Cousin David ?"

"No. Her maid says she had a bad night. I don't know what to make of it; these last weeks she's altered beyond recognition. I've tried to persuade her to go away for a change. Our local man, Doctor Shields, says she's well enough but makes no effort; he thinks there's something on her mind."

Alan regarded the fish on his plate with a stern frown. He'd been doing some hard, intensive thinking and saw a gleam of light on the very dark horizon of his thoughts.

"I met a chap on the ship coming over. Lives in Stirling. Several people on board knew him well. Seems he's made a great reputation as a nerve specialist. Broome, Eliot Broome's his name."

The Earl's unhappy face lightened.

"Ah, that's a household word in Scotland, and in other countries too. A nerve-man, yes! I didn't think of him for Maisry. D'you suppose she..."

"It's hard to do anything but guess. This fellow Broome impressed me more than anyone I've met in years. Got to know him fairly well— y'know how it is on board ship. We yarned several nights away together. Made a good team for discussions, as he always took a diametrically opposite viewpoint from mine. I'm for fact, the proven fact."

His voice weakened as he proclaimed his lifelong standard. How foolishly short It fell of measuring up with last night's phenomenon!

"Maisry might be upset, imagine there was something seriously wrong if I called in Broome."

"Let me go to Stirling and talk to him. I could bring him back as a friend, not introduce him professionally. Let him see Maisry off guard."

It was quickly arranged. By ten o'clock, Alan was speeding along the road south, a great relief in his mind that there was someone likely to listen to his fantastic, improbable story and discuss it without prejudice. So far as he knew Eliot Broome, the impossible and fantastic interested him profoundly. If only he'd come, and at once! Maisry must not endure last night's horror again.

He found Broome at home, and the specialist listened with immense concentration.

"Yes, I can come, and now!" he said. "I returned by an earlier ship than I had intended— meant to finish off some laboratory experiments before seeing patients. A few days in retreat, y'know. But this won't wait an hour; we'll talk on the drive back."

After lunch, at which Maisry did not appear, the Earl took the two younger men into his study. The father's idea was that Maisry needed a change of scene, that she was moping here at Gorm; and it was evident he knew nothing of her dream, or the fear that shadowed her life. He would strongly have resented the idea of his daughter sharing the vulgar superstitions of the countryside; he appreciated Red Alastair as a picturesque legend but not as an existent contemporary.

After their conference, Alan took his ally over to the Keep.

"God ! It's altered again!"

Alan, who had made straight for the Picture, regarded it with angry incredulity.

"It was a clear late afternoon scene when I left it. There was no figure. Just bare spring landscape. Now the man's back in it again! He was right up in the mist when I first saw this infernal thing; I thought it a clever dodge of the painter— that solitary tiny figure emphasized the vast desolate moor. Now— look at that, will you!"

The two stared. On the road, not a mile from the entrance-gate to Gorm, and facing toward it, a man's figure was painted. Insolently, he seemed to dominate the lovely, lonely Glen, and his uncovered head burned red as fire under leaden skies.

Alan's face set like a mask. With loathing, he noted the changed aspect of the Picture, its gloom and shadow and brooding horror; a scene from Dante's purgatory rather than the living, burgeoning earth.

"Even the star is in it again," he muttered. "The Dark Star."

His companion looked long at the blood-red portent over Vorangowl.

"The star is Red Alastair's signal, then! A sort of challenge."

In striking contrast with Alan's quicksilver energy, Broome stood regarding the Picture; his massive proportions, leonine head, and slow deliberate movements typical of the man. Alan was all speed and movement and quick fiery courage, lean and swift and dangerous in anger as a black panther. Broome's was a slow, deadly, precise strength that makes no mistakes, that waits to strike and never misses; superbly master of himself, he was a man to seek as desert-travelers turn to the shelter of a rock.

"You consider this," Broome's quiet voice began, "the work of a man, some tremendous work of genius?"

The other looked at him, his lean face, his black eyes cold, furious, implacable.

"It's a trick, a damnable hellish trick— to put the wind up— to unnerve me. Why not? He's had two hundred years to learn, to practice
his infernal game."

The specialist regarded him with pity, with comprehension.

"I was prepared to accept your theory, that Red Alastair was a miracle-man, a marvel who had discovered the secret of perpetuating life. The secret could — it will — be discovered ! But this Picture is not the work of a man. It proves that Red Alastair died— in the flesh."

Alan turned an impatient eye on his companion. "What proves it?" he demanded.

"He couldn't accomplish that," Broome's eyes narrowed on the Picture, "while he was still bound by human limitations in his body. He had to say good-bye to that body before journeying to the hell where such magic was learned. Red Alastair is dead. The Picture is an open door by which he comes and goes to that far hell of his."

Alan flung a defiant look at the painted moors. "If there's a way to open a door, there must be a way to close it."

"Undoubtedly! As we saw in the records, though, a door of this nature can't be manipulated in any obvious way."

The other nodded gloomy assent. "They seem to have tried everything. Painting it out— cutting it out— every sort of destruction..."

"And each failure gave new advantage to the enemy."

"How's that ?"

"Because," Broome answered, "they actively acknowledged Red Alastair's power. Without defense or understanding, they offered combat and he won. His existence in our world depended, and still depends, on such victories."

The Picture gleamed sullen, threatening, unchanged upon the wall. Unchanged! Not quite. The man's face was lifted, flung back, its eyes green as a storm-wave in the lightning's glare.

Alan's eyes met them unflinching; he gave back look for look, he seemed to project his very soul to thrust back the power in that painted evil face. Broome, acutely aware of the sudden impact of will against will, stood like stone: he bent the whole weight of his strong, disciplined mind to Alan's need. Then, like the snapping of a twig, it was over. The strain, the tension, the unbearable pressure ceased. Alan's breath was expelled in a long quivering sigh, he leaned his weight on Broome's shoulder, turned a gray face and sunken eyes.

"Let's get out— away from this."

With eloquent gesture he turned and left the tower, his companion close behind. They walked across the intervening space in silence, stood at the castle entrance to look back at the gray, ominous Keep.

"I was wrong!" Alan's voice was hoarse. "Reason— fact— logic— all wrong ! It's neither genius nor science behind Red Alastair's devilish Picture. It's black magic, it's from hell."

"Don't blame yourself; no sane man would accept the true explanation without proof—the sort of proof you've had." Broome put a hand on Alan's shoulder. "Can you arrange for us to see Lady Maisry now, and be undisturbed for the next hour ? There's only a bare margin of safety for her; she must never, as you said, follow him on that road again; she'd not survive it."

"If she went away, now, at once, within the hour ! Out of the country! She could fly across to..."

Alan stopped at the other's decisive gesture.

"Physical distance is a factor that does not count. The man, the devil she follows on that moorland road can summon her at will— from across the world. It is the soul, the ego, the flame within the lamp of clay that is subject to Red Alastair: the body is a thing apart, governed by different laws and limitations."

iv

THEY WENT UPSTAIRS and were admitted by a maid to Lady Maisry's apartments. Alan sent a message.

The girl quickly returned. "Yes, my lord, at once! And this gentleman, also. Will you come to her sitting-room, please?"

The two waited in a room that hung like a nest high up in the southwest wing of Gorm castle. Its window thrust out in a semicircular sweep over a bit of wild uncultivated ground below —long grass and daffodils tossed together, and bushy willow-stumps flashed in sun and wind beside a shallow stream whose soft chuckle sounded in the room through widely opened windows.

How like Maisry, how like her strange lovely self, this room! Straight from the devil-haunted tower, it seemed to Alan as velvet-sweet and fresh as a copse of wood-violets.

She came in to them at once. Her eyes, their cloud-gray beauty repeated in the chiffons of her dress, showed immense fatigue — dark pools no fresh quick source could stir, no sun touch to happy life again. Her face was pale as ivory; she moved across the room slowly, with trained habitual grace, but could not hide her deathly weariness.

Eliot Broome made up his mind at once. Here was one who deserved no less than truth. She was a fighter, strong, and able to endure. He explained himself without preamble, begged her to let him put what knowledge and resources he had at her disposal. She met him with equal directness.

"It is good of you—quite extraordinarily kind—to have come so quickly. Everyone knows your fame, your skill. Tell me one thing, first, and I want the absolute truth, please, Mr. Broome. Alan has told you about my dream?"

The specialist nodded.

"And that I connect it with Red Alastair and his Picture ?"

Again he gave grave assent.

"You know, then, that I consider myself to be haunted by this ancestor of mine; and, knowing this, do you believe that I am unbalanced, my nerves deranged, my brain affected?"

"Dear Lady Maisry, I believe you to be as sane as I am, very sane and unusually well-balanced. That is the reason you can bear to hear the truth from me."

She grew very white. "I understand. I am in danger— in deadly peril?"

"Yes, " he agreed. "In more than mortal peril; yet, courageous as you are, I would not confess this if I did not know you could be rescued."

Light flashed, died out again in her eyes, gray as lake-water at dawn. She shook her golden head.

"Please, not that ! I dare not, dare not think along those lines. I am one of the Ill-fated of my line. In life, in death, he cannot be defeated."

Broome rose to his feet, took her two hands, and drew her up to face him. His eyes, his voice, were stern.

"Listen to me. Lady Maisry. That is a piece of unwisdom I had not dreamed you could say, or believe. It is just such unquestioning belief in Red Alastair that has enabled him to remain earthbound, expanding his mad rapacious ego to colossal dimensions. His existence depends utterly on people's faith and fear."

She stood rigid in his grasp, her face fixed in tense abstracted thought. "But he— he is more than man! He is a devil— served by devils. It is not one human soul against another, it never has been that. You do not know Red Alastair's history, nor does Alan; there has been so little time."

"No. We have only glanced at the records. Is there any special reason why you are haunted? Are all the women of your family tormented?"

"No. I am the first; the first woman that has had 'the sight'. And the reason why he— why he calls me, draws me after him, is this ..."

She took up a small shabby leather case from a table at her side and opened it to show an oval miniature set in pale gold with rim of pearls. The two men looked at it and at her.

"A lovely portrait of you," Alan said.

"No— not of me. That was painted in 1700. It is a portrait of an ancestor of mine on my mother's side—Lady Jean Haugh. Red Alastair stole her on her wedding-day, snatched her from the bridegroom's side as the pair stood before the priest, and rode off with her. To escape him, she flung herself off the cliff-path on the Kaims of Vorangowl. He was riding recklessly, as always, and no doubt his grasp of her loosened as he held up his frightened horse. This is all in the records, and there were many witnesses to this particular crime; for it was April and shepherds were all out on the moors tending the ewes and lambs."

"Then Lady Jean Haugh did actually defeat him for once!"

"Not finally. She merely postponed his victory. He has waited some two hundred years for her. And now— here am I."

"Exactly. Here are you. And you are not the Lady Jean Haugh."

"Physically I am, to the last gold hair; and more than that Red Alastair would not recognize. There is no time now to tell you more fully of his life; one year was like another to him, blood and battle, riding and fighting. But chiefly women— the records are black with their names— their unspeakable fate."

Eliot Broome watched the girl narrowly. His next question made Alan start and lean forward with hands suddenly cold and shaking, the pulses throbbing at his temples.

"And you? You have not thought of escaping as Lady Jean escaped?"

Maisry did not shrink. The idea was evidently a familiar one. "My unwisdom, as you call it, is not so great as that. Nor do I count suicide escape— from anything."

Broome's square rugged face lightened. "Ah, now you are wise, indeed. If you will continue to think with such intelligence and courage, I repeat— Red Alastair can be defeated."

Again she shook her head. "You scarcely know how truly monstrous he is, and was from the beginning. Oh, they are not old wives' tales, the records of his birth and life and death. They come from varying sources, perfectly sound and authentic, and all agree that he was monstrous, devil-possessed from birth."

"And his death? What is recorded of that?"

"It was never recorded as proved fact. He lived alone at Gorm after Lady Jean's death; entirely, mysteriously alone, cut off from every human being. No one took food to the castle, no one saw him outside its walls. But at night the Keep would blaze with light—and books say 'ringed about with most infernal fire', and thin high pipings and whistlings echoed to the hills. It was a terror in the countryside for three years."

"And then?"

"The old castle of Gorm was burned to the ground. It blazed and smoldered for nights and days. No one would go near it. Only the Keep was left standing."

"And the Picture? Is it mentioned in the early records ?"

Alan, listening, strained forward to hear her reply.

"Yes." Loathing dawned in her eyes. "Duncan, tenth Earl of Glenhallion, inherited after Gorm was burned. Red Alastair had vanished, although his bones were never found, and the popular belief was that he had not died in the fire. Duncan rebuilt the castle as it stands now, and attempted to destroy what was recorded in those days as 'a most strange and foule magick'. Instead, he was himself destroyed, his body found on the battlements with a broken back."

Alan frowned, turned to Broome.

"At least, Alastair was living then ! He must have been responsible for that murder."

"But many have died like that," Maisry went on. "Many have tried to destroy the Picture. For almost two hundred years men have tried, and failed, and died most horribly."

"Opposing the psychical with the physical." Broome's massive head was hunched between his shoulders, his abstracted gaze bent on the carpet. "Red Alastair died. He exists in another state of being. He must be met, opposed, conquered in that other state."

Alan's words came slow and weighted. "I would not acknowledge that before. I've been bluffing myself. I knew he was something— not human— when first I saw him on the battlements. I dared not admit it. It seemed too difficult, too dangerous. I was afraid."

Tears came to Maisry's eyes. Broome's smile, however, was a benediction. "Now you've come to grips with yourself. Of course you're afraid. What do you expect? You're human, not a devil like Red Alastair."

"What I mean, more precisely," Alan continued in the same slow painful way, "is that I recognize at last what must be done— and I'm prepared to do it. I know in the main, that is; I shall leave details to you."

"I can give you protection. I can prepare you for the journey. Beyond that none can help."

"What journey? What are you both talking about?" Maisry broke in with quick breathless words. "Alan! You mustn't—you're not dreaming of..."

He took her hand, kissed the fingers that clung to his. She turned to Broome, her hand still holding fast to Alan's.

"Tell me! Tell me! What are you going to let him do? Protection, you said. Oh, what are you going to do?— where is Alan going?"

"Don't break now, my dearest." Alan rose and stood before her. "I need your help, all you can give."

"All you can give," echoed Broome, and his tone touched her to profound stillness. "You have a capacity for faith. It is two-edged quality. You brought Red Alastair into the compass of your existence by your faith in him and his power to do you harm. You can transfer that faith to Alan and his power to conquer Red Alastair. You must choose. There can be no compromise. Do you believe in Alan's power to defeat your enemy, or do you not?"

Her look turned to Alan's straight, tall figure. He was changed, much changed since his surrender to the deep-hidden unconscious self he had so long ignored. His dark Pharaoh look of impenetrable command and dignity added a decade to his years.

As she watched him, amazement swamped her fear. It was not possible to conceive defeat for this regal-looking man.

"I fight for you, Alan. I believe in you."

He looked long into her eyes, saw all that lay behind her spoken words, and took her hand as if to seal a compact.

"Then we're ready now for the fight— for the victory."

He turned to Broome. "We are of one mind now, one resolve, utterly and completely one."

v

TWO GREAT seven-branched candelabra, on massive stands, reached tall as young trees on either side of the fireplace. Their candles showed the Picture in warm golden light. Through the barred, unglassed windows, night air drifted mild and sweet with scent of hawthorn, mingling with tang of wood and leaves that glowed and sizzled in a brazier upon the hearth.

A truckle-bed showed dimly in a corner of the dining-hall; two light garden seats and a great pile of wood and many thick white candles were also visible.

"You are sure, you swear, that Maisry is safe ? To wait here while she, perhaps, is— "

Broome interrupted him. "I know she is safe. For her I can absolutely vouch. For you, it is different; I can only protect you up to a point; the issue depends entirely on yourself after that. Your will against his. You are taking the most fantastic risk, as I warned you. If you lose, if your endurance and courage are mastered by him for an instant, you are mastered for all time. You will become what he is — a devil; you will work for him, yes, even if it means helping to bait the Lady Maisry to hell!"

"Never !" There was none of Alan's wonted fire and scorn in his voice; emotion was stripped from him, human attributes consumed by divine unbending will. "You are sure, then ? She is tired, ill, she may fall asleep. And in sleep Red Alastair calls her."

"'You don't know the laws that govern other states of being, but, believe me, Red Alastair is restricted in his activities as we are ourselves. Laws of gravity, of magnetism, of attraction and repulsion, of growth and decay, of tides and winds and electricity — all the myriad laws that govern us and our objective world have their parallels in other worlds."

"Who makes them ?"

"Who makes ours?" was the quiet response. "Fire burns you; a fall from a height will break you in pieces! Why?"

"Because we're made of human stuff, perishable matter."

"And do you imagine that, free of your body, you cannot suffer or perish ? Red Alastair, I repeat, has no power to pass the barriers that protect Lady Maisry for this one night."

"And after that?"

"Her protection will be in your power."

Broome turned abruptly to the wall. "Watch! Watch the Picture, on your life! He mustn't see you first. He mustn't call you to him. The attack must be from you."

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, their gaze sternly set upon the Picture. A faint copper tinge darkened its evening sky, gray haze began to cloud the heights, shadows fell across the wide moors, the woods, and glen; the long road seemed a net flung down —a trap—a sinister living thing that coiled and waited for its prey.

Mist thickened and spread upon the heights, and Broome's hand went to his breast pocket. He drew out a small phial and unstoppered it, pressed it into Alan's hand.

"Keep your eyes on the mist, on the mist above Vorangowl. He is coming. Drink this, on the instant, when his figure appears. He must not catch you in the body."

The coppery gleam deepened in the sky, focused, concentrated to a center. The Dark. Star shone out over the broad estate of Glenhallion; and, on the far horizon of the Picture, mist rose, wreathed, and crept across the sullen moors... blind herald of doom.

Alan stood with the phial to his lips, breathing slowly, evenly. The hand that held the little clouded glass was steady, his dark brows met in a frown of concentration over eyes black as a deep tarn in winter, and as cold. The fine bones of his face showed under taut muscles and sunken cheeks.

On the heights of Vorangowl, on a craggy spur of rock above the fatal gorge and dizzy cliff-path, the mists grew thin... parted... swirled aside. A figure, a mere black speck, but infinitely menacing, was visible.

Swift as a bird's flash, Alan drank. The phial slipped, crashed to the stone floor.

Broome's strong arms were about him instantly, supporting him, lifting him to the truckle-bed in the corner. Blind, deaf, empty shell, his body lay there as Broome turned quickly back to the Picture.

Watching it, his heart seemed to turn over in his breast. The dread he had concealed from Alan racked him now.

"Gone. Beyond all help, all knowledge now. Fighting alone, unaided. Following — following that devil—even to hell."

Then, in the Picture, he saw Alan signal from the Keep, across the gulf of time and space the painted surface bridged; signal from the battlements.

Next moment, Broome saw his tall light figure running through the grounds, through the gates, along the road that led to Vorangowl. Swiftly, swiftly Alan's feet carried him, borne by the impetus of his strong will.

Now the glen lay behind him; the wooded Kaims dosed about him jealously. On, on he went, past threat of glooming trees, past barren reaches of the upper glen.

Broome watched, his heart going as if he himself ran across the fatal spellbound moors. He could see Red Alastair fighting his way downward — restrained by Alan's stronger impetus — taken unawares. Ah, Red Alastair was gaining ground now ! If he reached the cliff-path, if he crossed it first, then Alan must suffer terribly. It was clear the fact was apprehended by both adversaries.

All Red Alastair's unbridled longing, his mad unappeasable desire, had focused on the scene of his defeated lust. For two hundred years his restless, terrible ghost had wandered there, watching, waiting. The cliff and rocky narrow trail were deep imprinted with his torment, his deathless hate.

Swifter, swifter Alan ran, up the steeps, over heather and stony tracts, on —on— on. And, from the mists. Red Alastair loomed larger; the balefire of hair and beard gleamed. From either end, the two antagonists approached the fatal wall of rock.

Broome leaned forward, his whole consciousness centered on Alan's last tremendous effort. "He's done it! He's there first!"

The quiet thankful voice rang in the still room and the candles flared in answer, showing every detail on the painted wall.

On the dizzy edge of space, Alan took the path lightly, easily; and, on its further side. Red Alastair bulked gigantic, the mist recoiling— leaving him in space— alone— waiting...

Alan had crossed, flashed upon his enemy— closer, closer, until to Broome's sight there scarcely seemed a yard between them. Then, for a long moment of torture, both figures were motionless. Broome well understood the meaning of that titanic pause. Will battled with will. One must retreat, one pursue.

The Picture suddenly assumed the look of some vast amphitheater: hollow curving mountain ranges, their crested heads upreared, closed in upon the combatants. Beyond them, screened by vaporous mist, Broome was aware of watchers, felt the pressure of their blind malevolence.

"So," he whispered, "Red Alastair is not come alone!"

A knife seemed to twist in his heart as he watched; every moment was a year of horror; every instant of the grim rigid contest meant unspeakable effort to Alan.

The mist rolled blindingly, it wrapped about Red Alastair, drew him back, back to the heights. And Alan followed on.

Broome was aware that he followed with sure and steady purpose, more and more slowly, growing smaller, dimmer at every step. The Kaims of Vorangowl were being blotted out. Mist rose on every side. The hills, the glen, the woods were only smears of vague color. Now the foreground and the corner of the old Keep vanished. Only the Dark Star shone with metallic copper glow and showed Alan's tiny, toiling figure going upward— upward. It reached the farthest peak, showed for a flashing second, black, tiny, remote; then it was lost.

Broome's eyes ached; he closed them, opened them again. No it was really over now. The Picture on the wall was only a gray dull blur moving swirling mist. Not a stone, not a leaf, not a blade of grass was visible. Even the Dark Star had sunk, its blood-red gloom wiped out. Mist— impenetrable, blinding, moving mist hid everything.

vi

TWO long days dragged to evening. The weary terrifying hours of a third night closed on Gorm. Maisry, sleepless and worn, went at midnight to share Broome's vigil.

Nothing was changed. The candles, burning in a windless night, showed nothing more— only gray surging clouds of mist in ceaseless movement. The Picture was like the crater of a volcano where smoke eddied and swung in the void before the destroying fire burst up from its depths.

The watchers saw no change in Alan's face except, perhaps, a deeper shadow of repose. It was a sign, Broome knew, that he was farther and farther away with every passing hour— following— following through space— on and on to dim uncertain perilous horizons where the finite mind can no longer function.

Broome faced his thought steadily, though it was overwhelming in its horror. Had Red Alastair the power to lead on to voids no mortal spirit can endure? His straining eyes grew more intent.

"Something is moving behind the mist," he said.

A rift showed at the top of the Picture; a glimpse of pale sky, a tooth of jagged rock appeared. Thin wispy trails floated across the rift. Gradually, as if rent and shredded by a furious wind, the whole horizon cleared to show a colorless cloudless sky and moorland heights, below which a sea of mist still whirled and eddied to and fro.

But no figure was visible. Until long past dawn the two kept watch, their eyes red-rimmed and aching, but a cold pale sky and desolate peaks of Vorangowl mocked them with their emptiness.

Broome had watched narrowly in all the long hours for some change in Alan, too; but it did not come. The day passed and the fourth night passed. Dawn of the fifth day approached. Broome and Maisry once more shared the vigil, for he had warned her it was the most pregnant of the twenty-four hours.

The Picture showed the same chill breadth of sky and sharp-toothed crags. The rest was veiled. It was in Alan's face that Broome read indication of a crisis. Its indescribable look of sphinx-like, age-old remoteness was softened. The eyelids no longer gave the impression of carven lids that, covered sightless eyes; they seemed merely to have drooped in sleep. A warmer, fuller outline curved cheek and jaw and temples.

"Alan! Alan!"

"No." Broome curtly stopped her. "It is the Picture you must watch. It is the door he must pass through to his body."

Round a tall spur of rock they saw a dark speck moving. Slowly— oh, very slowly— it came on. Impossible to see its face, its outline, or any distinguishing mark at all, but both knew at once who struggled there up on the heights of Vorangowl.

"Bring him back ! Bring him back with all your will." Broome spoke to the trembling girl beside him but kept his eyes on the Picture. "He's done! You and I must give him strength—his is spent, and overspent."

They watched the efforts of the far-off lonely figure and tried to fight back their own despair. The road stretched so endlessly — so endlessly... would that halting, stumbling traveler, so miraculously returning— would he ever reach his bourn?

Now it was full dawn in the green leafy actual world outside the Keep. Birds shook the spell of silence into sound. Long rosy fingers of sunlight thrust through an east window and touched the dusty floor. The candles, paling ghostly sentries, burned on.

Dawn too, it seemed, in the changing Picture. Behind Alan the sky grew light, throwing sun and shadow on the heights he had passed. But in front of him the road wound into mist and shadows— shadows that fell blackest and most impenetrably into the deep gorge which the cliff-path skirted.

Once more that haunted cliff-path must be crossed. Could Alan traverse it? Could he control his swooning weariness on its sharp edge?

"Good, ah, good! His will holds firm."

Broome's voice sank to a deep exultant note as they saw Alan drop on hands and knees to crawl along the path. Maisry watched with pain too overpowering for tears. She spoke to him as if he were close beside her, as if she trod the path before him.

"Dear—it is halfway now. We will rest on the other side. Follow, follow me— a little more— a little more. Ah, you will not let me go alone— Alan! Alan! Come with me... come..."

Broome marveled at her. And Alan's face lifted as if he saw her on the path before him; now and again he put out a hand as if to touch her own. It was full noon when at last he reached the end of the path and lay on the heather slopes beyond.

Until sunset, Maisry coaxed and pleaded and besought the figure on the painted Picture. With Broome beside her, aiding her strength, her wisdom, she fought for Alan, bringing him mile after weary mile along the dark glen road, bringing him back across the cursed painted miles from hell, back to the warmth and beauty of his own green earth, to her and to her love.

The sun sank low, and lower. And still Alan was outside the gates of Gorm. Candlelight showed him on the endless road, swaying and lurching with weariness beyond control. More than once he fell, but rose and stumbled on in answer to Maisry's low entreating words of love. Then at last he fell and did not rise; he seemed deaf to her voice, her pleadings, her tenderness.

Behind him, the long road was clear of mist and shadow, but the foreground he had not yet passed still lay obscure and dark.

Maisry turned imperiously to her companion. "A chair! Put one close that I may touch him, help him up again."

He saw her climb and lean close until her hands could touch the exhausted broken figure lying on the road. Close, close to the painted wall, her moving tender hands seemed to raise, to lift him to his feet. Once more, miraculously, he dragged himself forward— on— on to the gates of Gorm. He reached them, passed through and was swallowed up in velvet darkness of the trees.

No shred of mist remained in all the Picture. In its foreground, the gray Keep abruptly thrust up, grim, boding, expectant.

Dimly in the starlight, someone bulked faintly, uncertainly upon the battlements. Broome's lips formed a word: "Alan !"

The name died on a sudden breath of horror. It was not Alan who so monstrously obscured the stars. It was a heavier figure. It moved, turned, thrust forward a great head. Ah, that demon's face, that flaming beard and hair!

Broome leaped to Maisry's side, to draw her away, to interpose himself between her— leaning forward, her golden head and lovely face not a foot from the painted Keep— and the peering lustful mask. But she resisted him, thrust back his hands, turned a changed face and eyes that flashed like swords full on Red Alastair. She was a golden flame of anger.

"Go back!" her voice rang in the echoing room like bugles blown for war. "Dead, cursed thing— go back to your own hell! Dead— defeated— forgotten ghost! I am not afraid! Back— back to hell!"

The thing upon the tower roof shrank, wavered, dwindled in the starlight. Maisry's eyes pierced it, followed it, tortured it. The monstrous bulk grew vaporous, insubstantial as a web, a dusty cobweb flung on the massive, wall. The web, caught by a breath of wind, was torn from its last slight moorings— tossed from the Keep— drifted from sight...

As it vanished, the Picture cracked across and across. Its painted scene faded, dissolving, disintegrating, obliterated by the all-pervading dust of centuries. In a moment, nothing remained of outline or of color. Above the hearth, a cracked and moldering wall showed in the golden candle-light.

Maisry sprang down, caught Broome's arm. "Now he can come to me! Now I am free! Alan ! Alan ! Alan!"

She knelt beside the truckle-bed. Alan lay still. He seemed to sleep, to dream. A faint smile curved his lips, and his heavy eyelids quivered. Maisry kissed the curving lips, the fluttering eyelids, until the dark eyes opened wide. His voice was a faint exhausted whisper.

"You came for me. You brought me home. I could not have won back— alone. Your voice— dearest— I followed it— your voice— your little hands ..."

His eyes closed in weakness, then opened once again.

"I tried to warn you, to tell you he was coming, too. It was forbidden— I was not allowed ! If you had been afraid— he would have had power— to stay. We had to fight— together, my beloved— together ..."

He sank back to deep oblivion and sleep. Maisry, crouched beside him, let her head fall on the hands that clasped his own. Sleep folded her too, softly, suddenly.

____________________

2: Passport to the Desert

The Magic Carpet Magazine Jan 1934

1. The Turquoise Ring

JACK DEANE adjusted his field-glasses and looked down the gloomy gorge of El Fumm. It was a desolate, haunted place. Towering granite walls shut out the sky.

"Good Lord!" He stared into the depths below at a red-brown burnoose caught among the rocks. "It's a man—dead, or badly stunned."

With the eye of an expert climber, he examined the narrow ledge winding across the cliff-face, then cautiously lowered himself into the chasm, creeping by slow zigzag degrees to the fallen man.

"Ugly-looking customer! Desert thief! I'll bet he lost that eye putting up a good fight." A trickle of blood oozed from beneath the Arab's chechia; he hung limply across the rock, his face gray, his mouth open. Jack pulled out his flask and lifted the wounded man's head.

The Arab opened his fierce, bright eye.

"It was a sharp stone, billah, that caught my head," he explained. "To thee, effendi, I owe my life. By this Gorge of Death, never shall One-Eye forget thy deed."

To divert the stream of gratitude, Jack held out the brandy flask. "Better keep this. You may need it."

The long, difficult climb to the ledge above safely accomplished, One-Eye took elaborate farewell.

"May Allah have thee in his keeping!" The Arab drew a ring from his finger and held it out to Jack. "Take this in proof of gratitude, effendi! It is my wasm—the tribal mark of the Zendas. Now hast thou a passport to the desert better than a two-edged sword."

In token of love and fealty, he touched Jack's hand to breast, lips, and forehead and, turning, walked slowly away through the gloomy gorge.

Left alone, Jack looked curiously at his gift. The ring was of wrought silver in which a turquoise was set with strange effect. Like a clear blue eye, the stone seemed to return Jack's gaze. "One Eye's wasm, eh! And very fitting, too—nearly as remarkable as the man himself!"

2: A Secret Enemy

DRIVING SLOWLY through the crowded streets of Zilfi one afternoon, Jack had an uneasy premonition that something evil was close at hand. Frequent narrow escapes had bred in him a sort of sixth sense of late. Someone was deliberately trying to kill him. He had made an enemy—a secret, persistent, unrelenting enemy. The whole thing was inexplicable to him, for his friendly encounter with One-Eye five years ago had proved a good omen. Ever since, he had lived on the best of terms with the Arabs, and the recent attacks on his life seemed unaccountable.

That little warning bell in his consciousness saved him. He twisted like an eel as the bearded marabout sprang. The gleaming blade only ripped his coat sleeve in its downward thrust.

The old man was off through the crowd like a minnow in a pool. Across the crowded souk Jack followed, but was delayed by an Arab with an enormous bunch of bananas, and lost sight of the marabout. He returned to his car and drove off hot and angry, for these affairs were becoming a serious nuisance. He recalled one after another as he drove on in the golden sunshine and purple shadows of the afternoon.

There was the spider—the deadly Galeodes arachnida. He had waked one night to see a dark figure jump off his balcony, and brilliant moonlight had revealed the spider running over his sheet. The affair of the boulder had been a nasty one, too. Placed so ingeniously at the corner of the sea-road, it had almost sent his car crashing a thousand feet to the rocks below.

This last attempt in the open street showed that his secret enemy was losing patience. He could think of but one man who might conceivably be planning his death so deliberately—Omar Ben Saif.

Leaving the car at a garage, he made his way down to the sea-road and found Linda, his fiancée, already at their trysting-place. Sitting together on the rocks by the dazzling sea, Jack explained what had delayed him.

"I can't figure it out at all," he went on. "The only one I know who might have a reason for getting me out of the way is Ben Saif. I shall be twenty-six next week, and am entitled then to be made a full partner with my brother, Fenton, in the firm of Deane & Son. He seems anxious enough to take me in with him, but I'm doubtful if that rascally Ben Saif will like it—and he sends the bulk of our cargoes. It's my belief that he's using our ships for private enterprises of his own."

"Yet your brother trusts him."

"In some ways, I understand the Arabs better than Fenton does. He was a thorough-going American boy when dad first settled in Zilfi and built up the shipping business. But I was born out here. True, I went home for my education, but I've lived in Algeria all the rest of the time. I flatter myself that I know the people."

"Mother thinks you are much too friendly with them. She was complaining about it to Fenton after we'd been sightseeing with you. Said she disliked going about Zilfi with you, because the Arabs came up and talked as if they were boys of your own class at Harvard. Poor mother, she's terrified of them."

"Mrs. Webb prefers Fenton to me as a future son-in-law. He is her ideal of a steady, industrious, wealthy man."

"She's got another grudge against you now."

"What's that?"

"The ring One-Eye gave you! It's a pity she heard that story about it. She's all upset over your having such a notorious bandit for a friend."

"Hardly a friend!" Jack laughed. "He wouldn't know me from Adam if we met now. I had a mustache five years ago, and I was wearing sun-goggles, not to speak of a bad heat-rash. Anyhow, you may be sure I'll not be the one to claim friendship. He's the biggest rogue in the Barbary States."

"I wish we could have the luck to meet One-Eye when we go to El Fumm tomorrow. It would be thrilling to say I'd met such a famous character."

"Not a chance! The French are hot on his trail after that last hold-up of his in the desert. He won't come within a hundred miles of Zilfi now. Much more likely to meet some of Ben Saif's ruffians at El Fumm; that's the reason I objected to having a picnic there. I don't see why Fenton insisted on it."

"He wanted to please me. I'm terribly anxious to see the gorge. Aren't you exaggerating the danger? El Fumm's only a few hours' ride from Zilfi. Why don't you want us to go?"

"Don't want you to go," he corrected. "You wouldn't guess the intrigue and plotting out here in Algeria beneath the surface of apparent order. Slavery's always existed in this country, and the Arabs can't see any moral reason for its suppression. It goes on under the noses of the French. Quietly and secretly—just like bootlegging at home. It never stops."

"But where does El Fumm come in? Is it being used as a slave route? Oh,"—Linda drew a deep breath of enlightenment—"you mean Ben Saif uses it—that he's a slave-dealer?"

"There's no proof yet, but he's under suspicion. The government can't afford to make mistakes."

"It's strange your brother is so indifferent to Ben Saif's reputation."

"Fenton finds it convenient to shut his eyes and ears. He won't listen to me. Pretends to think what I hear in the souks is just rumor and gossip. He and Ben Saif are hand in glove. Fenton makes no attempt to hide their intimacy. So far the government hasn't interfered. But Ben Saif is being watched, I don't believe Fenton realizes how closely."

Linda pondered. "I see. And, of course, as soon as you're a partner in the firm, you'll be able to do something about it."

"Yes, if they don't wreck the firm's reputation entirely before I get into it."

"Even if Ben Saif is all you suspect, he wouldn't dare to interfere with us at El Fumm, though."

"You might be in serious danger. It wouldn't be the first time a girl's been carried off in these mountains. El Fumm's a desolate spot. You'd disappear before we knew what hit us."

"Jack! They wouldn't steal a white girl like that! Ben Saif could never get away with such a ghastly outrage!"

"Dear, you don't begin to understand the subtle game that slave-dealers play out here. It's the hardest thing in the world to pin anything on to them. Ben Saif's cutthroats would rather die than breathe a word against him. In Algeria, a traitor's fate is—horrible!"

"You don't think—" Linda hesitated, her eyes troubled. "Fenton's acting very strangely. I wonder if he—" She broke off abruptly and got to her feet. "Its nothing—just a foolish idea! I'm so anxious about you, that's all. But we really can't back out of the expedition now. Everything's arranged. Mother's all set for El Fumm. Nothing will put her off now."

"I suppose not," agreed Jack unhappily as they left the sea and turned to walk back to Zilfi.

3: The Affair of the Orange

THROUGH the Bab-el-Ghrabi, Gate of the West, they passed into the white-walled town, and, by winding streets, reached the marketplace.

Ochered, crumbling walls of ancient buildings enclosing the square were brilliant with sun and opalescent shadows—blue, dusky purple, and gold-flecked green, they quivered beneath balconies and outthrust tilings, under arched doorways, and among the baskets and pyramids of fruit before the gaudy booths.

"What gorgeous color!" Linda was enchanted.

Across the souk, in the shadow of an archway, a little fruit-seller in black gandourah and dingy turban smiled ingratiatingly beside a red-gold pyramid of mandarin oranges. Linda stopped and took one from him. He showed all his teeth in a yet broader grin, pressed another orange into Jack's hand, and spoke a few words in Arabic.

Jack peeled his fruit carelessly, absorbed in watching Linda. His mind was full of plans. Next week he would be a partner in the firm of Deane & Son. He and Linda would be married....

The black-clad fruit-seller got to his feet in one swift movement, observing Jack narrowly; the whites of his eyes gleamed as he furtively withdrew and melted into the darkness of the narrow lane beyond the archway.

Preoccupied, Jack broke off a quarter of the orange he was absent-mindedly peeling. His eyes were fixed on the fruit, but for a moment what they saw did not registered in his brain. Then his absent gaze focused sharply.

The flies!

For a paralyzed second he watched them drop off, or fall dead within the hollow cut of the partly broken skin, standing up like tulip petals about the fruit.

"Linda!" He snatched at the remaining quarter of her orange.

Watching with eyes full of horror and apprehension, he saw flies hover and sip. His breath almost stopped, then came in a gasp of relief. Thank God, it was all right! Only from his orange the flies fell dead—poisoned! On Linda's orange they sipped, and crawled, and sipped again, unharmed.

"I thought they'd got you, too!"

"What was it, Jack? Darling, don't look at me like that! I don't understand."

"Poison! My orange was poisoned—something deadly. That fruit-seller—" He glanced round and discovered that the vender had vanished. "Where'd the little rat go? No matter, I'd never have caught him. Let's get home out of this."

She clung to him, thoroughly unnerved, the bright glory of the day suddenly darkened by creeping fear. "Jack, this is all too horrible! You can't go on from day to day, never knowing when or how they'll strike!" She shuddered, recalling the black flies speckling the dust as they fell from the poisoned orange. "I ought to tell you that—you may have guessed it, anyhow!"

He looked at her in silence, waiting.

"I'm afraid you'll be angry that I suspect him." She hesitated "It's Fenton! He wants to marry me. He wouldn't accept my refusal. I'm afraid of him."

"You—afraid?"

"Yes, yes! But that's not all. Jack, he's jealous of you. Oh, I know. I've seen his face—his eyes!"

"Why, Linda! You must put the brake on now and then. You're not trying to tell me that Fenton's out for my blood?"

"Oh, I know it sounds absurd to you. But I have the feeling that his jealousy is somehow connected with all the rest... with your partnership and his business with Ben Saif! Perhaps Fenton is not so ignorant of Ben Saif's secrets; perhaps he's not merely a catspaw!"

4: In the Hold of the S. S. Pearl

JACK GUIDED his horse carefully, for the Empty Land was rough going. Here and there, over the dun levels, Zilfi and other small towns lay like scattered beads, their domes and white walls twinkling in the sun.

He was making for the little port of Biodh, where he expected to find Deane & Son's newest ship, the S. S. Pearl, in harbor. To his surprise, only a few fishing-boats rocked gently alongside the quay. He rode on to the cliffs, and saw the Pearl standing well out to sea, about a mile up the coast.

He was puzzled. It was unusual for their ships to leave the quay until the last possible minute—hours, sometimes days after the scheduled time. Native exporters made no effort to comply with shipping rules and regulations. They regarded the white effendi's passion for fixed hours as inexplicable, even impious. A ship could sail only when Allah willed. How useless, therefore, to strive against his decrees!

So they traveled across the Empty Land with their laden camels, bringing cargoes of fruit, wine, olive oil and cork down to the little harbor. If no ship was there, they made camp, and smoked, and dreamed away long idle days until another ship arrived.

Yet the Pearl lay anchored well out to sea a good twelve hours before she was due to sail.

Suddenly a launch drew out from an inlet a mile or two up the coast, and headed directly for the anchored ship.

He frowned. "Fenton's launch! Now what the devil?"

He watched the launch cut across the sea—pink as cherry-blossom in the rising sun—and run in against the Pearl's starboard side, which was hidden from his sight. In a few minutes it streaked back to the coast again.

"I'm going on board if I have to swim out there," he vowed, dismounting, and giving his reins to the servant. "Wait here for me," he ordered and tramped off with long, swinging strides down to the harbor

Pierre, harbor-master, was vehement in answer to Jack's inquiries. Recently arrived in Algeria, the young Frenchman was full of homesick contempt for everything in the country.

"No, m'sieur," Pierre's voice squeaked with indignation. "I was not informed why the Pearl put out to sea before her time. The good God alone knows why people do things in this country!" The little sailor rolled despairing eyes skyward.

"I want you to row me out to the Pearl."

Pierre chose the least clumsy of the fishing-boats moored in the harbor, and began to pull toward the distant ship.

"Ahoy there!" Jack sent out a stentorian hail as they drew near the Pearl.

A turbaned head was thrust over the side, then vanished hastily.

Jack admonished Pierre in a low voice. "Get up a row of some sort with the captain. Say anything, do anything to keep him off my track. Half an hour alone on that ship is what I want."

"It will be a pleasure, m'sieur! For long I have desired to insult that pig of an Arab captain."

The little Frenchman carried out orders to the letter, goading the captain to fling a cup of coffee across the chartroom table. During the profane and noisy duet that ensued, Jack escaped unnoticed and made straight for the ship's hold.

No one stopped him. Those of the crew he met saluted indifferently. The affairs of the white effendi were nothing to them. He went down a ladder into the hold.

Reek of tar, rope, and sacking mingled with spicier odors as he stood for a moment at the foot of the ladder. He struck a match and moved slowly forward among the heterogeneous cargo. Skirting a damp, sticky mound of date-sacks, he came to a sudden pause, staring....

Although he had feared and expected to see it, the thing appalled him. The match went out between his fingers. He lighted another hastily, the small action serving to steady him, and looked again at the young Arab girls huddled up in a narrow space before him. They drew their haiks across their faces as they confronted him.

Slaves!

His questions elicited very meager information. He gathered that the launch had brought them to the ship at different times during the past night; obviously there were more of them than could have been carried on the single trip he had seen. They had come a journey of many moons from desert oases in the south. They did not know who had brought them, or where they were going. Unblinkingly, their dark eyes regarded him from between the folds of their veils.

"It is written," they echoed with the fatalism of the East.

Reaching the chartroom once more, he found that he had not been missed, and that Captain Robah—sprawled on the floor—would feel little interest in anyone on board his ship for some time to come. Beside him knelt a frightened servant, endeavoring to staunch the blood from a cut on his head with a corner of his gold-embroidered tunic.

Pierre, waving the neck of a broken brandy bottle, waited with a rapturous smile for Jack's approval.

"Good! You've made a fine job of it."

The two hurried on deck, went down the ship's side to their waiting boat, and pulled quickly back to land.

FENTON, in pajamas and silk dressing gown, was enjoying an after-breakfast smoke on his bedroom balcony when Jack appeared.

"I've just been down to the harbor and found your rascally old captain had put out to sea. I couldn't understand it, so I went to see why. Good reason—he'd been taking slaves aboard."

"What?"

"Yes, slaves! Three or four dozen girls."

Fenton ground the stub of a cigarette viciously, his eyes avoiding Jack's. "Slaves! On board the Pearl! If the government gets wind of this, we're ruined!"

"I judge they've been taken from oases in the southern territory."

"That's Ben Saif's country!"

"Those slaves have got to be taken off the Pearl as quietly as they were sneaked on," Jack said at last.

"It's a damned ugly business," Fenton growled, "damned ugly!"

"Who ordered Captain Robah to anchor out at sea?"

"I did. To oblige Ben Saif. He wanted to smuggle a few cases of his special liqueur on board. I let him borrow the launch."

Jack ran his fingers through his hair, slumped down at the breakfast table, and twiddled a teaspoon thoughtfully. He spoke with slow emphasis. "It's a thin yarn, isn't it? You'll never get away with it—not to the French!"

Fenton moved to stand directly opposite his brother, a dark purplish color rising on his flat cheeks, his pale eyes blinking rapidly. "See here, Jack, I've been every kind of a fool you like to mention. But I swear I did not believe Ben Saif would do a thing like this. You'll learn when you're made a partner, my boy, that there was a mighty big inducement to turn a deaf ear to all the rumors about him."

Jack waved the teaspoon emphatically. "Get hold of Ben Saif. Tell him to take those slaves off, and take himself to the devil as fast as he can. We're through with him."

The purple tint in Fenton's face deepened.

"I'll tell him that and a trifle more. I'll make it so hot for him that he won't two-time me, or anyone else in Zilfi, again. The scoundrel!"

"I suppose it's our duty to report this business, but the firm would suffer badly if we did. The French are getting really fussy about slaves. We can put a stop to Ben Saif's trafficking along this coast anyhow."

"He's due at my office at eight-thirty; so I'll get along, and put the fear of Allah in him."

"I suppose the El Fumm excursion is all fixed?"

"Why, yes!" Fenton's voice was conciliatory. "There'll be no danger of interference from Ben Saif now, as you feared. He won't try any more monkey tricks with us."

5: At El Fumm

THE FONDUK—starting-point for the expedition to El Fumm—was the usual rectangular enclosure typical of North Africa, with arcaded walls, small stone prayer-chambers where the faithful besought Allah's blessing on their journeys, and single high, narrow entrance gate. Two garflas having recently arrived, the caravanserai overflowed with temperamental camel-drivers and their dusty, complaining, evil-smelling beasts.

Followed by servants and horses, the picnickers passed through the narrow gate. A few donkeys, laden with firewood and hampers of food, pattered on neat little hoofs at the end of the procession. Their patient eyes reflected a truly Arab resignation to their fate.

As the horses began to pick their way between granite boulders and lentisk bushes, Jack edged his mount alongside his brother, letting the others pass on. "You've seen Ben Saif?" he asked.

Fenton's eyes held a cold gleam. "Don't worry! I've told him where he gets off."

"He doesn't scare easily. Besides, he knows it's not to your interest to report slaves on board your own boat."

"Don't worry!" repeated Fenton. "I've got things fixed just the way I want them now—and then some."

The bitter hate in his brother's eyes fairly startled Jack. He felt for a moment as if it were directed against himself, and his pleasant, whimsical face became very grave. Fenton's temper, when roused, was a nasty one—very nasty indeed. Such cold venom was an ugly thing to witness even though Ben Saif was its object.

Linda's fears and warnings, her conviction that in his brother he had a deadly and determined rival, came back to his mind as he spurred on to join the rest. Of course, she was wrong... and yet—

"This place gives me the shivers." Mrs. Webb was wilting badly after two hours over the sun-baked plain. "It's like a cemetery."

"You're right," agreed Jack. "El Fumm's the dreariest spot in North Africa, I believe. But you'll own it was not my choice of a happy hunting ground."

The dark gorge looked as haunted as the Arabs believed it to be. Its long tunnel was dank and sepulchral in spite of the blazing sun. The sound of rushing water reached their ears—the voice of a hidden torrent foaming at the base of mile-high cliffs, seeking escape from its gloomy prison to the sunlit world beyond.

Suddenly a shrill voice startled the sight-seers. A horrible, semi-nude figure emerged from the square-mouthed cave at the entrance to El Fumm. Making for the intruders with curses and unearthly yells, the old man leaped and gibbered, his long beard blowing about his withered neck, a wreath of yellow flowers pressed down over blazing eyes.

"All right, Linda!" Jack touched her arm reassuringly as he moved to stop the capering madman. "We've disturbed the old marabout at his devotions, it seems. I'll try to soothe his ruffled feelings."

A handful of cigarettes, a few small coins, and a ceremonious apology soon pacified the offended saint. With a wide, toothless grin, he invited Jack to inspect the treasures of his cave. To humor him, Jack followed to his grotto, but halted on the dark threshold and peered into the gloom, mindful of possible danger. He waited, alert and wary, one hand on the butt of his revolver, until his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness. A flickering lamp burned in the shrine. The grotto was small and untenanted save for the marabout, who knelt before his tiny altar, fumbling a string of beads and muttering rapidly.

"Jack! Jack!" Linda's voice, calling on a high, quick note of terror, struck to his heart like a knife.

He wheeled swiftly. At that moment he collided with Fenton, and the impact sent him reeling backward. He staggered, recovered himself, and burst out of the cave with the force of a young bull charging into the arena. Mrs. Webb was stumbling awkwardly across the rock and stubble toward him. The servants, huddled in a frightened group, stared and pointed down the gorge.

His eyes followed their gaze. He could see nothing.

He turned to Fenton. "What was it? Where is she?"

Winded by the force of their collision, Fenton crouched gasping outside the cave, one hand pressed to his side. "Over there!" He waved vaguely to the gorge. "Arab knocked me down... can't go after her... sprained ankle..."

"Jack! Oh, Jack!"

Faintly, the cry reached his straining ears. Head thrust forward, body tense, he strove to pierce the gloom of the gorge. Suddenly he saw her. She was slung over the shoulder of a desert man in dark burnoose, who was running, swift and sure-footed, along the giddy path, into the yawning blackness of El Fumm. Tailless monkeys watched him from the lofty crags. In the narrow roof of sky above, vultures hung brooding like evil spirits over the abyss.

Jack was a good athlete, almost as lean and hard as the Berbers themselves, but as he started in desperate pursuit, he realized that he was outmatched. The delay caused by Fenton had given the Arab an excellent start. Loose stones underfoot and tough polished tree-roots lay in wait to trip him on the narrow, giddy trail. Cursing his heavy riding boots, he slackened speed. He dared not take them off. His feet had not the tough, calloused soles of the desert man running barefoot ahead.

Resolutely, he thrust aside his fears for Linda—fears that sent his wits spinning—and began coolly to plan and calculate his chances. Nothing was to be gained by overtaking the Arab on this narrow ledge, where a struggle would send all three into the chasm. There was only one chance—to catch them before the Arab could plunge into the dense cork-oak forests at the farther end of El Fumm.

He forced himself to look to his footing, to keep his eyes from watching the glimmer of white on the brown back ahead of him. As he followed the dizzy path, he was no more conscious of its peril and the yawning depths below than of the stones hurled by the monkeys above. To decrease the distance between himself and the swift-footed Arab was his only thought.

The last two hundred yards of the gorge took a sharp turn. As the brown burnoose vanished round a shoulder of the rock, he set his teeth for a terrific spurt. Luck was with him as, flinging all caution to the winds, he dashed forward and scrambled round the intervening bluff.

He was gaining. The Arab was impeded by Linda's weight, but they were very close now to the dark, sheltering trees, and the distance widened as the kidnapper put forth a last desperate effort.

They were gone! At the spot where they had vanished, Jack stared desperately round. A flash of white sent him full tilt toward a clearing nearby.

He reached it too late. Only the trampled earth where the Arab's horse had stood; only the sound of hoofs over the rustling leaves; only a glimpse of Linda's white dress in the crook of her captor's arm! He drew out his revolver, but stuffed it back with a curse. He couldn't risk trying to shoot the horse with Linda on its back. If he could only get nearer! But the Arab guided his beast with cunning skill, weaving his way without hesitation through the tangled woods.

The trail grew steeper, winding up to bare, rounded hills. Soon, neither sound of hoofs nor glimpse of white dress guided him any longer. Drawing clear of the trees at last, he saw them a mile ahead. The horse cantered lightly and easily over the smooth slopes. They were on the road that led to the mountains and he watched intently, making certain of their direction.

Yes, they were going to Ubbeyt. The mountain road they followed led to no other goal. Assured of this, he flung himself down in the lee of a great boulder, panting and exhausted. It took all his resolution to lie there while he gathered strength for the long pursuit, knowing that every minute bore Linda farther from him.

Twenty miles lay between him and Ubbeyt. But in that mountain village he could count on one good friend. Tollog the Sheikh would give what help he could, lend him a horse and put him on the right track.

His mind flashed back to the rest of the picnic party. They must have left El Fumm by now. Probably they were hurrying to give the alarm at Zilfi. Certainly none of them could, or would, follow him. Fenton was helpless with a sprained ankle. No bribe or threat would induce the servants to enter the haunted gorge. And Mrs. Webb would be expending her energy in telling the world her grief.

6: Night in the Hills

THE SUN, throwing down long javelins of fire in its flight, was hurrying westward as Jack took the mountain road to Ubbeyt. He loped along in a jog-trot that ate up the long miles steadily, his shadow lengthening behind him on the white, dusty road. The hills humped massive green shoulders in his path as he doggedly advanced toward the black, jagged line of the Atlas Mountains.

Soon, from deep valleys on every hand, crept purple mists and shadows to veil the hills and shroud the clear shining of the afterglow. A chill wind blew fitfully from snow-capped ranges. Night like a black veil dropped before his face, made him falter and stumble in the dark.

He was devoutly thankful to see the moon rise at last, round and full and brilliant. Jackals howled dismally from barren hillsides as he toiled on. Dark bird-shapes swooped and hovered. Bats squeaked and circled about his head. Inky shadows, sprawling across his path, concealed stones and hollows which brought him crashing to his knees. But he stumbled on, husbanding his strength, fighting the impulse to shout, to dash blindly into the darkness in a last desperate effort to overtake Linda.

As the moon climbed, he made better speed. His thoughts, less occupied by the path, turned to the tangled web of his fears and suspicions. He was convinced that Ben Saif had planned Linda's capture. He knew he was following her into a baited trap. She was being used as a lure to get him where Ben Saif wanted him.

It was Fenton's part in the affair that worried him. That his brother had delayed him purposely at the cave seemed certain. But did this mean that he was fully cognizant of all Ben Saif's schemes? Had he agreed to them even to the point of murdering an inconvenient younger brother?

Breasting a steep hillside, at last he caught sight of the village of Ubbeyt. In the moonlight it gleamed white on a distant mountain spur. His eyes, keen as a falcon's, raked the rough track that led to it. No horseman, no object of any kind moved there. Yet he stood watchful, alert, waiting for evidence of something he expected to see.

He counted at least half a dozen tiny red points of light. They flickered intermittently at shadowed angles of the road between himself and Ubbeyt. He knew those red sparks to be glowing kief pipes. Not one solitary figure was visible, but each pipe stood for an Arab with gun and twisted knife.

"Ah, I thought so!" his parched lips whispered the words in disgust. "This is Ben Saif's work, all right. No one else would be smart enough to post sentries. That damned scoundrel's the only competent Arab in Algeria. I'll have to leave the road and crawl over these cursed hills to the far side of Ubbeyt."

The detour took even longer than he had feared. He was cut, scratched, bleeding, and weary to death when he reached the hill above Ubbeyt, and crept through the scrub and coarse yellowed grass in the cactus-hedge about the village.

He wondered if he could manage to summon his friend, Tollog, without rousing other sleepers. He crouched down near the hedge and gave a long, rasping parrot cry—the signal his Arab friend knew well. Again and again he repeated it, his eyes on the white walls of the sheikh's house.

He had begun to despair of making the old man hear when a bearded face and red checchia were thrust from a window. A hand signaled to him, and the head withdrew. In a minute or two, Tollog's lean, wiry body wormed itself through a thin place in the cactus-hedge and cautiously advanced to where Jack lay. Not until the two had crawled up the hill and gained a strategic position overlooking both road and village did Jack explain himself.

"Uggurah! I knew not it was a white Sitt he held in his arms. She was swathed in his burnoose close as a young ear of corn in its leaves. I caught no glimpse of her face, and she sat before him on his horse without sound or movement."

Tollog's words brought a stifled bitter curse to Jack's lips.

"What road did they take past Ubbeyt?"

"The road to Beni-Ghat, effendi. The Berber told me he was going back over the hills to Biodh."

"Back to the coast—to Biodh!" Numbing fear dawned in the chaos of Jack's mind.

"Allah ya' sallamah! God save you!" was Tollog's pitying reply. "She will doubtless be put on board a ship with other slaves for Arabia."

"Not while I'm alive!" The mad marabout himself had not looked more savage than Jack. "Get me a horse, Tollog, and I'll pay you anything you ask. These sentries—"

"Leave them to me, effendi!" Tollog wagged a benevolent beard. "They are thirsty as the desert sands, the miserable ticks of an ass's tail. I will take them lakby to drink. They shall hear and see nothing when thou dost ride from Ubbeyt, I promise thee!"

Tollog made good his boast. The strong, fermented juice of the palm scarcely needed the drug he added to it. In a short time Jack rode from Ubbeyt under the paling stars, while on the road behind him some half-dozen veiled and bearded men lay snoring noisily in the dust.

He rode his strong, sure-footed mountain pony hard. At Beni-Ghat the road forked, and Jack took the track leading back over the hills to Biodh, as Sheikh Tollog had advised.

Dawn found him emerging from the hills to the gray level of the Empty Land. Beyond it the sea was brightening in the east, as it had been twenty-four hours ago, when he had looked down at that stretch of water and seen the Pearl riding at anchor with her cargo of slaves on board.

The light, reflected from the gleaming water, struck his aching eyes with intolerable glare. The harbor was empty, save for a few fishing-boats. Neither at the wharf nor out at sea was there any glimpse of the Pearl. She had sailed.

Down on the quay, Jack marked the many cargoes that had come too late. There must indeed have been desperate need of haste.

Was Linda on board the Pearl? She couldn't have been put on at Biodh. A cold conviction seized him. The Berber had taken her by the other road from Beni-Ghat to some spot farther up the coast. Tollog had been deceived in thinking she was to be brought to Biodh.

7: The Truth—or Some of It

"YES, YES! I can understand you feel that way, Jack! But try to be reasonable. Linda's in no real danger."

"Then you and I have different ideas about danger." Jack strode up and down the private office of Deane & Son, dusty and unshaven, his eyes desperately anxious under his rough thatch of hair. "You've kidded yourself about Ben Saif all along. You're still doing it. What possible reason have you for not wanting him shown up?"

Fenton ran a finger round his immaculate collar and shot a quick glance at his brother, standing at the other side of his broad desk. "The trouble with you is," he began impressively, "that you imagine our business can be run on the same lines out here as if we were in Boston and dealing with dyed-in-the-wool New Englanders. Now about Ben Saif, let me tell you—"

"You're stalling! I came to tell you something! I'm on my way to report at Headquarters. Linda's gone, and I'll burn up the whole of the Barbary coast to get her back, if necessary."

"Linda's safe, I tell you." Fenton's calm was beginning to wear thin. "If you'll give me twenty-four hours, I'll have her back in Zilfi again. It's only a question of money. That's all Ben Saif wants. Just leave him to me. I'll fix him."

"You're the last man on earth to handle him now, if what you told me about the infernal racket you kicked up with him yesterday was true. He'll double-cross you again, as he has before. He'll take the money and keep Linda, too. This can't be handled privately now. I don't care what it costs the firm in money, or reputation either. Linda's safety is all that counts."

"Linda's safety is not endangered, you headstrong young fool! It's you who'll put her on the spot if you interfere."

"Did Ben Saif take those slaves off the Pearl?"

"Certainly, he did. I superintended the job myself."

"Now I know you're lying!" Jack put two extremely dirty hands on the polished desk and thrust his angry face within a foot of his brother's. "I've been to Biodh this morning, and found that the Pearl weighed anchor within an hour of my visit to her yesterday. She sailed without putting off those slaves! And more than that—your launch took Linda out to the Pearl!"

Fenton stared into Jack's face with pale eyes that blinked just once, but gave no further sign of perturbation. "Quite an amateur detective in your own way," he remarked, mechanically straightening the pens and pencils on the blotter under his hands.

"It's true, isn't it?" Jack still leaned across the desk.

"How should I know?" parried Fenton, his face mask-like as he sorted pens and pencils. "And how do you know?"

"I asked the coast guards."

"And they saw Linda put on board?"

"I'll admit it is only a guess about Linda. But I'm determined that ship's going to be searched for her, anyhow. I'll use the slaves to get the French going on the job."

"Once and for all, Jack, I tell you Linda's perfectly safe. You'll see her again tomorrow morning as surely as you see me now."

"And just how can you swear to that little fact? There's only one reason that can make you so all-fired certain! You and Ben Saif planned the kidnapping together! You're both out to get me, and you're using Linda, you—"

"If you'll only listen to reason, no one's going to get you. You've guessed half of it, however; so I might as well acknowledge that the kidnapping was an arrangement to which I gave my consent—a most unwilling consent. Ben Saif had me cornered. The girl's perfectly safe." Fenton drew back from Jack's furious gesture. "She's being held until Ben Saif gets clear away. He didn't trust you. He didn't believe you'd keep it dark about the slaves until he'd made his getaway."

"I'm through with you! I'm off to report all I know about Ben Saif's dirty work, and your part in it, too."

"No!" Fenton took up a heavy ruler.

Jack flung himself bodily across the desk. He knocked Fenton backward, and the two of them crashed to the floor. They fought silently, with the suppressed antagonism of years. Rolling and scuffling over and over in blind rage, neither was aware that a door opened close by, or that a man entered softly.

"Gibani!" Ben Saif closed the door behind him and stood for a minute to watch the struggle. At last, seeing Fenton's purpling face, the Arab unwound his sash in deliberate fashion and joined in the fight. Jack was tied up and gagged almost before he recognized his new antagonist.

"All haste is from the devil, and tardiness from the All-Merciful!" quoted Ben Saif with pious unction. "Jack, effendi, thou wilt learn patience in the long years which I pray Allah may grant to thee. The slave's yoke is heavy, but are not thy shoulders broad to bear it?"

Fenton took a bottle of brandy from a wall-cupboard and his eyes met Jack's with bitter scorn. "So now you know!" He filled and raised his glass. "Here's to your future career! You'll be celebrating that birthday of yours on board the Pearl in a day or two."

Jack lay still, his eyes fixed on Fenton's face. It was not a pretty sight, with its bloodshot eyes and mottled flush.

Fenton went out with Ben Saif. The door was slammed and Jack heard the sharp click of its double lock.

8: Another Visit to the S. S. Pearl

At the end of a grim twelve hours, Jack still awaited Fenton's return.

He had slept at intervals, uneasy sleep with dreams that were a punishment, but it had partly restored his strength. Through the windows of his prison he saw the sky change to flaming gold and crimson sunset, fade to shadowy purple, deepen at last to profound night-blue. Brilliant stars blinked. Voices, laughter, the distant sound of native music died. Night and sleep enfolded the little white town.

When the door opened to admit Fenton and Ben Saif once more, he lay in the half-stupor of exhaustion, and took them for another nightmare dream. But he began to believe them unpleasant facts when his bonds were loosened and the gag removed.

The food and drink put before him cleared his wits. Strength and confidence revived. He felt new springs of hope rise. After all, he was alive! That was something.

He began to expect a miracle. True, his enemies held all the trumps, but there was still another round to be played, still a chance that luck might deal him a winning hand at the finish. Bound and gagged once more, he kept up his courage during the ride that followed by concentrating on the lucky but improbable break for which he hoped.

After an interminable drive, the car stopped somewhere on the seacoast. His gag was finally removed, and, with wrists bound behind his back, he walked across the sand dunes to where Fenton's launch awaited them. The outline of the Pearl loomed up about a mile away on the moonlit waters, a light smoke rising from her funnels.

Jack watched that smoke-veil with a sinking heart. So the Pearl had steam up all ready to start! He didn't quite know what else he had expected. But the sight of her brought home to him how very slim was any chance of escape.

As he climbed the ship's side, and set foot on the white deck, he looked round instinctively for Linda. No one was visible. His tottering hopes crashed about him as he reluctantly followed his captors down the companionway.

In the cabin, Captain Robah awaited them. Jack leaned back against a white and gold pillar and returned the venomous regard of his three enemies with what insolence he could muster.

His heart almost stopped as Linda appeared in the doorway.

She was standing very still, her face was white and tear-stained, her shadowed eyes were fixed earnestly upon him. Her face grew whiter still as she saw his bonds, his exhaustion, and the despair in his eyes that not all his will could hide from her.

"Jack! Jack!" she whispered with shaking voice. "I thought I should never see you again!

She clasped him to her, and for a minute they stood forgetful of everything save themselves.

Fiercely jealous, Fenton put a shaking hand on Linda's arm. He could bear it no longer, even though he had planned this farewell scene himself. He had wanted Jack to drink the very dregs of torment, to go straight from Linda's arms to a slave's yoke. Sharply, he pulled the girl back, looking from one to the other with envy that almost choked him.

"I have a choice to offer you." His pale eyes made Linda shiver. "Please listen very carefully unless you want Jack to die at once."

"Don't believe his lies." Jack's voice was low and shaken. "Don't be trapped into giving your word to anything."

"Keep quiet!" Fenton snapped savagely, then turned back to Linda. "Your first and wisest choice is to marry me. If you consent to this, Jack will become a slave with the privilege of seeing you once a year. I must point out that he will live just as long as you keep silent. If you betray me, he will die by torture—the desert tribes are good at that sort of thing!"

Extremity of fear kept Linda silent. With horror, she stared into Fenton's pale eyes. Her white lips strove to answer him, and failed.

"You may prefer the second choice, after all." Fenton's eyes were merciless as they met the utter loathing in the girl's. She could not have regarded a swamp adder with more intense aversion.

"The alternative to marrying me is this: I will have you both flung overboard to the sharks."

"To the sharks! Murder both of us... like that! Oh, no, no! You'd never dare! You couldn't get away with it... you couldn't!"

"Quite simple." Fenton glanced at Jack, and, satisfied by the expression of his brother's face, smiled at Linda. "Ben Saif has reputable witnesses ready to swear the two of you were carried off into the desert and abandoned. We shall allow a reasonable time to elapse for you to die of thirst, and for the vultures to dispose of you. Then we shall produce two skeletons of you—they're all ready, and waiting among the sand-dunes for their cue."

Jack did not respond to the anguished appeal in Linda's eyes. He couldn't. His mind was picturing her tossed overboard to the hungry sharks. For himself, he preferred death—even the cruel death offered—to the long purgatory of a slave's existence. But she must not die.

Linda turned again to Fenton. Her eyes loathed him. The four men watched her silently. The very walls of the cabin seemed waiting in hushed expectancy for her decision.

A loud yell sounded above. A babel of voices broke out. There was a rush of feet. A long, clear whistle cut through the noise with penetrating command. Two sailors in torn, dirty rags burst into the cabin.

"The French! A cutter approaches!" they babbled fearfully. "By Allah, they are coming to search the ship! They will shoot us all! What evil chance! What shaitan has betrayed us?"

"Get back, miserable mud-fish that you are!" Robah's heavy hand and loud voice drove the men out. "Let the accursed Nazrani search—what have we to fear?"

Jack's eyes flashed to Linda's. Was a miracle to happen after all? His body tingled, his heart thumped against his ribs. Then he suddenly became aware of a new element in the situation between Fenton and the Arabs.

In spite of Robah's bravado with the frightened sailors, Jack was convinced there were slaves on board. The captain and Ben Saif seemed to consider themselves completely masters of the situation, but if the slaves were stowed away so secretly that there was no danger of discovery, why was Fenton so uneasy?

Clearly all was not going as his brother expected. Had the Arabs something up their sleeve—a surprise for their confederate?

"You take it coolly," Fenton's voice was as sharp and uneasy as his look. "Where have you stowed the slaves? The French won't miss much!"

"By my beard, there are no slaves, effendi!" The captain showed his white teeth. "I put them ashore before you came on board."

"No slaves... no slaves on the ship?" Fenton's surprise was almost grotesque.

"You have made a mistake." Ben Saif regarded him contemptuously. "You sought to play your own game. You meant to find safety for yourself, while I paid the price for both of us. Ya bissahi, you thought to cast Ben Saif like a worn sandal to the dunghill."

"What do you mean?" Fenton made desperate efforts to control his rage.

"I mean that I sent a spy after you today. You went to the French to tell them I had put slaves on board the Pearl without your knowledge or consent. You asked them to send a cutter tonight, knowing that I should be here, and hoping to witness my capture. All this my spy heard as he lay outside the room where your treacherous, lying tongue betrayed me. Do you not recall the old beggar who lay in a fit outside the commandant's room as you left it? It is a marvel that poor one sees and hears so much during fits so terrible! But, Allah be praised, he recovers rapidly. He was able to report every word that you said."

The tramp of feet sounded on deck above. "Uggurah! They come aboard!" said Robah. "May Allah prosper their search."

"But"—Fenton started forward—"I must see them—tell them—"

"Already has your tongue told much, too much!" Ben Saif made a fierce gesture to the captain. "In there, until this farce is over."

Robah manipulated a panel of the wall, which slid back to disclose a small cupboard of a room. Into this the Arabs bundled Fenton, with Jack and Linda. All three were gagged and securely bound. Satisfied that they could make neither sound nor movement, their captors left them and closed the panel.

A long agony of waiting ensued. Jack fought and struggled to loosen the cords that fastened him, to spit out the gag. He nearly strangled himself in the attempt, but it was no use. The Arabs had made an excellent job of it. He was forced to give up at last, and, as he lay with pounding heart and aching muscles, voices from the cabin reached his ears.

He listened, his gloomy thoughts brightened by the knowledge that Fenton was also overhearing the conversation, and that it must be gall and wormwood to him.

"I offer the deepest apologies, Sidi Ben Saif!" came the clear, crisp accents of the French officer in charge. "There has been some deplorable mistake. You shall receive an apology from Headquarters, in addition to my own, at the first possible moment. We acted on the best authority, from information received. I regret exceedingly to have held you prisoner while the search was conducted, but we had our orders."

"It is understood." Ben Saif was suave "I have many enemies, alas! Many who envy my wealth and authority. Jackals run ever in the lion's train. You do not tell me the name of your informant." Jack could imagine Ben Saif's mocking smile. "It is for me to speak it then. It was Deane, effendi, who came to you with lies under his tongue concerning me. May his face be blackened! May his soul rot in Gehenna!"

"Certainly! Certainly, Sidi Ben Saif! It is understood! Great injustice has been done you."

"Not to you, the blackening or the shame!" Ben Saif raised his voice, and Jack understood the reason for it as he heard the Arab's last vindictive words. "Not on you, nor even on those who sent you is mine anger! But that traitor who sought to ruin me—he shall pay the price!"

The voices ceased. Footsteps were heard retreating. Silence fell. In a few minutes the panel-door was opened. Robah dragged the prisoners back to the cabin and pushed them roughly down on a long seat. Their gags were removed and their agonizing tight bonds were loosened.

Jack despaired. The cutter was gone. He had enjoyed Fenton's unmasking, but it did not improve the situation for Linda and himself. On the contrary, Ben Saif would not spare the brother of one who had so utterly betrayed him.

And Linda! What would happen to her?

"No one plays a game with me—and wins it!" Ben Saif assured Fenton. "You tried to use your brother and me as pawns in your double-dealing. Jack, effendi, wished also to destroy me, and for that he shall pay dearly. Moreover, being of your accursed blood, he is not fit to live. But you shall pay a greater price."

"You're wrong." Fenton strove for his old decisive manner. "Let me explain. I—"

"You desired," Ben Saif interrupted, "to rid yourself of me. You have made a fortune through our slave-trafficking. But it was inconvenient that I should know the origin of your wealth, thereby holding the whip-hand over you in future."

Fenton began to stammer, to plead, to bargain.

Ben Saif laughed at him. "A great sum you offer for a worthless life! Is it not wisdom to crush the scorpion when it lies before one's tent? Ya, amma, thou blind one! Now shall your traitor's mouth be filled with dust."

9: The Wasm

"THIS ONE'S launch?" Ben Saif asked the captain, gesturing contemptuously toward Fenton.

"Yussuf ran it up into a cove until the cutter was gone. He awaits but our signal to bring it alongside again."

"Give the signal, then."

Ben Saif turned to Linda. "I will take you to a place of safety among my friends, mademoiselle. To my so beautiful oasis, I will take you. Ah, not that oasis of which the French have knowledge! No, for doubtless they will search for you.

"I will take you far south, to my desert stronghold, inaccessible to all save the desert-born. There you shall repay me for my losses and trouble over this affair."

Blind, suffocating rage seized Jack. The Arab's words stung him to battle like a galvanic shock. Tied though his wrists and ankles were, he launched himself at the speaker like a human battering ram, attacking head-foremost in a dive that took the other completely off his feet.

With an astonished grunt, Ben Saif went down like a ninepin, as Jack butted him savagely. Unfortunately, in place of the Arab's yielding and vulnerably solar plexus, a solid teak table-leg met Jack's head. He lay stunned, while Ben Saif got to his feet and drew a long, gleaming telek from his girdle.

Linda shrieked as she saw the dagger. She stumbled awkwardly across the floor. Ben Saif paid no heed to her at all; he was staring down at Jack with a surprise so great as to be almost stupefaction. When Linda tried to interpose her slender body between Jack and the glinting knife, Ben Saif put her aside as if she were an importunate child. He bent over Jack and took up an object fastened by a long chain about the unconscious man's neck.

In his infuriated attack on the Arab, Jack's shirt had been ripped open to the waist, exposing the turquoise ring he wore beneath. Its strange blue eye seemed to regard Ben Saif with solemn reproach as he stooped to take it in his hand.

One-Eye's wasm! The magic passport that meant more to a traveler over the unknown Sahara than an army with banners. Ben Saif looked at it with wonder; then, knife in hand, he bent over Jack. Linda shrieked again.

"Uggurah! Thou foolish one!" With a firm hand, Ben Saif led her back to her seat. He returned to Jack, and with one slashing cut of the telek severed the cords about his prisoner's ankles. A second cut freed the wrists.

Recovering consciousness to find his enemy splashing water over his head and chest, Jack was under the impression that it was a preliminary to some form of torture. He set his teeth and glared at Ben Saif. To his surprise, the Arab met his fierce look with a smile, and took his hand to touch it to lips and forehead.

"Will someone wake me up?" muttered Jack. "Is this a salute to a brave man about to die—or what?"

Ben Saif, who had found the English language a useful acquirement in his far-flung enterprises, answered with a yet broader smile. "A brave man, yes! But to die, no! May Allah grant thee long years! Where did you get this ring, effendi? This is the wasm of the famous One-Eye. How is it that you possess this passport and mark of favor from one so powerful?"

With a rush of new hope, Jack faced the Arab squatting beside him. "You recognize the ring?"

"Billah, truly I know that wasm. God be praised, I saw it before my telek cut thy soul from out thy body. By the life of thee, why hast thou kept this thing hidden from me?"

"Never guessed One-Eye was a friend of yours!" Even now, Jack did not altogether trust this change of front, and his doubtful glance searched the Arab's face narrowly.

"Ullah alem!" Ben Saif was deeply hurt. "God knoweth my thoughts are all for thy good, effendi!"

"Go ahead, then, if that's how you feel. Cut loose these two, and we'll begin to talk."

Without hesitation, Ben Saif freed Linda. He stood before Fenton in obvious doubt, the long, twisted dagger balanced in his hand. Fenton shivered as he met the Arab's eyes, fiercer and more menacing than the gleaming knife. A moment's tension; then, with a snarl, Ben Saif cut Fenton's bonds.

"Is it enough?" he asked. "Now will you tell me where you got that ring, effendi?"

"Surely," agreed Jack, one arm holding Linda closely. "It was given to me by One-Eye in the gorge of El Fumm five years ago. He had slipped off the path, and I heaved him up on deck again. That's all there was to it. One-Eye swore eternal friendship and gave me this ring as a memento of our meeting."

Ben Saif stood, staring incredulously at Jack.

"Five years ago! At El Fumm! You saved the life of One-Eye?" He repeated the words in amazement, his eyes still frowningly intent on Jack. "Allah! How many times I have come near to destroying you—you whose life is sacred to me. By my wasm here, Allah hath spared us both."

"Your wasm?" Jack blinked in amazement at Ben Saif's words, and the genuine remorse with which they were spoken.

"By Allah, and by Allah, I will show you that the wasm is mine own! Look!"

Ben Saif slipped off his hooded white burnoose. Erect as a palm tree, he stood in the red and brown striped gandourah and black, tightly bound turban of the Zenda tribe. A broad red leather belt clipped his slender waist, supporting a miniature arsenal of weapons. Lean, and long, and swarthy he faced Jack. Desertman unmistakably!

With a swift movement, he put up a hand to his left eye.

"One-Eye! You are One-Eye!"

"I am One-Eye." The man Jack knew as Ben Saif smiled at the profound astonishment he had caused. He held the glass eye he had removed. The sunken hollow of his left eye-socket, and the peculiar wrinkling of surrounding muscles, altered the Arab's dark face indescribably. His remaining eye took on a strange and sinister brightness. "I am One-Eye, whose life you saved, effendi!"

With eyes on the savage bandit figure, Linda whispered incredulously, "You will let us go?"

One-Eye made a magnificent salaam. "Mademoiselle is free to command me."

He escorted them up to the main deck. Fenton brought up the rear like some neglected cur that hopes for a stray bone. No one spoke, or looked at him.

On deck, the captain glowered in angry astonishment at the three unbound prisoners. His fingers involuntarily sought the handle of his dagger. Ben Saif explained in a few brief guttural words.

"May Allah reward him!" Robah saluted Jack with grudging respect. "But this one?" The captain spat contemptuously in Fenton's direction. "Is this traitor to go free? Is thine honor not to be avenged?"

"Mine honor holds the name of Deane forever sacred." There was a regretful note in One-Eye's voice, and he turned his gaze from Fenton as if resisting temptation.

"By the hundredth name of Allah!" swore Robah, "thou art unwise in this."

"I have spoken," One-Eye answered haughtily.

After a long, vindictive look at Fenton, Robah spat again, then turned to Linda. Carefully, he assisted her over the ship's side, and down the ladder to the launch. Jack followed. Last came Fenton stumbling and uncertain, to make straight for the tiny cabin and a certain locker where drinks were stored.

With Linda close beside him, Jack took the wheel, and was only vaguely aware that Robah at last left them to return to the Pearl. Intoxicated by freedom and happiness, he steered for land.

Leaving the launch safely moored at the water's edge, he and Linda began to walk over the sand dunes to the car, looming black and solid in the misty dawn.

"Good Lord! Fenton! I suppose he's blind to the world by now! I'd forgotten he existed."

Jack hobbled stiffly back to the launch, hoisted himself on board, and went into the small cabin. At first he thought the place was empty. Then he caught sight of his brother.

Fenton lay sprawled on the floor, a dagger in his heart. The distorted face and horribly staring eyes were things Jack strove ever after to forget.

With a tremendous effort, he pulled himself together at last, left the cabin, dropped awkwardly over the side of the boat, and rejoined Linda.

"Robah had no honorable scruples about the family of Deane. Fenton's dead."

She took his hand in silence, and in silence they walked over the sands, leaving the launch with its dreadful passenger behind them. Sea-birds wheeled and cried about the boat, waves lapped and rocked it softly. In its cabin Fenton lay still, oblivious to his requiem as dawn rose in the east.

THREE MONTHS later, when their grim encounter with the bandit had been forgotten in a more wonderful adventure, One-Eye again reminded Jack and Linda of his existence.

A camel-driver stopped the pair in the streets of Zilfi, and put a packet into Linda's hand. With a few words to Jack, and a quick salute, the man made off.

"He says it's a gift to you from One-Eye!" translated Jack.

Linda unwrapped crimson folds of silk, and stared at the ring in her hand—a perfect oval sapphire, curiously set in a hollow meshwork of gold.

"One-Eye's wasm!" she exclaimed.

"Hm-m-m! Wedding gift with the bandit's blessing! You ought to be happy. You've done very well for yourself in the short time you've been in Zilfi, I'll say! Picking me for a husband, and the biggest rogue in the Barbary States for a friend!"

___________________________

3: The Eighth Green Man

Weird Tales, March 1928

"DANGEROUS ROAD, huh!"

Nicholas Birkett slowed down and frowned at the battered old sign-post. "I'll take a chance, anyhow!"

"I should try another road," I said abruptly. ''But this one leads right down to the valley, and will save at least ten miles round."

"It's a dangerous road— very dangerous," I answered, with the conviction growing fast within me that the sign-post gave only a faint inkling of the deadly peril it guarded.

Birkett stared at me, his big brown hands resting on the steering-wheel.

"What d'ye know about the road, anyhow?" he asked, his round blue eyes blank with amazement. "You've never been this way in your life before!"

I hesitated. My name is famous in more than one continent as that of an explorer, and I had recently achieved an expedition across the Sahara Desert which had added immensely to my fame. In fact it was my lecture on this expedition, given in New York, that had brought about my friendship with Nicholas Birkett. He had introduced himself and carried me off to stay with him at his country estate in Connecticut, in a whirlwind of enthusiastic interest and admiration. How could I make my companion understand the shuddering fear that gripped me? I— Raoul Suliman d'Abre— to whom the face of Death was as familiar as my own. But it was not Death that confronted us on that road marked "Dangerous"... something far less kind and merciful! Not for nothing am I the son of a French soldier and an Arab woman! Not for nothing was I born in Algeria and grew up amidst the mysteries and magic of Africa. Not for nothing have I learnt in pain and terror that the walls of this visible world are frail and thin—too frail, too thin, alas! For there are times— there are places when the barrier is broken... when monstrous unspeakable Evil enters and dwells familiarly amongst us!

"Well!" My companion grew impatient, and began to move the car's nose toward the road on our left.

"I'm sorry," I answered. "The truth is... it's a bit difficult to explain... but I have my reasons— very strong reasons— for not wishing to go down this particular road. I know— don't ask me how— that it's horribly dangerous. It. would be a madness— a sin to take that way!"

"But look here, old chap, you can't mean that you... that... that you're only imagining things about it?" His face was quite laughable in its astonishment.

I was frightfully embarrassed. How explain to such a rank materialist as Nicholas Birkett that instinct alone warned me against that road? How make a man so insensitive and practical believe in any danger he could not see or handle? He believed in neither God nor Devil! He had only a passionate belief in himself, his wealth, his business acumen, and above all, the physical perfection that went to make his life easy and pleasant.

"There are so many things you do not understand," I said slowly. "I am too old a campaigner to be ashamed of acknowledging that there are some dangers I think it foolhardy to face. This road is one of them!"

"But what in thunder do you know of the damned road?" Birkett's big fresh-colored face turned a brick-red in his angry impatience. Then he cooled down suddenly and put a heavy hand on my knee.

"You're ill, old chap! Touch of malaria, I suppose! Excuse my being so darned hasty!"

I shook my head. "You won't or can't understand me! The truth is that I feel the strongest aversion from that path, and I beg you not to take it."

Birkett looked me in the eye and began to argue. He settled down to it solidly. I had nothing to back my arguments except my intuition, and such a flimsy nothing as this he demolished with his big hearty laugh, and a heavy elephantine humor that reduced me to a helpless silence.

Opposition always narrowed Birkett down to one idea, that of proving himself right; and at last I said, "This is more dangerous for you than for me. I am prepared ... I know how to guard myself from attack, but you—"

"That settles it," he interrupted, gripping the wheel and shooting forward with a jerk. "I can look after myself."

His cheerful bellow echoed hollowly as the car dived into the leafy roadway under a branching archway of trees.

ii

BIRKETT became more and more boisterous in his mirth as we sped along, for the road continued smooth and virtually straight, descending in a gentle slope to the Naugatuck valley.

"Dangerous road!" he said, with a prolonged chuckle; "I'll bet a china orange to a monkey that sign means a good long drink. Look out for an innocent little roadhouse tucked away down here. Dangerous road! I suppose that's the latest way of advertising the stuff."

It was useless to remonstrate, but I noticed many things I didn't like along that broad leafy lane.

No living creature moved there— no bird sang—no stir of wings broke the silence of the listening trees— not even a fly moved across our path.

Behind us we had left a world of life, of movement and color. Here all was green and silent. The dark columns of the tree-trunks shut us in like the massive bars of a prison.

Shadows moved softly across the pale, dusty road ahead; shadows that clustered in strange groups about us; shadows not cast by cloud or sun or moving object, in our path, for these shadows had no relation to things natural or human.

I knew them! I knew them, and shuddered to recognize their hateful presence.

"You're a queer fellow, d'Abre," my companion rallied me. "You'd waltz out on a camel to meet a horde of yelling, bloodthirsty ruffians in the desert, and thoroughly enjoy the game. Yet here, in a civilized country, you see danger in a peaceful hillside! You certainly are a wonder!"

"Imshallah!" I murmured under my breath. "It is more wonderful that man can be so blind!"

"Are you muttering curses?" Birkett showed white teeth in a flashing grin at my discomfiture. "I suppose it's the Arab half of you that, invents these ghosts and devils. Life in the desert must need a few imaginary excitements. But in this country it needs something more than imagination to produce a really lively sort of devil. Something with a good kick to it."

Suddenly, ahead of us, the trees began to thin out, and we caught a glimpse of a low white building to our left.

Birkett was triumphant. "What did I tell you?" he cried. "Here I am leading you straight to a perfectly good drink, and you sit there babbling of death and disaster!"

He stopped the car before a short flight of mossy steps; from the top of them we stood and looked at the house, glimmering palely in the dusky shade of many tall trees.

A flagged path led from where we stood to the house— a straight white path about fifty yards in length. On each side of it the tall, rank grass, dotted with trees and shrubs, stretched back to the verge of the encroaching forest. And within this spacious, park-like enclosure the distant house looked dwarfed and mean— a sort of fungus sprouting at the foot of the stately trees.

Birkett, undeterred by the menacing gloom of the whole place, cupped his hands about his mouth and gave a joyful shout, which echoed and died into heavy silence once more.

"Not expecting visitors," he grinned. "This is a midnight joint, I'll wager. Come on!"

At that moment we saw a sign at our elbow— a freshly painted sign— the lettering in a vivid luminous green on a black ground. It read:

"THE SEVEN GREEN MEN."

iii

"SEVEN Green Men, hey! Don't see 'em," said Birkett, moving up the pathway. I followed, looking round intently, every nerve in me sending to my brain its warning thrill of naked, overwhelming terror crouching on every hand, ready to spring, ready to destroy us body and soul.

Then, suddenly I saw them!... and my heart gave a great leap in my body. They faced us as we approached the house, their grim silhouettes sharp and distinct against the white roadhouse behind. The Seven Green Men!

"Gee!" said Birkett. "Will you look at those trees? Seven Green Men! What d'you think about that?"

In two stiff rows before the house they stood, each one cut and trimmed to the height of a tall man. Their foliage was dense and unlike that of any tree or shrub I had seen in all my wanderings. A few feet away, their overlapping leaves gave all the illusion of metal, and seven tall warriors seemed to stand in rank before us, their armor green with age and disuse.

Each figure faced the west, presenting its left side to us; each bared head was that of a man shaved to the scalp; each profile was cut with marvelous cunning, and each was distinct and characteristic; the one thing in common was the eyelid, which in every profile appeared closed in sleep.

And when I say sleep, I mean just that.

They could awaken, those Seven Green Men!... they could awaken to life and action; their roots were not planted in the kindly earth, but thrust down deep into hell itself.

"The Seven Green Men! Well, what d'you think of that for an idea?"

And my companion planted his feet firmly apart, clasped his hands behind his broad back, and gazed in puzzled admiration at the trees.

"Some gardener here, d'Abre! I'd like to have a word with him. Wonder if he'd come and do a bit of work like that for me? A few of these green fellows would look fine in my own place. Beats me how the faces are cut so differently; must need trimming every day! Yes, I'll say that's some gardener!"

I put my hand on his arm. "Don't you—can't you see they're not just trees? Come away while there's time, Birkett."

And I tried to draw him back from those cursed green men, who, even in sleep, seemed to be watching my resistance to them with sardonic interest. "This place is horrible... foul, I tell you! "

"I came for a drink, and if these green fellows can't produce it, I'll pull their noses for them!" His laugh rang and echoed in that silent place. As it died, the door of the inn was opened quickly and a man stood on its threshold.

For a long moment the three of us stood looking at each other, and my blood turned to ice as I saw the great massive figure of the innkeeper. Most smooth and urbane he was, that smiling devil!... most punctilious and deferential in manner as he summed us both up, gauged our characters, our powers of resistance, our usefulness to him in the vast scheme of his infernal design.

He came down the flagged path toward us, passing through the stiff, silent rank of the seven green men— four on one side of the path, three on the other.

"Good morning, sirs, good morning! How can I serve you?"

His high, whispering voice was a shock; it seemed indecent issuing from that gigantic frame, and I saw from Birkett's quick frown that it grated on him too.

"If you've got a drink wet enough to quench my thirst, I'd be almighty glad," answered my friend, rather gruffly. "And about lunch... we might try what your green men can do for us!"

Our host gave a long snickering laugh, and glanced back at the seven trees as though inviting them to share the joke. He bowed repeatedly.

"No doubt of that, sir! No doubt of that! If you'll come this way, we'll give you some of the best— the very best." His whisper broke on a high squeak. "Lunch will be served in ten minutes."

I put a desperate hand on Birkett's arm as he began to follow in the wake of the innkeeper.

"Not past them, not past them!" I urged in a low voice. "Look at them now!"

As we approached, the trees seemed to quiver and ripple as though some inner force stirred within their leafy forms, and from each lifted eyelid a sudden flickering glance gleamed and vanished.

Beneath my hand I felt Birkett's involuntary start, but he shook me off impatiently.

"Go back, if you like, d'Abre! You'll get me imagining as crazy things as you do, soon."

And he stalked on to the house.

iv

"ENTER, enter, sirs! My house is honored!"

Unaccountably, as we passed the threshold my horror gave place to a fierce determination to fight— to resist this monstrous swollen spider greedy to catch his human flies. Power against power— knowledge against knowledge— I would fight while strength and wisdom remained in me. I waved away the proffered drink.

"No, nothing to drink," I said, watching his smooth pale face pucker at this first check in the game.

"Surely, sir, you will drink! You will not refuse to pledge the luck of my house! You are a great man— a great leader of men, that is written in your eyes! It is a privilege to serve so distinguished a guest."

His obsequious whispers sickened me, and I gathered my resources inwardly to meet the assault he was making on my will.

When I refused not only to drink, but to taste a mouthful of the unique lunch provided, a sudden vicious anger flickered in his pale, cold eyes.

"I regret that my poor fare does not please you, sir," he said, his voice like the sound of dry leaves blown before a storm.

"It is better for me that I do not eat," I answered curtly, my eyes meeting his as our wills clashed.

For a long, terrible minute the world dropped from under me: existence narrowed down to those malicious eyes which held mine. I held on with all the desperation of a drowning man tossing in a dark sea of icy waters— torn, buffeted, despairing, at the mercy of incalculable power.

With hideous, intolerable effort I met the attack, and by the mercy of Allah I won at last; for the creature tamed from me and smoothly covered his defeat by attending very solicitously to Birkett's needs.

I relaxed, sick and trembling with the price of victory.

I had fought many strange battles in my life: for in the East, the Unknown is a force to be recognized, not laughed at and despised as in the West. Yet of all my encounters, this one was the deadliest, this evil, smiling Thing the strongest I had known in any land or place.

Must Birkett's strength go to feed this insatiable foe who battened on the race of men?

I shuddered as I watched him sitting there, eating, drinking, laughing with his host; his whole mind bent on the pleasure of the moment, his will relaxed, his brain asleep; while the creature at his side served him with hateful, smiling ease, watching with cool, complacent eye as his victim let down his barriers one by one.

In his annoyance with my behavior, Birkett prolonged the meal as long as possible, ignoring me as I sat smoking and watching our host as intently as he watched us. Anxiously I wondered what the next move in this horrible cat-and-mouse game would be; but it was not until Birkett rose from the table at last that the enemy showed his hand.

"It's a pity you can't be here on Friday night, sir! You'd be just the one to appreciate it. One of our gala nights— in fact the best night in the year at the Seven Green Men. You'd have a meal worth remembering that night. But I'm afraid they wouldn't let you in on it."

"Why not?" demanded Birkett, instantly aggressive.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but you see it's a very special night indeed. There's a very select society in this neighborhood; I don't suppose you've so much as heard of it: The Sons of Enoch."

"Never heard of 'em." Birkett's tone implied that had they been worth knowing, he would have heard of them. "Who are they? Those seven green chaps you keep in the grounds— eh?"

A cold light flashed in the inn-keeper's eyes; and my own heart stood still, for the flippant remark had been nearer the truth than Birkett guessed.

"It's a society that was founded centuries ago, sir. Started in Germany in a little place on the Rhine, run by some old monks. There are members in every country in the world now. This one in America is the last one to be formed, but it's going strong, sir, very strong!"

"Then why the devil haven't I been told of it before?"

"Why should you know of all the hole-and-corner clubs that exist?" I interposed.

The innkeeper was probing Birkett's weakest part. How well— oh, how truly the smiling, smooth-spoken devil had summed up my poor blundering friend!

"It'll be a society run for the Great Unwashed!" I continued. "You'd be a laughing-stock in the neighborhood if it got out that you were mixed up with scum of that sort!"

"There is much that your great travels have not taught you, sir," answered the innkeeper, his sibilant speech savage as a snake's hiss. "The members of this club are those who stand so high, that as I said, I fear they would not consent to admit you even once to their company."

"Damn it all!" Birkett interrupted irritably. "I'd like to know any fellows out here who refuse to meet me. And who are you, curse you, to judge who can be members or not?"

Our host bowed, and I caught the mocking smile on his thin lips, as the fish rose so readily to his bait. I poured ridicule on the proposition and did all I could to turn Birkett aside, but to no avail. Opposition, as always, goaded him to incredible heights of obstinacy; and now, half drunk and wholly in the hands of that subtle devil who measured him so accurately, the poor fellow fairly galloped into the trap set for him. It ended with a promise on our host's part to do all in his power to persuade the Sons of Enoch to receive Birkett and perhaps make him a member of their ancient society.

"Friday night then, sir! About 11 o'clock the meeting will start, and there's a midnight supper to follow. Of course I'll do my best for you, but I doubt if you'll be allowed to join."

"Don't worry," was Birkett's valedictory remark. "I'll become one of the Sons of Enoch on Friday, or I'll hound your rotten society out of existence. You'll see, my jolly old innkeeper, you'll see!"

And as we left the grounds, passing once more the Seven Green Men, their leaves rustled with a dry crackle that was the counterpart of the innkeeper's hateful, whispering voice.

v

OUR DRIVE homeward was at first distinctly unpleasant. Birkett chose to take my behavior as a personal insult, and, being at a quarrelsome stage of his intoxication, he kept up a muttered commentary: "...insulting a decent old bird like that... best lunch ever had... damned if I won't... Sons of Enoch... what's going to stop me... be a Son of Enoch... damned interfering fellow, d'Abre!..."

He insisted on driving himself, and took such a roundabout way that it was two hours later when we saw New Haven in the distance.

Birkett was sober, by this time and rather ashamed of his treatment of a guest. He insisted on pulling up at another little roadhouse, The Brown Owl, run by a New England farmer he wanted me to meet.

"You'll like the old chap, d'Abre!" he assured me, eager to make amends for his lapse. "He's a great old man, and can put up a decent meal. Come on, you must be starving."

I was thankful to make the acquaintance of both old Paxton and his fried chicken... and Birkett's restored geniality made me hopeful that after all he might not prove obdurate about repeating his visit to the Seven Green Men.

Old Paxton sat with us later on his porch, and gradually the talk veered round to our late excursion.

The old farmer's face changed to a mask of horror. "The Seven Green Men! Seven, did you say? My God!... oh, my God!"

My pulses leaped at the loathing and fear in his voice; and Birkett brought his tilted chair down on the floor with a crash. Staring hard at Paxton, he said aggressively, "That's what I said! Seven! It's a perfectly good number; lots of people think it's lucky."

But the farmer was blind and deaf to everything—his mind gripped by some paralyzing thought, "Seven of them now... seven! And no one believed what I told 'em! Poor soul, whoever it is! Seven now... Seven Green Men in that accursed garden!"

He was so overcome that he just sat there, saying the same things over and over again. Suddenly, however, he got to his feet and hobbled stiffly across the veranda, beckoning us to follow. He led us down the steps to his peach orchard behind the house, and pointed to a figure shambling about among the trees.

"See him ... see him!" Paxton's voice was hoarse and shaken. "That's my only son, all that's left of him."

The awkward figure drew nearer, approaching us at a loping run, and Birkett and I instinctively drew back. It was an imbecile, a slobbering, revolting wreck of humanity with squinting eyes and loose mouth, and a big, heavy frame on which the massive head rolled sickeningly. He fell at Paxton's feet, and the old man's shaking hand patted the rough head pressed against his knees.

"My only son, sirs!" We were horribly abashed and afraid to look at old Paxton's working features. "He was the Sixth Green Man... and may the Lord have mercy on his soul!"

The poor afflicted creature shambled off, and we went back to the house in silence.

Awkwardly avoiding the farmer's eye, Birkett paid the reckoning and started for his car, when Paxton laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"I see you don't believe me, sir! No one will believe! If they had done so, that house would be burnt to the ground, and those trees... those trees— those green devils with it! It's they steal the soul out of a man, and leave him like my son!"

"Yes," I answered. "I understand what you mean."

Paxton peered with tear-dimmed eyes into my face.

"You understand! Then I tell you they're still at their fiend's game! My son was the Sixth... the Sixth of those Green Men! Now there are Seven! They're still at it!"

vi

"HOW ABOUT staying on here and having another swim when the moon rises?" I said, apparently absorbed in making my old briar pipe draw properly, but in reality waiting with overwhelming anxiety for Birkett's reply.

It was Friday evening, and no word had passed between us during the week of the Seven Green Men, or Birkett's decision about tonight. He was sitting there on the rocks at my side, his big body stretched out in the sun in lazy enjoyment, his half-closed eyes fixed on the blue outline of Long Island on the opposite horizon.

"Well, how about it?" I repeated, after a long silence.

He rolled over and regarded me mockingly.

"Anxious nurse skillfully tries to divert her charge from his naughty little plan! No use, d'Abre; I've made up my mind about tonight, and nothing's going to stop me."

I bit savagely on my pipe-stem, and frowned at an offending gull which wheeled to and fro over the lapping water at our feet.

As easily could a six-months-old baby digest and assimilate raw meat as could Birkett's intellect grasp anything save the obvious; nevertheless I was impelled to make another attempt to break down the ramparts of his self-sufficient obstinacy.

But I failed, of course. The world of thought and imagination and intuition was unknown and therefore non-existent to him. The idea of any form of life, not classified and labeled, not belonging to the animal or vegetable kingdom, was simply a joke to him. And old Paxton's outbursts he dismissed as lightly as the rest of my arguments.

"My dear chap, everyone knows the poor old fellow's half mad himself with trouble. The boy was a wild harum-scarum creature always in mischief and difficulties. No doubt he did go to a midnight supper at the Seven Green Men. But what's that got to do with it? You might as well say if you got sunstroke, for instance, that old Paxton's fried chicken caused it!"

vii

"YOU don't mean to say that you're coming too?" asked Birkett, when, about 10:30 that night, I followed him out of doors to his waiting car.

"But of course!" I answered lightly. "You don't put me down as a coward as well as a believer in fairy-tales, do you?"

"You're a sport anyhow, d'Abre!" he said warmly. "And I'm very glad you're coming to see for yourself what one of our midnight joints is like. It'll be a new experience for you."

"And for you," I said under my breath, as he started the engine and passed out from his dim-perfumed garden to the dusty white highroad beyond. A full moon sailed serenely among silvery banks of cloud above us; and in the quiet night river and valley, rocky hillside and dense forest had the sharp, strange outlines of a woodcut.

All too soon we reached the warning sign, "Dangerous Road," and passed from a silver, sleeping earth to the stagnant gloom of that tunnel-like highway.

But hateful as it was, I could have wished that road would never end, rather than bring us, as inevitably it did, to that ominous green-and-black sign of our destination.

The sound of a deep rhythmic chant greeted us as we went up the steps, and we saw that the roadhouse was lit from end to end. Not with the mellow, welcoming radiance of lamp or candle, but with strange quivering fires of blue and green, which flickered to and fro in mad haste past every window of the inn.

"Some illumination!" remarked Birkett, "Looks like the real thing to me! Do you hear the Sons of Enoch practicing their nursery rimes? Coming, boys!" he roared cheerfully. "I'll join in the chorus!"

As for myself, I could only stare at the moonlit garden in horror, for my worst fears were realized, and I knew just how much I had dreaded this moment when I saw that the seven tall trees— those sinister devil trees— were gone!

Then I turned, to see the huge bulk of the innkeeper close behind us, his head thrown back in silent laughter, his eyes smoldering fires above the ugly, cavernous mouth. Birkett turned too, at my exclamation, and drew his heavy eyebrows together in a frown.

"What the devil do you mean by creeping up to us like that?" he demanded angrily.

Still laughing, the innkeeper came forward and put his hand familiarly on my friend's arm.

"By the Black Goat of Zarem," he muttered, "you are come in a good hour. The Sons of Enoch wait to receive you— I myself have seen to it— and tonight you shall both learn the high mysteries of their ancient order!"

"Look here, my fine fellow," said Birkett, "what the deuce do you mean by crowing so, loud? I've got to meet these nigger minstrels of yours before I decide to join them."

From the house came a great rolling burst of song, a tremendous chant with an earth-shaking rhythm that was like the shock of battle. The ground rocked beneath us; gathering clouds shut out the face of the watchful moon; a sudden fury of wind shook the massed trees about the house and grounds until they moaned and hissed like lost souls, tossing their crests in impotent agony.

In the lull which followed, Birkett's voice came to me, low and strangely subdued:

"You're right, d'Abre! This place is unhealthful. Let's quit."

And he moved back toward the steps. But the creature at our side laughed again and raised his hand. Instantly the grounds were full of shifting lights, moving about us— hemming us in, revealing dim outlines of swollen, monstrous bodies, and bloated features which thrust forward sickeningly to gloat and peer at Birkett and me.

The former's shuddering disgust brought them closer and closer upon us, and I whispered hastily, "Face them! Face them! Stamp on them if you can, they only advance as you retreat!"

Our host's pale, smiling face darkened as he saw our resolution, and a wave of his hand reduced the garden to empty darkness once more.

"So!" he hissed. "I regret that my efforts to amuse you are not appreciated. If I had thought you a coward"— turning to Birkett— "I would not have suggested that you come tonight. The Sons of Enoch have no room for a coward in their midst!"

"Coward!" Birkett's voice rose to a bellow at the insult, and in reaction from his horror.

"Why, you grinning white-faced ape! Say that again and I'll smash you until you're uglier than your filthy friends here. No more of your conjuring tricks! Get on to the house and show me these precious Sons of yours!"

I put my hand on his arm, but the blind anger to which the innkeeper had purposely roused him made him incapable of thought or reason, and he shook me off angrily.

Poor Birkett! Ignorant, undisciplined, and entirely at the mercy of his appetites and emotions— what chance had he in his fatuous immaturity against our enemy?

I followed him despairingly. His last chance of escape was gone if he entered that house of his own free will. ''The trees are gone!" I said in a loud voice, pulling Birkett back, and pointing.

"Ask him where the trees are gone!"

But as I spoke, the outlines of the Seven Green Men rose quivering in the dimness of the garden. Unsubstantial, unreal, mere shadows cast by the magic of the Master who walked by our side, they stood there again in their stiff, silent ranks!

"What the deuce are you talking about?" growled Birkett. "Come on! I'll see this thing through now, if I'm hanged for it."

I caught the quick malice of the innkeeper's glance, and shivered. Birkett was a lump of dough for this fiend's molding, and my blood ran cold at the thought of the ordeal to come.

viii

OVER THE threshold of the house!... and with one step we passed the last barrier between ourselves and the unseen.

No familiar walls stood around us, no roof above us. We were in the vast outer darkness which knows neither time nor space.

I drew an Arab knife from its sheath— a blade sharpened on the sacred stone of the Kaaba, and more potent here than all the weapons in an arsenal.

Birkett took my wrists in his big grasp and pointed vehemently with his other hand. In any other place I could have smiled at his bewilderment; now, I could only wish with intense bitterness that his intellect equaled his obstinacy. Even now he discredited his higher instincts; even here he was trying to measure the vast spaces of eternity with his little foot-rule of earthbound dimensions.

Our host stood before us— smiling, urbane as ever; and, at his side, the Seven Green Men towered, bare-headed and armor-clad, confronting us in ominous silence, their eyes devouring hells of sick desire!

"My brothers!" At the whispered word, Birkett stiffened at my side and his grip on my arm tightened.

"My brothers, the Sons of Enoch, wait to receive you to their fellowship. You shall be initiated as they have been. You shall share their secrets, their sufferings, their toil. You have come here of your own free will... now you shall know no will but mine. Your existence shall be my existence! Your being my being! Your strength my strength! What is the Word?"

The Seven Green Men turned toward him.

"The Word is thy Will, Master of Life and Death!"

"Receive, then, the baptism of the initiate!" came the whispered command.

Birkett made a stiff step forward, but I restrained him with frantic hands.

"No! No!" I cried hoarsely. "Resist... resist him."

He smiled vacantly at me, then turned his glazed eyes in the direction of the whispering voice again.

"No faith defends you... no knowledge guides you... no wisdom inspires you. Son of Enoch, receive your baptism!"

I drew my dagger and flung myself in front of Birkett as he brushed hastily past me and advanced toward the smiling Master. But the Seven Green Men ringed us in, stretching out stiff arms in a wide circle, machine-like, obedient to the hissing commands of their superior.

I leapt forward, and with a cutting slash of my knife got free and strode up to the devil who smiled, and smiled, and smiled!

"Power is mine!" I said, steadying my voice with hideous effort. "I know you ... I name you... Gaffarel!"

ix

IN the gray chill of dawn I stood once more before the house of the Seven Green Men.

The dark woods waited silent and watchful, and the house itself was shuttered, and barred, and silent too.

I looked around wildly as thought and memory returned. Birkett... Birkett, where was he?

Then I saw the trees! The devil-trees, stiff, grotesque and menacing in their armor, silhouetted against the white, blank face of the roadhouse behind.

The Seven Green Men!

Seven... no... there were eight men now! I counted them! My voice broke with a cry as I counted and recounted those frightful trees.

Eight!

As I stood there sobbing the words... eight... eight... eight! over and over, with terror mounting in my brain, the narrow door of the inn opened slowly, and a figure shambled out and down the path toward me.

A big, heavy figure that mouthed and gibbered at me as it came, pouring out a stream of meaningless words until it reached my feet, where it collapsed in the long dewy grass.

It was Birkett— Nicholas Birkett! I recognized the horrible travesty of my friend at last, and crept away from him into the forest, for I was very sick.

The sign was freshly painted as we passed it coming out, much later, for it was long before I could bring myself to touch Birkett, and take him out to the waiting car.

The sign was freshly painted as we passed... and the livid green words ran:

"THE EIGHT GREEN MEN."

___________________

4: The Doomed Treveans

Weird Tales, May 1928

"I LOOK to you, Fremling, to protect the boy!" The words came slowly and feebly as Gareth Trevean fixed brilliant, fevered eyes on his old friend's face. "I have only another day to live at the outside, and I shall go in peace if I know you are here with Humphrey. Promise me you'll stay!"

"I'll stay, of course," was the quiet assurance, and Trevean lay back on his pillows and put out a thin hand to clasp Fremling's.

"I'll tell you all I can... you can verify it from the old manuscripts and family records at your leisure."

"It won't hurt you to talk so much?"

"No, it will ease my mind to tell you... you will understand! Other people would either laugh, or be afraid. You know... you can understand," repeated the sick man.

"It began in the Sixteenth Century," he continued, after a brief pause. "A certain Humphrey Trevean of those times had for a neighbor a man called Jabez Penhale, a wizened old recluse, who scared the life out of the simple country-folk by his experiments and learning. Penhale was known throughout the duchy of Cornwall as the 'Wise Man of St. Neot,' and was reckoned as cunning and dangerous as Old Nick himself."

Trevean drank thirstily from a goblet at his side, then continued:

"This Penhale was rich, very much richer than my ancestor. Legend has it that he knew how to coin his blood into gold! This wealth won for him the bonniest girl in the whole countryside as his promised bride. The girl herself was in love with Humphrey Trevean—a gay, adventurous gallant, with eyes as blue as the Cornish seas; and he loved her, but the girl's father sold her to old Penhale for a thousand golden guineas.

"The day before the marriage Humphrey eloped with the girl, and Jabez Penhale swore a terrible oath of vengeance. He laid a curse on every blue-eyed heir of the Treveans that should be born, and vowed that he himself would never rest in this world—or the next—until the name of Trevean was wiped out and forgotten.''

"Yes?" prompted Fremling.

"It has been so," was the answer. "Four times since then a blue-eyed Trevean has fallen heir to the Lamorna estates, and four times he has died on reaching his majority. Humphrey, my son, is the last of them. The last of all the Treveans... and his eyes are blue... blue as the Cornish seas!"

"And when—when?"

"He will be twenty-one next week," answered the father. "You must be here with him, Fremling! I trust you to find a way out... to defeat this curse—this hate that has pursued us through the centuries. Why should Humphrey—my son, my dear son—why should he have to suffer?"

ii

"VERY STRANGE—most strange and arresting! " murmured Sir Donald Fremling to himself as he looked up from the records which lay on the old writing-table in front of him, and gazed out through the window by which he sat. His dark eyes gleamed beneath their shaggy eyebrows as he watched the distant, shimmering sea, and his pale, ascetic face was sternly set.

"This is certainly more than mere coincidence," he ruminated, turning back to the papers spread beneath his nervous, sensitive hands. "He appears to have been extraordinary in every way, and therefore his hate was not a thing to be lightly incurred. The hate of such a man would be likely to pursue its object in life... and even after life... even through the centuries! Time... the flesh... this little world of ours... all delusion, all shadows, dreams within a dream!"

The heavy paneled door of the library was opened and a young man entered. His body was strong and well-knit, his face tanned by sun and wind, but his expression was sober beyond his years—his eyes brooding and melancholy. He crossed over to Fremling and sat down under the open lattice-window by the older man.

"Got all the cheerful little story by this time, sir?" asked the newcomer, a crooked smile twisting his mouth.

"Yes, it's a very well-preserved account, Humphrey," was the answer. "This Jabez Penhale appears to have been a truly remarkable person—one of those supermen who stride across the world's stage at rare intervals. He was born too soon, though... centuries too soon! Even now people would reject his theories with the greatest fury and contempt. In another five hundred years perhaps—"

Humphrey Trevean's sea-blue eyes met Fremling's squarely. "And how do you suppose his curse can affect me?" he asked.

"In proportion to your belief in that curse," was the reply.

Humphrey's eyes mirrored his astonishment.

"But—but—!" he stammered.

"Don't you believe in it?... don't you believe our family is haunted by it?... that—that "

"It's your belief that has made the whole thing possible! Your faith, and the faith of those dead Treveans has enabled your enemy's hate to endure!"

"But they have died!" protested the boy. "All those Treveans— the blue-eyed Treveans have died by the curse!"

"Yes, they have died by the curse," assented his companion.

"Well, then! How can I help believing in it?"

"If you had never known of it, never been taught its power, never had your imagination saturated with it from your earliest childhood, the curse of your house would have been utterly powerless to harm you. As—"

"Yes, go on!" begged Humphrey, his frowning young face intent, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his old shooting-jacket.

"As it is, the curse is in your blood, woven into the very spirit and fiber of you, poisoning the marrow of your bones, every nerve and tissue and sinew of your body. You have lived and breathed this curse so long that it is no longer possible to ignore it. You must meet it now— meet it face to face!"

"Face to face!" breathed the other, his tanned face slowly whitening. "But how shall I know when it does face me? What is it?... what in God's name is it?"

Fremling looked with the deepest compassion and understanding at young Trevean.

"I can't tell you that—at least not now!" said the older man simply, rising to put his hand on the other's shoulder. "You don't stand alone; remember, there will be two of us to fight!"

"If only I knew in what direction the danger lies!" The boy's hands clenched on the carved eagles' heads which formed the arms of his seat.

"There is much more I must investigate during the next few days," replied Sir Donald, turning again to the open window and watching the evening mists drift across the sea and intervening valley. "Now that your father's funeral is over, you must take me round the Lamorna estates, introduce me to your tenants, and to all the villagers of St. Neot, to everyone— man, woman, and child— that you meet in your daily life here!"

Humphrey shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Just simply country-folk, sir; no one to interest you or help in any investigations." And he dismissed the village of St. Neot with a gesture.

Fremling's deep eyes-twinkled at the youthful assertion.

"I don't find country people more simple than the city ones, as a rule," he commented. "Less sophisticated —but not less observant and shrewd."

"There is one fellow in this sleepy place worth talking to!" admitted the other. "The doctor—chap called Carne—is quite interesting. He's learnt a good deal outside his own particular line, traveled and read and met a whole lot of out-of-the-way people. He spent a few years as ship's surgeon before settling down to a practice."

Fremling watched the young man's kindling face with interest.

"How long has he been here?"

"Oh, about a year now. He came down as locum when Dr. Mudge was ill, and when the old fellow died, he took over the practice permanently."

iii

"THERE's Carne coming toward us!" exclaimed Humphrey

He and Sir Donald Fremling were taking the cliff-path toward the little village on the following afternoon, walking amidst a glory of golden gorse and purple heather, while the salt sea thundered and foamed far below them. Trevean walked with face tilted toward the singing wind, and he looked happier and more animated than Fremling had seen him.

"Hullo, Trevean!" was the doctor's greeting as he approached. "Forgetting your troubles for once, eh?"

At his words, the boy's look clouded suddenly, and he presented the newcomer to his companion with all the youth wiped out of his face.

Dr. Came was a thin, emaciated, bloodless type of man, who looked as though his energy had been exhausted by the severest intellectual toil. Even his pale, flickering eyes appeared faded by overmuch use of midnight oil, and his thin lips revealed an iron endurance and self-control.

Here was a man whose body was a fine— almost transparent— sheath for the terribly eager, terribly alive soul within.

By common consent the three sat down to rest and talk awhile in the sunny sheltered hollow where they had met.

"I'm glad that Trevean has kept you with him," remarked the doctor, as he lit a long black cheroot and darted a quick, birdlike glance at Humphrey. "Perhaps you can persuade him to forget some of the old family history he wears like chains about his neck."

"I am staying with him over his coming of age," was Fremling's reply. "I hope that when next Friday is safely passed—"

"Thursday!" interrupted Carne quickly.

"Ah, Thursday is it?" answered Fremling, his eyes on the heaving waters.

"Why, you know that my—!" began Humphrey, but Fremling did not let him finish.

"I'm getting old and absent-minded," was the latter's gentle apology. "You have no faith in the power of a curse, Dr. Carne?"

"I confess that I see nothing save coincidence in the 'blue-eyed Trevean' tales. They all died in perfectly natural ways; there's no denying that fact."

"I've not heard yet how these former heirs of Lamorna did meet their ends," and Fremling turned to Humphrey. "If you—"

"All right, might as well get the thing off my chest!" answered the boy. "Carne and I have argued this thing until he knows the story by heart; he's pretty well fed up with it."

"Not a bit!" protested the doctor, his thin cheeks drawn in as he smoked vigorously. "Go ahead, my boy; I shall be immensely interested to hear what Sir Donald Fremling has to say about it— immensely interested!"

The latter sat with his old briar between his teeth, his quiet eyes fixed on some distant point on the shimmering horizon.

Humphrey threw away a half- smoked cigarette and lit another with abrupt, nervous movements.

"Of course all the—the accidents occurred here in St. Neot, sir!" he began. "Once in every century a blue-eyed Trevean has been born heir to the Lamorna estates, and that Trevean has always died on the day he reached his majority. The first tragedy was in 1500. The affair is recorded in detail by a priest who was part of the household in those old days. I'll tell you briefly—"

"I prefer to have the details," said Fremling.

"Well, the story is that the Humphrey Trevean of those days— the eldest son is always a Humphrey —went down to the shore on the evening of his twenty-first birthday. His father and brothers were with him, for the family was intensely superstitious, and the legend of the curse had been carefully preserved. They had gone down to welcome kinsmen arriving in boats from the Scilly Isles for the birthday feast, and were walking in single file along the narrow cliff-path when the thing happened. A sharp-pointed piece of rock from an over-hanging ledge fell like a meteor as Humphrey passed, crushing his head to a pulp! The priest sums up the event in his manuscript with the words: 'so commenceth the Curse to work, nor hath wisdom, nor piety, nor gold prevailed to protect the innocent.' "

"It is very evident that the Sixteenth Century Treveans expected the curse to fall on them," said Sir Donald, as the narrator paused. "They feared it, waited for it, prepared their minds for it by morbid memories."

"Fear and memories are hardly agents that would move solid rock, are they?" put in Dr. Carne.

"Faith can remove mountains," quoted Fremling half to himself; "Why should not faith in a curse— in the hate which prompted the curse, rather—why should it not move a piece of rock? Faith is the agent that controls the whole universe."

"Do you mean that old Jabez trotted up from the infernal regions to take a pot-shot at Trevean?" was the doctor's smiling question.

"Yes," was the surprising answer. "Not so literally as your words imply, but the essence of your remark is true. These rocks are ironstone, and do not break or crumble off. The accident was not natural— it was supernatural!"

His companions stared in silence, Humphrey with an awakened look on his face, and Carne with bitter scorn in his eyes.

"Let's have the next fairy-tale," was the latter's jibe.

"The Seventeenth Century victim was a great swimmer," continued Humphrey. "He was famous even at a time when most Cornishmen were mighty wrestlers or swimmers. The sea was his playmate, and he was safer on her broad bosom than most men are on the solid earth. He was almost amphibious, and yet he was drowned! In broad day, with the water lying like green satin in the shadow of the cliffs, he was caught in a great mass of drifting weed and held till he drowned. There were others with him in the water, for it was the dreaded day with the Treveans, and the heir was closely guarded. But none could push their way through that mass of sea-weed to his aid. They saw him fight like a lion, while the long ribbons of weed coiled about his throat and arms, crept and slipped their shining lengths about his great body faster than he could fling them off. Half the villagers were in the water before the fight was over, but none of them could pass through the tangled weed to his aid; and at last he shouted in a voice that rang like a trumpet across the bay: 'The Curse!... 'tis the Curse! ' and he went down choking as the moving weed closed over his mouth."

"Is the seaweed thick along this coast?" asked Fremling.

"Hardly a trace of it," answered Humphrey. "No man has been known to be caught in it before or since!"

"All done by faith!" murmured Carne, with a sly look at Fremling's intent face.

"Yes," said the latter. "And after that, Humphrey?"

"The next blue-eyed heir was born in 1775," went on Trevean. "He was a delicate child, and the curse-legend apparently made a deep impression on his mind. He was a nervous, dreamy sort of chap— wrote and painted a good deal, and the theme of nearly all his work was the family curse. He did a big oil-painting of the drowning of the former heir. I'll show it to you later if you like!

"Well, it came to him, as it came to all of them, on his twenty-first birthday! He refused to guard himself, for he said there was no escaping it, and he'd rather die than live in the shadow of the curse any longer. He was a very gloomy, unhappy man by the time he came of age.

"Like all the Treveans, he loved animals, and on the fatal day he climbed down the cliff in order to rescue a puppy that had fallen over and caught in the brambles. It was not a dangerous climb, and he was almost back in safety when an eagle attacked him furiously, pecking at his eyes and beating him in the face with its tremendous wings. He hadn't a chance against the vicious creature, for his hands were occupied, and he lost his footing and fell, breaking his neck on the rocks below."

"Eagles are not native to Cornwall!"

"Never been seen here before or since, any more than the weed!" replied Humphrey bitterly.

"A stone — a weed — a bird!" Fremling's quiet voice was slow and meditative. "Yes, it would happen so."

The doctor's pale eyes darted a lightning glance at the speaker's absorbed face, then he frowned.

"You see some connection?" he asked.

"Undoubtedly." Fremling turned to the boy. "Don't let us interrupt you; there is one more before your time, Humphrey."

"Yes, one more. My great-grandfather was the last—the Nineteenth Century victim of the curse. It was a horse that killed him!

"His father had bought the animal to give to the heir on his birthday. It had cost a small fortune, and had been trained in very famous stables before it was brought to Lamorna House, and had a reputation in the countryside for its perfect temper and gentle manners as well as its marvelous speed.

"When Humphrey went with his father to see the animal, a little crowd was standing round, patting and stroking its glossy sides, giving it sugar, and making it show its paces.

"The moment Humphrey entered the stable-yard, the horse pricked up its ears and its eyes turned red with fury. With a horrible screaming neigh it made a leap, every tooth in its head bared, and its hoofs pawing the air. Before the horrified crowd or his frantic father could help him, Humphrey was a mere pulp of blood and broken bone— the horse dancing on him like a thing possessed!

"They shot the beast, of course, but it was too late: the curse had worked once more."

A long silence fell. The roar of the surf and the long-drawn hiss of the receding waves on the shingly beach below sounded suddenly ominous and threatening; the wind had veered to the east, and the sun was veiled by gathering clouds.

Sir Donald sat as still as if he were part of the rock which supported him, but his eyes under their heavy brows were piercingly bright and alert.

The doctor watched him covertly, until a half-inch of ash dropped from his cheroot and powdered his waistcoat.

"This late fatality fits in with your theories?" the doctor inquired at last, flicking away the ash with long, bony fingers.

"Entirely," answered Fremling. "It had to be either a horse or a dog! Both have lived so close to man that their intelligence is highly developed. ' '

"This is too subtle for me, altogether!" sneered Carne.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, either," said Humphrey. "I wish I did. I'd give anything not to feel so much in the dark."

"Don't you realize the gathering power in these manifestations?" came the quiet, measured voice. "Each victim of his hate has helped Jabez Penhale to manifest that hate! A rock— a weed— a bird— a horse! You see how he strikes through a higher form of life each time!"

"And this last time!" Humphrey's voice sank almost to a whisper. "What— what form will it take?"

Fremling rose to his feet, knocking out his pipe against a ledge of rock.

"The highest type of animal is man, I believe," he answered, his eyes intent on a distant fleet of trawlers. "Although that is difficult to believe sometimes."

"There you are, Trevean! Everything cut and dried for you now! All you have to do is to arm yourself with a revolver, and be ready to shoot any suspicious characters when Thursday comes!"

Carne was shaken with his laughter as he got to his feet. "I must be getting along to my patients," he said abruptly, and without another word he turned on his heel and struck up across the heather, his long, thin, darkly clad figure strangely out of harmony with the glowing carpet spread under his hasty feet.

iv

DINNER—Humphrey's twenty-first dinner party— was drawing to a close. He, and his friend the doctor, with Sir Donald Fremling, composed the party, and it had been, superficially at least, a cheerful one! The cloud which hung over the house had been ignored, for Fremling— savant, mystic, traveler, and polished man of the world— had steered the conversation skillfully, and Humphrey's eyes had lost much of their hunted look within the last hour.

Not until they rose from the ancient black-oak table, at which so many generations of Treveans had sat, and were ensconced before a great log fire in the library, did the undercurrent in the minds of all three men rise to the surface.

"The Ides of March are come!" quoted Carne, with a smile, as he carefully selected a cigar from the box held out to him by the servant.

"Ay, but not gone!" Humphrey capped the quotation, and a shiver ran through him. "I wish to heaven this day was over!" he exclaimed in sudden desperate impatience. "These hours of waiting— waiting— waiting! It's driving me mad!"

"Only three and a half hours more, my son!" said Fremling. "Fight, Humphrey, fight! This invasion of fear and apprehension is a sort of smoke-screen your enemy is using to bewilder and unnerve you before the battle. No Trevean has ever shirked a fight."

"Nor will I, sir!" responded the boy, the color rising in his face. "But what am I to fight? What— where is my enemy?"

The manservant, who had withdrawn after placing decanters and glasses in readiness, returned at this moment.

"There is a stranger," he announced portentously. "A fiddler chap he is, asking food and shelter, Master Humphrey ! He bade me say he'll play for you, if you're so minded, in payment for his victuals!"

The glass in Humphrey's hand fell from his suddenly relaxed fingers, and his eyes, dark with fear and doubt, turned toward Fremling.

There was a tense silence in the beautiful old room, as both men watched the boy—Carne with a certain anxiety in his pale eyes, and Fremling with profound compassion.

"What— what kind of a man is he?" Humphrey's voice was low and hoarse.

"Tall, queer-looking fellow, sir! A furriner, if I'm not mistaken. Looks like one o' they gipsies, with his great eyes and the gold rings in his ears. Appears middling bad to me, sir, on account of his having had no food for a couple of days, which I believe is true!"

Carne's pale eyes twinkled with a mocking gleam of laughter.

"Don't forget the curse is to take human form this time, according to Sir Donald!" he said.

The boy's eyes darkened under his frowning brows.

"I— perhaps it would be better—" He hesitated, then, meeting Fremling's grave glance, he flushed deeply and rose to his feet.

"Bring the man in, Jacob!" he commanded in a firm, ringing voice, his splendid young head thrown back defiantly. "Give him a good meal and tell him he can come in here to play for us, as soon as he is ready."

Carne fell back in his chair, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

"These strolling players are the lowest of the low," he remarked. "He's probably in league with a band of thieves after your valuables, and just wants a look around. "

When, an hour later, the door opened to admit the stranger, the effect was almost that of a great lamp being lit in the big shadowy room; so vivid, so arresting, so compelling was the figure which stood on the threshold.

Dark, graceful, tall, and lithe as a young sapling, he stood smiling there, his fiddle under his arm, his great eyes roving from one face to another. Strange, changeful, stormy eyes they were, and they dwelt long on Trevean's handsome, boyish face, and as they gazed the fiddler's eyes grew wild and haunted.

"Clouds and darkness— the darkness of hell!" he cried, his voice vibrant and low as the notes his fingers struck from the violin he held. "The darkness of hell!"

Abruptly he strode into the room, crossed the worn and priceless rugs, and stood opposite the three men who were his audience. Jacob withdrew, but only to wait by the open door in the shadow of the portiere— he and the other servants who had gathered to watch and listen on this privileged evening.

The first notes trembled out like the call of a wounded bird— low, desperate, appealing! The player's head drooped, his dark cheek nuzzled the old violin, his face dreaming and absorbed.

Humphrey shivered as the wild melody gathered up all the brooding fear which had pressed so close and heavy upon him all that day. Wilder and wilder the lament rose and swelled, until the room echoed with the terror that beat and surged within its walls.

All the evil that had pursued him since childhood seemed to be clamoring and shrieking, set free by the long fingers of the dark fiddler, who swayed in such passionate abandon before him. Humphrey's face grew white as chalk as he sat chained to his seat, while the music dropped to slow sobbing notes—the anguished voice of one at the last extremity of torment. His heart grew cold in his breast as the slow, fateful rhythm beat—beat—beat through his brain!

He could endure no more; darkness closed in on him; the throbbing music itself grew muffled and faint in his ears; there was a weight on his eyelids, a merciful numbness of every tortured nerve—when, suddenly, as if he had been dragged up. from a pit by his hair, a sharp chord stabbed him into life again.

The music swung into a tremendous lilting march, as the deep note of a clock in a shadowy corner of the room rang out.

At the eleventh and last chime, Carne sprang to his feet, his face transformed, his pale eyes gleaming with a savage triumphant fury.

Humphrey stared in astonishment, and Fremling's face set in its sternest lines, as Carne flung back his head and burst out into a wild barbaric chant, stamping his feet and tossing his arms like a creature possessed.

The dark fiddler's face was wet with effort, his strange eyes fixed on the man who stamped and chanted in time to his own savage music; his bow swept the strings remorselessly, and louder and deeper grew Carne's voice as the mad lilting melody wrought him to frenzy.

"He's drunk!" Humphrey's low, shocked voice reached Fremling. "Drunk! Yes, drunk with the sense of his own power! Do you know what he sings?"

"Can't understand a word of it."

"Yet it is the language of your own ancient race. That was the war-song of his tribe centuries ago! Many a Penhale swung over the Cornish moors to that same chant you hear now, with his spear or ax on his shoulder. Many a Trevean heard that song as his life-blood stained the purple heather."

Humphrey's eyes turned back to Carne.

"Who— who is that man?"

"It is your enemy," answered Fremling, his low clear voice distinct even in the tumult of sound which echoed and re-echoed about them. "That is your ancient enemy —Jabez Penhale!"

At the word, the fiddler dropped his bow and staggered back against the wall, while Carne crouched like an animal about to spring, then burst into a yelling laugh:

"At last my hour is come! The hour for which I have striven through the centuries. I am your enemy! I am the curse of your house, Humphrey Trevean!"

Under the cold, malevolent stare of those pale eyes, the latter was held like a bird before a python's deadly regard. Hypnotized, spellbound by the inhuman devilish hate which confronted him, Humphrey stiffened helplessly and watched his enemy with wide, unblinking eyes.

Moans and gasps came from the huddle of servants at the open door; then a shot rang out, and the faithful Jacob stumbled into the room with his weapon still pointing toward the man known as Carne. Again and again he shot, but the bullets glanced harmlessly from their target, provoking another mirthless shout of laughter.

"No weapon can injure me— this is my hour! Fire will not burn me, nor water drown me; no element can do me harm in this hour of mine! Humphrey Trevean, your time is come!"

"No!" Fremling's clear voice fell like cold water on a raging fire. "No, Jabez Penhale! It is true no mortal weapon can defeat you, no human power snatch your triumph from you. Yet, there is a weapon I hold across your path!"

"There is no weapon! I am like Baldur of old... I am as one of the gods for this brief hour!"

"My weapon is my will! Not human, but superhuman! Not mortal, but immortal!" And Fremling looked steadily into the pale, vengeful eyes which confronted him.

"Your hate is human, Jabez Penhale; therefore the superhuman in me shall conquer it."

The dark fiddler still leant gasping against the wall; Jacob, his revolver smoking in his hand, stood gaping and foolish in the center of the room; while the heir sat like a frozen statue in his chair, his eyes fixed and vacant.

The clock ticked away the fateful minutes; the logs broke and fell apart on the hearth, turning cold and gray as the heat went out of them. The windows shook and rattled as if palsied with fear, and the old timbers of floors and walls creaked uneasily as if under pressure of unseen things which crept forward to watch the silent, terrific duel being fought in their midst.

Sir Donald Fremling's face was gray with effort, his eyes, sunk deep in his head, were the eyes of one who sees the very gates of hell flung back, but they were resolute and unafraid.

Slowly, heavily, dreadfully, the awful minutes passed. And slowly did Came's face and figure shrink and wither under the steady will which confronted him.

His hair whitened and grew sparse; his skin wrinkled into a thousand lines, and his pale eyes blinked from sunken sockets; his shoulders stooped and sagged beneath a weight of years; his knees bent and shook in the extremity of old age. It was an old, old man who stood there at last, trembling with a passion too strong for his worn-out body. It was Jabez Penhale himself, carrying the dreadful burden of the centuries on his stooping shoulders.

The hands of the clock crept on and on, crawling toward the midnight hour! The little old figure became convulsed with frenzy; froth gathered on the withered lips; the shaking hands clawed the air as he made a tottering step toward Humphrey.

The first chime of midnight struck!

Fremling put out his hand and held the wizened, apelike creature back:

"To your own place, Jabez Penhale ! Your hour is past!"

Twelve strokes rang out, and that which Fremling held shrank and dwindled, until it was merely a shadow... frail as a withered leaf... insubstantial as foam on the waters!

The last chime echoed in the silence, and the shadow melted to a mere handful of dust, which a sudden draft of air caught up and swirled madly, in a spiral of gray ash, on the hearth, to mingle there with the powdered wood-ash of the logs.

v

FREMLING turned to the dark fiddler and clasped him by the hand.

"Humphrey," he said, "you owe everything to this man! It was his inspired music which made Carne reveal himself before his time. Had he waited another hour he might have won!"

But the fiddler stood humbly before Fremling, a child's expression of trust and reverence on his beautiful face.

"Never in any land have I met a man such as you," he said in a wondering voice. Then, turning to Trevean, he tucked his violin under his chin, and drew out a soft low strain— a tender, gay little air which brought tears to the eyes of his listeners.

"Harken, young master! So shall the voice of your first-born sing to your heart!"

And with a last flashing smile the dark fiddler disappeared, and presently his music came drifting back on the wind... the voice of love… of youth... of happiness!

__________________

5: From the Dark Halls of Hell

Weird Tales, Jan 1932

"IT'S no use, Erzebet! Why don't you I give up this game you're playing? Hugh is not the man for you, you know— you must know he could never make you happy."

"And you could!" replied Erzebet Machik, with a short laugh. Her hands, those marvelous hands of hers, were folded in her lap as she sat like a Buddha— detached and apparently serene.

"I am. Yes, I am! I am your man, and you are my woman. I know you as no one else ever could. Since your childhood, year in, year out, in every mood I have known you—and loved you, Erzebet."

The long, smoldering black eyes of the girl softened.

"You've been a good friend, Rafe," she admitted. "But more than a friend ... no. Hugh is the man I want. I must, I will have him!"

"Heaven help both of you if he marries you. He's reserved, proud, conventional— an aristocrat. And you—!"

She flared up, her head thrust forward on her long neck, her dark face quite gray with fury.

"Go on— go on! Say the rest! I am only the daughter of a Hungarian— an apostate Jew— a devil-worshipper who was hanged, at Budapest for—"

The man laughed. "As if I care who or what he was! All I know or care about is that you are the greatest violinist of the day, and beautiful... beautiful. God, but how beautiful!"

"You said that he was an aristocrat... and you meant... you meant—"

"I meant he has all the pride and prejudices and conventions of his class. You are a great genius—brilliant, Bohemian, moody, and changeable as the sea. You have nothing—nothing in common with this man, Hugh Bremner, I repeat."

"But that is exactly the reason why I love him, because he is so different from myself. I adore his calm ... his poise! He is like a rock. I love everything about him, Rafe. It's no use arguing and scolding me. If you understand me as you say you do, you would understand why I care for him."

"I understand that you are attracted for a time." His voice was very bitter.

"But I know you better than you know yourself, Erzebet. You can't give up your career. You can't give up your birthright to live like a tame bird in a cage. You are an eagle—you must be free to soar—to fly everywhere... anywhere! I—I am a musician too. I am of your race, your people —and I know you!"

She flicked at a sheaf of music impatiently.

"How about trying over this aria again, Rafe? That syncopated minor bit was wooden at the rehearsal this morning. We've just time before dinner."

The man leaned across from the chair at her side, and took her hands gently in his own. The girl let them lie passively; her somber eyes did not flinch from his.

"I like you, Rafe. But... I can live without you. I can not live without Hugh! I can not... I will not!"

Suddenly she wrenched her hands away and stood up. Drama, passion, strong glowing life showed in every line and movement. With a savage instinctive gesture she struck her breast with one clenched fist.

"Do you think that I don't know that he does not love me— has never loved me? That he begins to fear... to hate me! But I love him... love him! I will never give him up in this world... or the next!"

The man watched her with hungry, adoring eyes.

"I will never give you up," he responded hoarsely, his arms suddenly about her, his lips on hers.

A ring at the front door of her apartment interrupted them.

"Will you answer?" Erzebet said coolly, turning toward a long mirror on the wall. "My maids are both out."

"Hugh!"

The tall fair man who entered and took her outstretched hands, looked strained and set. His gray eyes were clouded, and he met her eager welcome with an embarrassed reserve. Two angry little flames lit up in the girl's dark eyes—flickering, sullen reflections of the hell-fires which consumed her. She flung herself down on a divan and began to smoke, watching Hugh through half-shut eyelids… waiting... watching.

"Give me a few minutes alone with her, old man," Hugh had said to Rafe Horvath at the door. But now his opportunity was come, Hugh longed to escape. He lit a cigarette, dropped the lighted match on the Persian rug at his feet, apologized, gave a few nervous puffs, then crushed out the glowing tip of his cigarette on a jade ash-tray.

"Erzebet, this is going to be... this will sound as if—I mean ... I am afraid you may misunderstand my motive in saying what I've come here to say to you." She waited, blowing clouds of tobacco smoke, her half-closed eyes gleaming in the pallor of her face. He lit another cigarette in desperate embarrassment. His strong, athletic, out-of-doors figure in country tweeds looked incongruous in Erzebet's exotic studio, so full of flowers, costly draperies, cushions, rugs, and futuristic pictures and china. His old-fashioned air of courtesy, the breeding and restraint so natural to him, made the girl's pose of impassivity seem tawdry and theatrical.

"Well, Hugh?" Her voice was rough with fear and anxiety. His eyes met hers as she leaned toward him suddenly. Unconsciously his pulses quickened; in spite of himself his arms went out to clasp her; her black eyes drew him... drew him! His senses swam, he felt he was drowning in the velvet depths of those languorous eyes. Her red lips were close to his.

"What is it, my darling?"

At the sound of her voice, low and throbbing as the rich tones of her own Cremona, Hugh drew back, white and shaken. Her beauty enslaved him, drew him like a spell. But under the cloak of the rich dark loveliness he saw another Erzebet— he glimpsed a personality which repelled him utterly. For months he had fought against the intuition which warned him to see Erzebet no more. He knew at last quite definitely that the spell this woman put upon him was not, never had been, love.

"It's a difficult thing to ask you," he began haltingly. "But you know, I think you realize that I... that you and

Erzebet drew back, her face set like flint.

"You would have told me this yourself in a short time. But I can't—can't go on any longer now. You've been marvelous to put up with me all this time. I know you don't really care... there are so many other men... you have the world at your feet... and I... I—"

"Yes." The woman leaned far back on her silken cushions, her eyes almost closed. "It was a mistake. We made a big mistake, you and I. I did not know—could not know until—"

"You met her." A bitter, mocking voice completed his sentence for him.

"Yes." Hugh's stumbling speech became more resolute. The thought of Cynthia steeled him to fresh effort.

"You do not love me, Erzebet. I am only one of your playthings for an idle hour. You are a great genius, brilliant, beautiful, a darling of the gods. I am an ordinary, commonplace man, and I can't live long on your giddy heights."

Reassured by her quiet stillness, he went on:

"Tell people what you like. Say you have broken our engagement for any reason you choose. I am in your hands absolutely as far as that goes... in your hands." She smiled—a sudden dazzling smile that startled Hugh.

"In my hands!" she echoed. "In my hands! Yes, I think that is very true."

Hugh smiled too in his relief. "You do understand, then. You'll let me go?"

Erzebet rose in a sinuous movement to her feet. With the deadly swiftness of a poisonous reptile, she struck out at him.

"Let you go! Go... go... now, at once! I wish only never to see you again! Go! You are not a man... you are only a crawling dusty little worm at my feet! Go... go... go!"

She stood there, raging, furious, primitive as when she was picked up in the gutters of Budapest twelve years ago. Anger stripped her of all her superficial veneer of fine manners, the regal dignity she had acquired so painfully. The old Erzebet— the dirty ragged homeless little waif— stood there convulsed with fury, shrieking, gesticulating, and primitive.

"Go—" she choked. "In my hands!" she muttered, as the door closed behind the man. "Yes, Hugh Bremner... in my hands!"

She opened and closed her long fingers with an indescribable gesture of malice.

"And unless I have forgotten much of my power, these hands shall hold you fast! So help me, great Chavajoth!"

ii

THREE DAYS since he had heard or seen anything of either Hugh or Erzebet! Rafe wondered. He had rung up the latter several times, but she had put him off, saying she did not want to speak to any one—all she wanted was to be left alone. Rafe was quite familiar with this mood of hers—a dark solitary mood that took possession of her every now and then. He knew that it was wisest to take her at her word and leave her to recover herself in solitude.

But Hugh— it was certainly strange not to have heard from him. Usually he remained for a few days only in the city, and it was entirely out of order for him not to spend a great part of that time with Rafe, on the rare occasions when he left his country estates. Hugh owned great estates— vast acres of parkland and woods and meadows, a beautiful old manor-house, and all the other joys and encumbrances of a man of property. He took his duties seriously, and administered his estate in a thoroughly competent manner. Those who confounded his kindness with weakness or his easy-going ways with indulgence were speedily undeceived, and went away to learn their mistake in a colder, harder world than the miniature world of Redscarp, as the Bremner property was named.

Rafe's friendship with Hugh was begun in the War, and subsequent years had cemented the bond between them. Hugh had snatched Rafe from a hideous and lingering death out there on the battlefields of Flanders. Later in the campaign, Rafe had crippled himself— losing one leg and three inches of bone from the other— by stopping to disentangle Hugh from a mass of wire while the enemy's shells whined and burst all about them.

Even Erzebet had not altered this friendship. Rafe had loved her for years before Hugh dawned on his horizon, and it was he who had introduced Hugh to the girl. But his deep passion for Erzebet had not blinded him to the fact that it was she who had wooed his friend— it was Erzebet's strong will and magnetic personality which had tricked and caught Hugh into a proposal of marriage.

Rafe had pitied both of them, but especially the girl! He saw so clearly that she was bound to lose in the long run. The bubble she had tried to seize was bound to dissolve. Love—especially the love of a man of Hugh's type— was not to be permanently held by the means she had employed. No! Her bubble was bound to burst, and, waiting day after day for some word of the two he loved, Rafe concluded the bubble had burst.

Something— Rafe cogitated— most likely another woman, had brought about the inevitable crisis. Hugh had broken loose from the silken enchantment of Erzebet's spell... he had come to his senses at last.

Having finally arrived at this conclusion, Rafe decided to act. He would go to see Erzebet in spite of her expressed desire. She was so desperate, so passionate, so undisciplined and ungovernable in her moods and reactions. If Hugh had turned her love aside, she would be as savage and dangerous as some wounded wild creature of her own Hungarian forests, ready to strike and hurt all who came near. Rafe was not afraid— except of hurting her still further. And there was the possibility that in this crisis she might need him, might turn to his long faithful love for her, as a little storm-driven boat might run into the nearest haven.

A scared little French maid admitted him to Erzebet's apartment.

"Madame has locked herself in her studio," she told him. "Since many hours Madame has remained there in silence— but a great silence! It is strange— I like it not— this silence!"

Rafe tried the door, shook and rattled the knob. No response.

The cook, a stolid peasant woman, came to the rescue with tools and implements, and in a few minutes the door stood open.

Rafe strode inside. He saw Erzebet at once. She lay on her divan, her eyes closed, her head sunk deep into a silken cushion— its glowing purple a fitting frame for the proud, passionate face. Hastily he limped across the luxurious room, took up one limp hand, his fingers sliding to the wrist. The pulse beat steadily, and through her parted lips the breath came warm and vital.

Rafe drew himself upright, looked round the room with quick alarm. His eye fell on the open book at her side, the sprigs of vervain, ash, and basil that were strewn about her couch. He noted the three carved black-ivory bowls standing on the floor at her feet... where strange horrible little objects floated on the surface of some nauseating liquid.

"Erzebet! Erzebet!" he groaned, his olive skin turning a sickly pallor.

He turned abruptly to the two servants who stood gaping on the threshold.

"Go away!" he commanded sternly. "Close the door and go away at once! I know what to do, and need no help."

The two women obeyed simultaneously and promptly, afraid of the queer look of that studio, and the still figure of their mistress.

"Erzebet!" Rafe addressed the unconscious girl with deep reproach. "You swore that never, never again would you have recourse to this!"

His face became haggard as he saw how deep was her trance, and noted more signs of her infernal craft about the studio. He sank into a chair by the divan, and stared miserably at the wonderful quiet face before him.

"It's Hugh!" he murmured. "She's going to punish him! This was what I feared. My God! she'll destroy him... she'll destroy herself!"

He got up and began to limp to and fro, disgust, horror and pity alternately mirrored on his face. At last he came to a standstill before a great volume lying open on the floor at his feet— an old, old book bound in curiously tooled leather, and fastened with ancient tarnished silver clasps. He gazed at the heavy blackletter printing as if hypnotized, looking long at the signs and symbols wrought in red and gold in the wide margins of the heavy parchment leaves.

"The Gate to Hell...she has flung it open once more!" he half whispered at last. "That cursed father of hers— to teach a child such evil!"

He turned aside, threw the dark liquid out of the window, burned the leaves strewn over her; then, opening every window wide, let the cool night air blow through the reeking room. He came back to stare down at Erzebet again, and from her to the open book still lying on the floor.

"How to help— how to save them both?" He asked himself this over and over again. "She will kill Hugh—or worse! She will destroy herself body and soul! And what—what in God's name can I do?"

He stumbled wearily to a chair. "I must wait here anyhow until she... until she comes back!"

For long he sat there thinking, revolving the wildest schemes, fighting to see a way out of the darkness into which Erzebet had plunged them all. At last he picked up the great sinister volume with reluctant hands.

"She learnt her devil's trade from this. Perhaps I can learn something, too! Perhaps there is the antidote as well as the poison here. If I can learn how she controls those dark hidden forces at her command; if I, too, could command them! All power can be controlled—tapped! If I could learn how to shut off that power of hers completely... sever the connection between her and—and—whatever it is she does control!"

He turned the yellowed crackling leaves.

"Ah! Swedenborg... dreams… sidereal bodies. Conjuration of the Four! Poetic Circle of the Black Evocations! The extension of the Will into another body... served and organized by an Elemental Spirit! Control... visibility... limitations!" His breath quickened. "Limitations! That sounds like it... there are— there must be limitations!"

He became lost in studying the crabbed ancient print. Frowning and intent, he read on... hours passed... dawn plucked with pale fingers at the eastern horizon.

But Rafe read on, his face drawn with fatigue, his hands and feet cold, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. And as he labored, working in a mist of horror and feverish excitement, Erzebet slept on.

Day came; a window clashed to in a sudden flurry of wind and rain, and Rafe raised a grim, exhausted face at the crash.

Day was come, but Erzebet's body still lay motionless, its tenant still abroad— seeking vengeance— seeking payment for its hurt.

iii

IT WAS many hours previous to Rafe's first discovery of Erzebet in her death-like trance; it was, in fact, during the morning of that fatal day that Hugh Bremner went to Cynthia. She lived near Redscarp on the edge of Hugh's estate— this girl who had taught him what love was, and how poor an imitation of the real thing was his feeling for Erzebet.

Hugh sought Cynthia on this particular day with the conviction that every barrier between them was removed. He had got the dreaded interview with Erzebet over at last. Now he could go to Cynthia with a free mind. She was as sharply contrasted with the Hungarian as a little fragrant hedge-rose contrasts with a rare orchid from the depths of a tropical forest. He called for her early in the morning, drove her out miles into the heart of the country, through lanes heavy with the scent of honeysuckle, gay with purple loose-strife, vetch, and creamy masses of meadowsweet. Bees and butterflies darted and hummed across the golden sunlit ways.

It was a perfect day—a day of unutterable and complete content. So Hugh thought as he drove on under the blue sky, deeper and deeper into the beauty of that heaven-sent day. Each time he glanced down at Cynthia's little golden head, in its sheath-like green helmet, his heart knew a still quiet joy that Erzebet's kisses had never awakened. He forgot that payment must be made even for such kisses, reluctant though his had often been.

Hugh had played and lost his first round in the game of love. Now the cards had been dealt again for him, and they were good— certainly a winning hand this time. But there was that first game! He had not yet paid his reckoning for that.

They lunched at an inn tucked away among tall beech trees and sturdy Oaks. The innkeeper and his jolly stout wife had gossiped with them in the pleasant friendly way of the countryside; had pressed the home-brew on them and given Cynthia a great bunch of roses and mignonette from the old-fashioned garden, and had waved a last good-bye as Hugh started his car and chug-chugged away again through the flowery lanes.

During the heat of the afternoon they rested by a trickling silver stream, where Cynthia's golden head shone in the dusky gloom of the trees all about them.

"So you've been to see Erzebet Machik?" the girl asked, breaking a long, peaceful silence at last. "Do tell me all that happened, Hugh? I know you were worrying about it."

His account left Cynthia very thoughtful, although he touched very lightly on the sudden fury with which the violinist had concluded the interview.

"You know, Hugh dear—" Cynthia hesitated, her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the splashing cheerful little stream at her feet. "You know, I think you may have been mistaken. Perhaps she did love you. I've never spoken to her— never seen her except on a concert platform. But she looked like a flame— a rather dark fierce sort of flame— the kind of woman who would love— and hate— desperately. She would be a terrible enemy, Hugh! And if she did love you—"

Hugh took one small sun-browned hand in his.

"Funny wise little creature," he teased. "You think every woman looks at me through your eyes. Because I've managed to bluff you into caring, doesn't mean that other women share your delusions about me. Erzebet collects lovers as other women collect china, or autographs, or foreign luggage labels. I hurt her pride, not her heart. Her heart she puts into her music; she takes nothing seriously outside that one supreme gift of hers."

"You may be right," she replied doubtfully.

"But you don't think I am."

"No, I don't, Hugh!" The girl got to her feet suddenly, and stood looking down at him with big serious gray eyes. "I am not often bothered with premonitions, as you know, dear, but I feel strongly that this is not the end of Erzebet Machik as far as we are concerned."

"Why, Cynthia!" he protested. "You don't understand. Why on earth should a famous star concern herself any more with me and my affairs? I don't claim to be any more modest than the next man, but after all she is an exceptional woman!— she has a whole world of men at her feet! Also she's going off on a world tour very shortly."

Cynthia perched precariously on a large stone at the edge of the stream, hugging her knees— a small green elf of a girl. Hugh began to feel a little uneasy. Cynthia might sit there looking like some Puck of the forest; her serious intent expression rather added to her appearance of child-like innocence; but Hugh knew well enough that the brain in that enchanting flower-like head was very far from child-like! It was unusually keen and penetrating, and her judgment was matured far beyond her years.

"Did Rafe ever talk to you about this— your affair with Erzebet?" she asked.

"Never once mentioned her name since —well, since Erzebet and I—"

"But before that?"

"Yes, he was always talking about her in the old days. But I never gathered that he counted himself in the reckoning as far as marrying her went."

"There was no question of rivalry, then?"

"Rivals? No," Hugh laughed. "Why, old Rafe would never be any man's rival! He's obsessed with the idea of presenting the world to Erzebet on a golden salver! That's the chief reason why I'm certain she never cared for me. If she had cared, Rafe would have had us married as quickly as butter slides off a hot plate! My ideas on the subject wouldn't have mattered in the least."

"Even if he knew you didn't care?"

"My little Puck! He couldn't conceive of a man that could resist Erzebet, I am sure. He'd take the man's feelings for granted, if he knew she cared."

"Well— of course you're only a man, darling." She gave him a sudden gay little smile. "Therefore you can only see one point of view at a time."

"You don't want me to squint, do you?" Hugh got up, stretching himself luxuriously, picking her up off the stone, and gave her a small shake.

"We've had enough oracles from you, young woman!"

He put her down suddenly, staring with half-open mouth, his brown tan fading to a jaundiced yellow.

"Hugh! Hugh— what is it? What do you see?" The girl turned a frightened face over her shoulder. There was nothing there except the green trees with the sun filtering through their branches. But the man's eyes were fixed in an incredulous glassy stare at a point above her head. He moved backward with an involuntary gesture of disgust and fear.

"Hugh ... my dear... what is it?"

Cynthia stood back herself to gaze distractedly above and around her. Nothing... nothing but the sun-flecked woodland!

The man's eyes followed her, turning as she turned, but never once did he meet her imploring eyes. He gazed, as if hypnotized, at that fixed point above her head. As she approached he backed away in such horror and loathing, that at last she made no more attempt to touch, or console him with hand or voice. She stood like some dumb stricken thing watching his face.

Suddenly he shuddered violently, put a hand over his eyes, and said:

"You were right! My God, you were right!"

"What... who?" stammered Cynthia, afraid to move or speak.

"It's her... she's here... she... how devilish!"

"Oh, what—what do you see?" Cynthia's whisper broke on a sob.

"Erzebet! Erzebet! She's standing there by you... she's laughing... laughing... laughing! There— right behind you— over your head!"

Cynthia drew back with a cry, shaken to the soul by his voice and desperate eyes. About her, little darting insects hummed and flashed, the stream gurgled and chattered on its way, the trees stirred dreamily in the wandering breezes. All was still and peaceful, a very paradise of gold and green.

"But Hugh—my darling! There is nothing—nothing here! You are ill!"

"No! No! Don't come near. She is coming with you... no... keep off!"

He thrust out both hands to prevent her impetuous movement. Helpless and perplexed, the girl caught hold of a projecting branch to steady herself.

Her fear died in an overwhelming anxiety and pity for Hugh. He was ill. It must be that fever again—a painful legacy left from war days. He had told her he suffered occasionally from bouts of it. Poor Hugh, she had no idea it was as bad as this!

"What do you want me to do?" she asked gently, humoring him.

"Go home—go home!" he gasped, his eyes still shaded by his hand. "Take the car and go! I'll walk back to that inn— the man will lend me another car. Only go now, if you love me, Cynthia! I'll try to think out a way!"

She left him there, alone, a stricken solitary creature surrounded by all that bravery of flower and leaf! His face was toward the running water, his head sunk on his chest, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sports coat. An image of despair, which blotted out every gleam of sun and happiness as far as the girl was concerned. She drove off into a world grown suddenly old and gray.

iv

FIVE— TEN minutes elapsed after Cynthia's whispered sad: "Good-bye, Hugh, darling!"

Hugh raised his head; his white lips twitched as he looked up. In front of him, on the carpet of trodden leaves, it still faced him. He forced himself to look at the dreadful mocking thing.

It was Erzebet, and yet—no!—no! It could not be the girl herself. Wild, erratic, selfish and passionate he knew her to be, but she was at least human. She was at least flesh and blood, not this grinning, devilish thing that was so like, and yet so vastly unlike, the Erzebet he knew.

He looked, spellbound.

Here was Erzebet, feature by feature. Here was her raven hair, her superb body, her hands— slender, strong, and exquisitely fashioned to make the music she adored. On one finger gleamed the great emerald he had himself worn until she had seen and coveted it. Here was Erzebet in every last detail of outward appearance.

But behind the beautiful mask of a face what glared at him from those dark eyes? What had clothed itself in that well-known body, so like, and so unlike human flesh and blood? What was the nature of that amorphous leering Thing that drifted among the trees, light as air, bound by no natural laws of sound or movement?

It walked across the running water as though its silent feet trod a shining carpet. It floated through the solid trunks of trees as a bird moves through the air. The man's eyes followed it in fascinated horror. It came to stand close to him at last, its red lips drawn back in mockery, its eyes looking closely into his... their cold awful malice was paralyzing.

Hugh became conscious of a fear so unutterable that his very reason tottered. What— what creature of the Pit stared at him from behind those cold unsmiling eyes? His senses reeled, his eyes grew dim, his heart thumped against his ribs in slow deep throbs that shook him through and through. Desperately he tried to get a grip on himself. He must fight whatever enemy this was that menaced him. He must not let it... not let it…

THE innkeeper and his hired man picked him up, unconscious, where he had fallen in that terrible stress of mind and body.

Cynthia watched from a distance, afraid of his seeing her in his present state, saw them lift Hugh into a car, and followed at a short distance until they reached his home. She saw his limp body carried into the hall of his stately home, and waited there to tell the hastily summoned doctor what little she knew of his sudden illness. Then she went home to wait and fear and long for news.

Hugh woke to find himself in his own bed. A tall, shaded lamp revealed his faithful old valet sitting at some distance away, head sunk on his breast in profound slumber. His eyes wandered round the room in uneasy wonder.

A cry rose to his lips.

What was that— what was that standing by his bedside, with red mouth laughing in silent convulsive mirth, with cold savage furious eyes which stared down into his soul?

God! He remembered now! The wood... that Thing like Erzebet... that Thing he had tried to fight! He must have lost the fight— the Thing must have conquered him— and what had it done to him?— what did it want?— how had he reached home?

Thoughts whirled in his brain under the awful, steady gaze of the figure at his bedside. Must he fight again? What could he do... what could he do to an enemy like this one? His lips opened to call and wake his valet; then he shut them again. He could not explain, could not tell any one of this thing he saw. It was his fight alone. No one in the world could help him, not even Cynthia— especially not Cynthia!

He groaned as he remembered how close that hateful obscene Thing had been to the girl— and she so supremely unconscious of the evil at her side. No!— he would never see Cynthia again until he was free from this hideous companion.

Presently the creature moved round the bed, sat down on a chair at his side. Through its dark head, and supple body sheathed in glowing silk, Hugh could still see the shaded lamp burning, and beyond, the sleeping figure of the old valet. The creature showed white teeth in an abandonment of mirth as Hugh's eyes mirrored his disgust and fear.

It leaned forward, put one strong slender hand on the man's clenched fist. Hugh's whole body seemed to shrink and wither under the touch. Transparent, insubstantial as mist, that shadowy hand closed over his like a cold steel trap. He could no more have wrenched his fingers free, than a bale of wool could extricate itself from the iron jaws of a crane.

Sick, shivering with the unspeakable horror of it, Hugh closed his eyes. A cold dank breath fanned his face— the odor of the charnel-house! The Thing stooped over him... close... closer! The dreadful smiling lips were close to his, touched them... clung like a damp decaying lichen!

For the second time, Hugh fainted dead away.

When he woke from that long swoon, dawn was at hand. The old valet was awake, and moving softly about the room; he noticed his master's eyes were open, and held a glass to his lips. Potent, aromatic, the dose cleared Hugh's brain and brought a glow to his numbed, chill body. He remembered almost instantly on this awakening the horror which had plunged him into oblivion. His haunted glance darted swiftly about the room.

There— there, before the closely drawn window curtains, stood the tall woman's figure. Fresh, radiantly beautiful, smiling, devilish and implacable the Thing still waited. It caught Hugh's look and held it for an anguished second; then, with an incomparably graceful movement, it raised one slender hand to its smiling mouth— kissing its fingers in mocking salute!

Hugh turned to his servant.

"Draw back the curtains, Wilson," he ordered. The old man went stiffly to obey, and Hugh noticed that he stood right beside the horrible leering Thing— put an arm through the creature's body, in order to pull the curtains into place. Hugh set his teeth. He was right: no one else could see it, no one would believe him! He must play out this game alone.

He got out of bed, pulled a dressing gown about him, and walked with shaking limbs to the nearest chair.

"Bring coffee and rolls, Wilson! I'm better—I want some food!"

The old man hesitated. "Yes, sir! The doctor did say, sir—" he began.

"I know." Hugh managed a queer one-sided smile for the devoted old servitor. "Keep him in bed, and give him a dose every three hours!"

The other's anxious face relaxed. "Yes, sir. Those were his orders."

"Never mind about them. Hurry with the coffee, there's a good fellow!"

Wilson disappeared, and Hugh addressed himself to that other one. It was moving about the room. Its rich silks gleamed in the shadows, its hands fingered the articles on his tables, and chest, and bureau.

It paused long before a photograph of Cynthia, then turned to look over its shoulder with a long gaze of cunning malice which brought Hugh to his feet. All fear was burnt up in the scorching fury that possessed him when he saw that loathsome grinning devil leer at that picture.

He fairly leaped for the mocking woman-shape... his hands made for the long white throat... he was babbling, frantic, demented by rage! The valet, entering at that moment with a laden breakfast tray, saw his master staggering about with fists raised and clenched in a curious gesture, as if he had something in his grasp, and his voice was shouting hoarsely:

"Not her... not her, you devil from hell!"

Wilson dropped the tray with a thump on the nearest chair, and made a stumbling dash across the room. At his touch and the sound of his quavering voice, Hugh turned a distorted face.

"It laughed at her... even at her! Ah-h-h-h! It's going to kiss me again! Don't let it do that... don't let—"

His voice ceased with a queer choked cry, and for the third time Hugh's senses failed him, and merciful oblivion blotted out life and its horror.

v

"I'M AFRAID he won't see you, Miss! His orders were very strict."

"But, Wilson, I simply must see him, if it is only for a minute," Cynthia pleaded. "How is he... does he still see—"

"His hallucination seems to have left him— for the time, Miss. Leastways, he's stopped looking round as he did. But he's pretty bad, yes, pretty bad on the whole. The doctor— he's afraid of brain fever, Miss."

The girl nodded, her face serious and intent.

"Listen to me, Wilson," she said, after a brief silence. "I know how much your master trusts you. Now I, too, am going to take you into my confidence. Do you happen to know this handwriting?"

She displayed an envelope, with a few lines of very characteristic calligraphy. A black, squared writing with peculiarly long sweeps to certain letters. A bold, unmistakable hand.

"I remember that, yes. Miss. I've seen it often enough. That's Mr. Rafe Sterne's writing, that is."

"You're right. Now, did your master receive a letter from Mr. Sterne this morning. Did you notice one?"

"Yes, he did. He opened it first of all, and he never touched the rest of his mail — just read that one of Mr. Sterne's over and over again, Miss. He's up there now with that letter in front of him; it looked to me as if that letter was bad news— very bad news, Miss."

"Yes—yes, it was bad news for him. I know what was in that letter— it's because of it that I must see your master at once. It's a matter of life and death, Wilson... I must see him!"

Wilson nodded, convinced by her passionate earnestness. They were standing in the wide entrance hall; now the man turned toward the staircase. He led the way up in silence, their feet sinking into the mossy pile of the rich carpet.

"He's in the smoking-room, to the left there. It wouldn't be no use for me to announce you, Miss, if you'll excuse me. Better go right in and see him if you must."

The girl did not hesitate. Lightly, eagerly she went forward, opened the door softly and slipped inside the room. Her eyes went straight to Hugh. There he sat, at his desk, his big frame stooped over it, his head resting on his two hands. An open letter lay before him.

Gently Cynthia closed the door and went forward.

"Hugh!" At the dear gentle voice, the man raised his head abruptly. At sight of his ravaged face, his haunted despairing eyes, Cynthia's heart turned cold. This could not be Hugh! Impossible! This wreck of a man— with his lined gray face, bowed shoulders, dull eyes, and trembling hands— this could not be her big sun-tanned stalwart young lover! Then, an overwhelming desire to help and comfort him blotted out all else. She ran to him, took his head to her breast.

"Hugh—my dear, my dear!" He did not shrink from her. As she sat down on an arm of his chair, he relaxed against her shoulder, while she stroked his hair and whispered her love and pity.

At last he took her two hands in his, and looked long into her eyes. "You ought not to have come." Even his voice was the tired voice of an old man. "I was going to write—to explain, if possible. Cynthia, I must go away from here. I... you ... we must never meet again!"

"No—ah, never that, Hugh!" she cried.

"This madness that has come to me," he went on without heeding her. "It will get worse— I might hurt people— I might injure you, my little one! My mind is made up. I shall go at once... somewhere... some place where no one who cares can see me turn into a madman... into a wild raving beast!" Her eyes were wide with horror and grief.

"You could never be that! Never! And I am not afraid, my dear. Whatever happens, whatever you are, I am going to stay with you. And besides—"

The man was not listening to her. He was looking at her face, at her trembling lips and tender eyes. This was the last, the very last time he would look on this face, so unutterably dear to him! Her love, her tender shining beauty... the memory of it would be a light in the great darkness to which he was going. "Hugh, darling! You are not listening to me. There is a chance for you— for both of us. He says so here!"

She took up the open letter from his desk and began to read it.

"This is going to be hard to write, " the letter began abruptly.

"I'm betraying Erzebet in sending it at all, and you're the only one in the world worth doing that for. The bond between us is too deep, I find, to allow me to watch you driven to madness without a warning. I'm bound to tell you what's happening to you. I'm bound to show you the only possible way out, as far as I can see it.

"Don't judge Erzebet when you learn the truth. You never understood her, never loved her. I love her. I understand what's driven her to use this infernal power of hers.

"Erzebet's father was as near to being a devil as a man could be; in fact, I doubt whether he was altogether human in the end. A deadly poisonous creature. Outcast from every class— every form of society—he turned to Black Magic at last. He wanted power— riches— revenge on a world which had cast him forth on its dunghills to rot.

"He sank to incredible depths of depravity. His associates were raked from the gutters of European cities. Constantinople— Bucharest— Vienna—Marseilles— Naples. The dehumanized, abnormal, decadent scum of all nations joined him. They formed a sort of sect, most foul and menacing it was. It reached out leprous fingers to every grade of society, once Machik had money enough to achieve his purpose. That purpose was to destroy— utterly to ruin those who had cast him out. His evil mind loathed every and any form of social order, of law and decency. His aim was to undermine and drag down to his own hell those who sat in the sun.

"And he taught Erzebet! My God! can you conceive anything more hellish than that? He taught his devil's trade to her while she was still a child. She grew up familiar with evil that would make a man's brain reel.

"Only her great gift of music saved her. Her genius shut her off in a world of her own. But she had learned the secrets— she was an initiate of that infernal sea. In her brain the seed had been fatally planted. She knew and could never forget the mysteries— the formulae— the words of power that would enable her to control vast, terrific forces.

"She had the Key. If she chose, she could unlock the door to blind hateful evil from beyond... from the outer darkness. Within limitations she could command the living... and the dead!

"She has done it! She has unlocked the door! You are being haunted by a devilish thing she has called from hell!

"You are in fearful danger— and so is she! One mistake, one slip on her pan and she would lose control of this thing— this Elemental, and be plucked down to hell by its fury.

"She puts herself into a trance, and lends her ego, her essential self, as a garment for the evil made visible by this means. This ego is called a sidereal body, visible, yet having neither weight nor substance.

"You are being forced to look upon the foulest thing a man may see—and live! But you can't live long with such a companion at your side. You'll die a raving maniac unless you escape soon.

"There is a way of escape.

"Marry Cynthia at once! I have seen her, told her all that I have written here. You will object and try to shut her out— refuse to let her share the danger. Fortunately for you, Cynthia is over age and absolutely determined, and we have made very complete plans between us.

"Sir Donald Fremling is coming to you today. You'll remember him, the most brilliant psychical research man of the day. He'll brace you mentally and physically to go through with this. He's bringing a clergyman with him, a man who will be neither shocked nor surprised at anything you may do or say during the wedding-ceremony.

"All you have to do now is to go through with this marriage as secretly and speedily as possible.

"There are certain definitely fixed limits to the power of these Elemental Spirits—I have been desperately trying to learn these limits.

"A marriage—a true marriage between people capable of the highest kind of love is a tremendous obstacle. The mystic union forms an enormously strong barrier against an assault such as you are enduring.

"Your resistance and will coupled with Cynthia's would make it almost impossible for the Thing which haunts you now to make itself visible ... to use the sidereal body it has borrowed from Erzebet any longer.

"Marry Cynthia at once. "It is up to you to do what I ask—you owe it to me, Hugh, old man!

"Don't forget that I have betrayed Erzebet to warn you!

"Yours,

"Rafe."

Cynthia glanced through the letter and put it down again on the desk.

"Yes, he told me all that."

She bent to kiss him, stroking his hair, and giving him gentle motherly pats which made Hugh catch her to him with a sob. "Now it will be all right, darling," she assured him. "Everything is arranged. I am going to marry you in a few hours whatever you say! Rafe will be here unless—"

"Unless Erzebet interferes!"

"Yes. He will try to stay with her until this evening. Rafe warned me that it was probable that she would be made aware of our plan by means of her— of her—"

She stumbled for the best word to use. Hugh's hand tightened on hers, and the sentence was left unfinished. At that moment there was a knock at the door. A man servant entered solemnly, bearing a telegram on a silver salver. Hugh opened and read it— let it flutter through his nerveless fingers to the floor.

Hastily Cynthia picked it up, reading the message with horrified eyes. It ran:

"Erzebet knows. Disappeared early this morning. Am trying to trace her. Be ready for crisis. Great danger. Rafe."

Hugh rose and looked at Cynthia.

"You must go at once! This finishes it. Go, go before she— before it comes to me again! Go— quickly— quickly!"

She struggled, pleaded, resisted in vain. He was determined, and his love and despair gave him a sudden access of strength. In another minute she was outside his locked door, beating her small hands against the solid oak-panels in vain. And inside that locked door Hugh waited alone.

vi

AT FIRST he sat down at his desk again, every nerve strained, every sense alert, his glance darting about the room at each slightest sound. The long minutes passed. No dreaded gleam of silken dress, no dark beautiful head with smiling mouth and cold menacing eyes appeared.

Half an hour.

An hour passed.

"Hugh! Are you all right, dear?"

"Yes, dear."

At intervals Cynthia's voice came to him, muffled and pleading, and he answered. That was all, but as the hour spent itself his answers became stronger, more reassuring.

He began to see a gleam of hope. There was just a chance that Rafe had been able to find Erzebet. Perhaps he had been in time to hinder her carrying out further schemes. If Rafe could hold her for that one day only! If marriage with Cynthia would not endanger her— if it freed him from this cursed Thing!

His heart grew lighter with every passing minute. It was past noon now. A few more hours was all he needed.

He looked out of the window at the sweep of woodland and meadow, the distant blue hills against a cloudless sky. He heard the far-off clank-clank of a lawn-mower, the cawing of rooks in the great elm trees. All the life and sound and color of a summer noontide brought a feeling of peace and security to Hugh.

He sat down on the broad-cushioned window-seat, and lighted a cigarette with hands steadier than they had been for hours past. The smoke curled up blue and fragrant before his face. Tranquillized, with lids drooping over his weary; eyes, Hugh smoked on.

Cloud after cloud of smoke rose— hung— and settled in ever denser wreaths. At last he turned to put down the stub of his cigarette. He became aware of the extraordinary amount of smoke that hung and curled beside him... swirling… moving constantly in a long straight spiral, weaving endlessly from the ground upward.

Fire! He must have dropped a lighted match on the old dry timber floor. He seized a big bowlful of flowers, and impulsively dashed down the water— flowers and all. But from the pool of water, and the scattered heap of blossoms, the smoke rose steadily— denser than before.

Hugh bent down, puzzled, to examine more closely the spot on the floor from which the smoke was rising. There was nothing. He could not find even a charred match among the wet flowers and leaves. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the moving spiral.

Then he knew! Every nerve in his paralyzed body, every heavy beat of his heart told him his hour was come!

Fascinated he watched the swirling, eddying smoke. Desperately he strove to stave off the cold fear that robbed him of all thought and reason. He recalled Kipling's tale of the monkey-tribe caught by their enemy, Kaa, the monstrous snake. A flashing mental picture of those helpless animals rose in his mind. The foolish chattering creatures— hypnotized by Kaa's spell— walking obedient down the very throat of the great serpent, as it weaved its sinuous body in its dance of death! Even so was he going to his fearful end!

He heard Cynthia's voice and tried to answer her. His croaking whisper did not carry, and she called again and again. With a hideous effort he pushed open the window... he was choking... gasping for air.

The smoke steadied and solidified. Two shadowy hands seemed to fold the gray vapor like a cloak about an unseen body. Color gleamed on cheek and hair and the rich folds of a robe. It was there... complete now! Beautiful as one of the Dream of Fair Women! Menacing as a creature from Dante's deepest Hell!

Hugh leaned against the window frame; the air was warm and sweet against his cold cheek. The Thing was close beside him now; it leaned against him familiarly, took his hand, stroked it with Erzebet's soft hypnotic touch.

Hugh shuddered, an ice-cold chill in his veins. In another minute he knew he would lose control. A fearful nausea made his brain reel. He was slipping... slipping away to some dark void... slipping backward faster and faster... with those cold malevolent eyes boring into his very soul! He leaned farther and farther back from the face which bent to his. He thrust his head and shoulders backward through the open window behind. Back... back he leaned.

A stab of pain, as the sharp ledge caught his spine, gave him a moment of sanity. If he fell from the window to the stone-flagged terrace beneath, he would break his neck! Was that what Erzebet was trying to do— force him to commit suicide?

He knew suddenly, in that clear lightning-flash of reason, that he must not die like that! He raised his hands and pushed— struck blindly at the evil smiling mouth— beat off the clinging hands. He was sick to the soul. The Thing was ice-cold and slimy. It seemed to dissolve... disintegrate under his blows. It spread over his hands and arms... his face... every part of him. Long shreds of the slime slithered and crawled over him... round his neck... strangling the breath out of his body.

Hugh fought wildly, clutching the moving tentacles, trying to strip them from his throat... his chin... his mouth! God! the stench of the loathsome Thing! He could not breathe— could not see even the terrible fixed stare of the unwinking eyes any more. He raised his voice in a last yell— a cry of rage and terror that was heard halfway down the long corridor outside; and the group hurrying from the stairway dashed forward with one consent.

The locked door detained the leader of the party only for a moment. He was an old man with an extraordinarily beautiful and powerful face. He bent, inserted a small instrument into the keyhole, and flung open the door.

"Stay here, if you value his life!" commanded Sir Donald Fremling, turning to those at his heels.

The valet, Cynthia, and a young clergyman stood on the threshold— no one ever dreamed of disobeying Sir Donald! They could see Hugh over by the window.

His face was distorted, ashen-white, and his eyes were mad and staring as he clawed at his throat and mouth.

vii

IT was too late when Rafe finally discovered Erzebet. He had extorted the secret of her hiding-place only after terrible scenes with the Hungarian peasant woman who was Erzebet's cook and ally. It was afternoon before he found the old deserted house on the outskirts of the city, where Erzebet had fled to carry out her revenge without interruption.

It was too late. She was already in a deep trance when Rafe forced his way into the house. He was beside himself with anxiety— he knew too little, and too much! Too little to be sure he could safely recall Erzebet! Too much not to realize that every moment of her trance was inimical to Hugh! The latter was fighting for life and sanity— a man against a devil— a human being against a thing altogether inhuman and evil!

He was torn by fear and indecision. He had the merest smattering of knowledge concerning this loathsome business of Black Magic. True, he did know how to wake Erzebet from her coma— the formula was written plainly in that hateful book.

But his superficial knowledge embraced the fact that hideous danger attended both the summoning and dismissal of an Elemental. To lend, as Erzebet was doing, the living vital essence of her personality to an Elemental Spirit, entailed the most horrible risks. Rafe was in an agony of indecision.

To leave Hugh to face a fight where the end was inevitable, defeat absolutely certain! To let Hugh be dragged down to hell without making any effort to save him! To have rescued him from the slaughter out in Flanders, only to leave him now to face a ten times more hideous death!

A dozen times he put out his hand for that which would bring Erzebet back. A dozen times he halted.

Would it be Erzebet herself that returned? Was it safe to call her back against her will? Suppose her spirit never won back to her body! Suppose that blind malevolent force she controlled slipped its leash and took control of her! It would prevent her return, steal this exquisite shell she had left empty. Dared he interfere?

Hugh or Erzebet! Erzebet or Hugh!

These two he loved seesawed everlastingly on the scales. What to do ... in the name of all the fiends, what should he decide to do? It seemed he must damn one of them.

Which... which one? Erzebet or Hugh... Hugh or Erzebet?

He groaned—looked at his watch— looked at Erzebet— put his hand to his pocket, and withdrew it empty.

What was Hugh doing? Was he counting on Rafe to help?— counting on him with the trust and confidence that lay so deep between the two men? There was a chance that he might safely bring Erzebet back. There was no chance for Hugh if he were left unaided.

Old war days flashed back to Rafe's mind. The blood and tumult and carnage of that night they had gone over the top... the crucifying agony of those moments he hung on the wire entanglement... the blessed, blessed relief of Hugh's voice, the sense of safety as Hugh's strong arms lifted him free and bore him to shelter.

There were other— many other unforgettable moments. He saw Hugh fighting single-handed, deserted, forsaken by the one man in the world who could help him. Hugh, mad, tortured, devil-ridden... and alone!

No! No! He must save him!

He drew a tiny vial of rare oil from his pocket, took out the stopper, and with trembling fingers touched Erzebet's mouth and nostrils. The room was filled with the pungent aromatic odor of the priceless unguent.

He traced the Star of Solomon on the dusty floor, and, standing on it, he sprinkled a handful of earth about his feet, with a few red embers from the charcoal brazier by Erzebet's couch; and lastly he poured out consecrated water from a flask he had brought. Then he recited the formula in a hoarse but steady voice:

"By earth, by water, by fire, by air I command thee, thou Blind Evil! By Adonai Eloim, by the demons of the heaven of Gad! Vaa Eloim! Vaa Chavajoth! Chavajoth! Chavajoth! I command thee by the Key of Solomon, and the great name Aberer Chavajoth! Vaa Eloim! Vaa Chavajoth! Chavajoth! Chavajoth! Vaa! Vaa! Vaa! Vaa!"

He waited, trembling with suspense. The hair rose on his damp forehead. Erzebet's closed eyelids fluttered... she stirred... sighed. Then the eyes opened widely— stared directly at Rafe!

He had lost! Instantly he knew he had lost! It was not Erzebet that stared from under the black brows of that marvelous face. He shuddered. Erzebet's loveliness seized and possessed by this obscene monster from the Pit! And it was he who had given her beautiful body to this devil! Ah!... never... never! It was unendurable!

Crazed with horror, remorse, and fury Rafe drew his revolver, fired again and again at the cold deadly eyes fixed on his. The glorious woman's body crumpled and fell without a sound. Rafe looked at it; he bent and smoothed the heavy hair.

"I will follow you, Erzebet!" he whispered. "I will follow you to hell!"

He put the smoking weapon to his head, and drew the trigger.

viii

EVEN AS Sir Donald reached his side, Hugh suddenly dropped his arms. The glare of madness left his eyes, and he stood looking around in a bewildered incredulous fashion. He reeled weakly against Sir Donald as the latter steadied him to a chair.

"It's gone... gone... gone!" he kept saying in a low shaken voice. With deft hands the famous old servant administered an injection to the exhausted man; and almost immediately Hugh sank back into deep sleep, his face calm and untroubled, his whole frame peacefully relaxed.

HUGH BREMNER is a happy man, happier than most. But the loss of Rafe, the price that his friend paid to set him free, is a thing that weighs heavy on his soul. Not even Cynthia knows of the longing and bitter grief that drives him out to long lonely vigils under winter skies and summer moons. That is a burden he shares with no one.

____________________

6: The Laughing Thing

Weird Tales, May 1929

"VERY WELL, Mr. Drewe! I'll sign the agreement, though no one but you would drive such a devil's bargain."

The speaker's tall, emaciated body vibrated with indignation, and his strange light eyes blazed like incandescent lamps. There was something of the brooding menace of the gray sea in the latter, and a note in his voice reminded me of the sullen mutter of the wind before a storm. A little shiver of apprehension ran through me as I turned from him to my brother-in-law, Jason Drewe.

Nothing could have been more utterly and infuriatingly complacent than the latter, who was leaning back in the most comfortable chair my office afforded, with an expensive cigar in his mouth, his big frame clad in the smartest of light tweeds, and an orchid in his buttonhole. Jason was an extremely wealthy man, young enough to enjoy his money, and with a son to inherit his millions one day.

The loss of Mavis, his wife, had been more of an annoyance than a grief to him; he felt that she had died merely to make things awkward for him— in fact, he added her death to the many grievances he treasured up against her. I knew that if there is such a thing as a broken heart; he broke my sister's, and I hated him for it. I would have cut off all intercourse with him, only that I had promised Mavis to keep an eye on the boy, and counteract his father's influence as far as possible.

Jason knew nothing of this; he believed I hung on to him for the sake of his wealth and twitted me with it quite openly, in spite of the fact that I was never indebted to him for a single dime, and would have cleaned the streets, or sold "hot dogs" rather than owe him a penny.

It seemed absurd to pity him, especially at this moment of his triumph, when he had succeeded in getting the land he wanted at the price he wanted, and was sitting there before me as pink and pleased as a prize baby after its bottle.

Eldred Werne, whom Jason had just cornered so successfully, was the one whom most people would have pitied. But I had only admiration for anyone as determined and strong of soul as Werne. Poor and desperately ill though he was, he was not an object for pity.

As junior partner in the firm of Baxter and Baxter, real estate agents, I was present to witness the signatures and conclude the deal between Werne and Jason; and I wished a thousand times that Baxter and Baxter had never had this affair entrusted to them. It was a sordid, despicable business altogether.

"I'll sign," repeated Werne, drawing his chair closer to my desk, and taking up the parchments in his thin, blue-veined hands. "The land shall be yours at your own price—for the present!"

Anger and instant suspicion showed in Jason's small, heavy lidded eyes. "What the devil do you mean?" he said. "If you sign these papers the land is mine, and there's no power on earth can make me pay more for it than the sum set down there in black and white."

"I wasn't thinking of money." Werne's voice was strangely quiet and yet so full of menace that again I felt every nerve in my body thrill to it. "I am sure you will never pay more in money."

"You're right— dead right, Werne," Jason's resonant voice echoed through the room.

"And yet— I think you will pay more in the end. Yes, in the end you will pay more, Mr. Drewe."

Jason turned to me blustering and furious. "Aren't these deeds water-tight? What does he mean ? If there is any flaw in these agreements I'll stamp you and your fool firm out of existence!"

Before I could reply, Werne began to laugh. He sat there and laughed long and dreadfully, the bright color staining his thin cheeks, his gray eyes brilliant and malicious. He laughed until the cough seized him, and he leant back at last utterly exhausted, an ominous stain on the handkerchief he pressed to his lips.

"Let me relieve your natural anxiety, Mr. Drewe," he said at last, his hoarse voice still shaken with mirth. "You will pay more, but not in money! Not in any material sense at all."

"What in the name of common sense do you mean?" growled Jason.

"There is nothing common at all in the sense of which I speak. It is very uncommon indeed! I refer to payments which have no connection with money— nothing which can be reckoned in dollars and cents."

Jason looked uncertain whether to call police protection or medical aid, and he watched Werne narrowly as the latter signed the documents. When the signatures were completed, Eldred Werne got to his feet and stood looking down at Jason— a long, strange, deep look, as if he meant to learn the other's every feature off by heart. Behind Werne's eyes once more a sudden terrifying flame of laughter danced— flickered— and was gone!

"You don't fear any payment that will not reduce your bank account, then?"

"What other payment is there?" asked Jason in genuine surprise.

"You're wonderful!" said Werne. "So complete a product of your age and kind. So logical and limited and— excuse me — so thoroughly stupid!"

Jason's fresh-colored face turned a deep purple. "If you were not a sick man—" he began.

"And one, moreover, whom you have thoroughly and satisfactorily fleeced," interpolated Werne.

"I should resent your remarks," continued Jason pompously. "As it is, I see no use in prolonging this conversation."

"Stay!" cried Werne, as Jason put on his fur coat and prepared to depart. "It's only fair to warn you that if I die out there in Denver City, I shall come back again! I shall be in a better position then, without this wretched body of mine. I shall come back— to make you pay— a more satisfactory price for my Tareytown acres."

Jason stared, standing in the doorway with one plump well-manicured hand on the door-knob, looking like a great shaggy ox in his fur coat, and with that air of stupid bewilderment on his broad face.

"Wha-a-a-at?" he stammered. Then, as the other's meaning slowly dawned on him, he leaned up against the door and showed every tooth in his head in a perfect bellow of mirth.

"Are you threatening to haunt me?" he choked, the veins on his forehead swelling dangerously. "Well, my good fellow, if it gives you any comfort to imagine that, don't let me discourage your little idea. You'll be welcome at Tareytown any old time! The Tareytown specter, eh? It'll give quite an air to the place! What kind of payment will you want— moonshine, eh?" Jason almost burst with the humor of this remark. "Moonshine and ghosts! Seems the right sort of mixture!"

With a last fatuous chuckle, Jason opened the door; and, through the window, I saw him get into his new coupé and drive off, his face still creased in enjoyment of his last sally.

"The descent of man," murmured Werne, half to himself. "There's no doubt that Jason Drewe has descended a considerable way from the apes! The fool— the blind, besotted fool!"

ii

IT WAS a perfect day in the late autumn of that same year, when, for the first time, I saw the Tareytown estate.

I dismissed my taxi at the huge stone gateway, and walked slowly up through the woods. After the hectic rush and noise of New York, the golden stillness around me was deeply satisfying; and I thought of poor Eldred Werne, who would never know the beauty and healing peace of this place again.

I had seen the notice of his death in Denver City, only a month after he had signed away his rights to these lovely Tareytown woods, and I had thought very often since of the lonely bitterness which must have clouded his last days.

Glimpses of the blue, shining Hudson shone between the trees, and beyond, the flaming russet of the Palisades. On all sides the country stretched out to dim, misty horizons for which Werne's dying eyes must have longed in his exile.

Then, quite suddenly, a chill passed over me. I became aware of the ominous and unusual stillness of the brooding woods. Neither bird nor squirrel darted to and fro among the leaves and branches— not even a fly buzzed about in the hazy sunshine.

I looked around in gathering apprehension. What was it that began to oppress me more and more ? Why did the tall trees seem to be listening?—why did I have the impulse to look over my shoulder?— why did my heart thump and my hands chill suddenly?

With a great effort I restrained myself from breaking into a run, as I continued upward toward the house.

The path doubled back on itself across and across the shoulder of the hill on which the house, Red Gables, was built; and it was fully ten minutes before I arrived breathless in sight of its red roof and high old-fashioned chimney-stack.

In a corner of its wide porch, I caught a glimpse of a boy's figure and let out a loud halloo, glad of an excuse to break the queer, unnatural silence. There was an answering hail, and my nephew, Tony, came running down the path to meet me.

"Hello, Uncle John! I was waiting for you! Did you walk up through the woods—alone?"

The boy's voice held an awed note, which was emphasized by the look of fear in his dark eyes. He was only eight years old, and exactly like his mother. Thank heaven, there was no trace of Jason's complacent materialism in his son... mind and body, Tony was an utterly different type.

I loved the boy, and a real friendship had developed between us, despite the disparity of our years. He was curiously sensitive and mature for his age, and it was a great thing for a bachelor like myself to have a child make a little tin god of me, as Tony did.

"And why not walk alone through the woods?" I demanded, looking down at him as he rubbed his head against my arm like some friendly colt.

"I wouldn't," he replied simply.

"Why not, old man? There aren't any wolves or bears or even Indians left here, are there?"

"Don't laugh, Uncle." The boy's voice sank to a whisper. "There isn't time to tell you now, but there's something in those woods. Something you can't see—that—that is waiting!"

I stared at the boy, and once again the cold chill I had experienced during my walk up to the house crept over me.

"Look here, Tony," I began. "You mustn't get—"

"There is—there is, I tell you!" He was passionately in earnest. "Something that laughs—something that is waiting!"

"Laughs— waiting!" I echoed feebly.

"You'll hear it yourself," he answered. "Then you'll know. Father won't let me speak about it to him, and says if I'd play games instead of reading books, I'd only hear and see half what I do now."

"About as much as he hears and sees," I murmured to myself.

"I am sure Father hears it too, only he won't say so," continued Tony. "But I've noticed one thing— he won't let anyone knock at the doors. The servants even go into his study without knocking, and he was always so— so—"

"Exactly!" I said dryly; "I understand."

The small hand in mine gave a little warning pressure, and I saw Jason Drewe's big frame and massive head loom up in the comparative dimness of the interior, as Tony and I reached the entrance door of Red Gables.

"Well, John!" boomed my host, as he rose from the depths of a vast chair and came forward, cigar in hand. "Made your fortune yet?"

It was the form of greeting he invariably gave me; for he was that irritating type of man who uses a limited number of favorite witticisms and sticks to them persistently, in season and out of season.

Today, however, his complacent heartiness was obviously an effort to him, and I was quite startled by the change in his appearance. He seemed conscious of it himself, but there was a certain bravado in the sunken eyes he turned on me, which defied me to remark on his ill looks.

I was certainly shocked to notice how much thinner he was, how gray his skin, and how hunted and restless were his eyes, as he kept glancing from side to side with a quick upward jerk of his big head, as though he were listening for some expected and unwelcome summons. He motioned me to a chair and poured out drinks with a fumbling sort of touch, which further indicated the change in him since I last saw him in the office of Baxter and Baxter.

Tony curled up at my side on the arm of my easy-chair, as quiet as a dormouse, taking no part in the conversation, but his precocious intelligence enabled him to follow the drift of it; that I could swear to. He annoyed his father, this silent observant child, and in the middle of a discussion Jason turned irritably to the boy.

"Why don't you go off and amuse yourself out of doors like any other boy of your age? You sit round the house like a little lap-dog and waste your time with books— always mooning about like someone in a dream! Just like your mother—just like her," he finished in an exasperated mutter.

When we were alone, Jason turned to me with a frown. "More like a girl than a boy!" he commented bitterly. "About as much pep as a soft drink! What's the use of building up a business and making a future for him, when he'll let it all slip through his fingers later on?"

He went on talking rather loudly and quickly on the subject, with no help at all from me, and it struck me he was talking in order to defeat his own clamorous unpleasant thoughts; working himself up into a pretense of anger to make the blood run more hot and swift in his veins.

As far as he was able, within the limited scope of his primitive nature, Jason loved the boy, and every hope and ambition he cherished was centered round Tony, and Tony's future.

I just let him run on. and speculated with increasing bewilderment on the cause of my brother-in-law's obvious uneasiness of soul. It must be something tremendous to have shaken his colossal egotism, I argued to myself, and moreover it was something he was desperately anxious to hide— some unacknowledged fear which had pricked and wounded him deep beneath his tough skin.

"I'm not satisfied with that school of his— not at all satisfied! " he went on. "I ask you now, what's the use of filling a kid's head with all that imaginary stuff when he's got to live in a world of Jews and politicians and grafters? How's he going to grind his own when his darned school has exchanged it for a silver butter knife? How's he going—"

He broke off with a queer strangled groan as a sudden clamorous knocking sounded—a loud tattoo like the sound of war-drums through the quiet house. The big sunshiny room darkened suddenly and a puff of wind from an open window at my side breathed an icy chill on my cheek.

The horror I had recently experienced in the woods swept over me again, and I saw Jason's face set in a mask of fear and loathing. Silence held us bound for a perceptible moment, and in the quiet a loud, echoing laugh rang out.

It sounded as though someone were standing just outside the house, and I had a vivid mental image of a figure convulsed and rocking with mirth. But this figure of my imagination did not move me to laughter myself, although as a rule nothing is more contagious than laughter— but not this— not this hateful mirth!

I dashed to the window and looked out; then, making for the door in blind haste, I stumbled out on the porch and ran round the house in a queer frenzy of desire to learn who —or what— had stood there laughing... laughing... laughing.

I only caught a glimpse of frightened faces in the servants' quarters at the back of the house as I dashed past, and saw windows and doors being hastily slammed.

When I got back to the living room again Jason was gone, and I sat down breathless, and shaken to the very soul. I had stumbled on to the secret— or part of it— with a vengeance; and I sat with my unlit pipe in my mouth for the better part of an hour, until the first overwhelming horror of the episode had faded a little.

Jason came in just as I was thinking of going up to my room to change for dinner, and any idea I might have entertained of asking him for explanations was foiled by the extraordinary change in him.

He was his old self again. Large, pink, and prosperous, he breezed into the room and stood with his hands in his pockets, grinning down at me from his massive six feet odd. If there was something defiant in the gleam of his blue eye, if his voice was harsh and his grin a trifle too wide, it needed someone who knew him as well as I did to detect it. I never liked or admired him as much as I did at that moment; and the determination came to me, to stand by him in this trouble of his, to stay and fight it out. and give what help I could to him and the boy.

I am not a superstitious man, nor counted credulous by my friends or enemies. But here was something inexplicably evil which brooded over the lonely woods of Tareytown like some dark-winged genie.

I went slowly and thoughtfully up to my room, my mind heavy with doubt and perplexity, and as the night wore on and darkness closed in about the house, so did my mind grow darker and more fearful.

iii

"WELL, SOAMES! Rather a change from your roof-garden in New York— eh? How do you like it here ?"

The old gardener folded his gnarled hands one over the other on the handle of his spade, and shook his head slowly from side to side.

"It was an unlucky day for the master when he came to Tareytown, sir— an unlucky day!"

"How's that? Won't your plants grow for you?"

"You know, sir! I see by your face that you know already!"

"I must confess there's something a bit depressing about the place," I answered. "It's just the time of year, no doubt. There's always something melancholy about the fall."

"There's nothing wrong about the time of year," said the old man. He leaned forward and his voice sank to a whisper. "Haven't you heard it yet?"

I gave an involuntary start, and he pursed up his mouth and nodded.

"Aye, I see you have!" He came closer and peered up at me, his brown face with its faded blue eyes a network of anxious wrinkles. "Sir, if you can help the master, for God's sake do it! He's a rare hard one, I know, but I've served him for thirty-five years, and I don't want to see no harm come to him. He won't own up that he hears anything amiss, nor go away from this accursed place with the boy, before any harm comes to either of them. He's that angry because he don't understand— won't understand there's something more flesh and blood can hurt us sometimes!"

The old man's words came out in a flood, the result of long-suppressed anxiety, and I marveled that a man of Jason Drewe's type should command such solicitude from anyone.

"I'm all in the dark, Soames," I said slowly. "Who is it that knocks— that laughs?"

The gardener's eyes grew very somber. "No mortal man—no mortal man, sir."

"Why, Soames, you're as superstitious as they make them," I said, trying to make light of his words.

"See here, sir," he said, pulling me by the sleeve into the deeper shade of the shrubbery behind us. "I'll tell you what I've never spoken a word of yet. I'll tell you what I overheard one night when this—this thing first came here. I was pottering about late one evening, tying up bits of creeper against the wall outside the master's study. I heard the knock— loud and long as if the emperor of the world was a-knocking at the door, and I looks up to see who was there. The door was only three or four feet from where I was standing with bass and scissors in my hand. And there was no one at all on the steps nor anywhere near the house. While I was a-staring and wondering I heard the laugh! My blood went cold, and I just stood there shaking like a poplar tree in a wind. And since then, night after night, that knock and that laugh comes as regular as the sun sets!"

I stared at my companion in incredulous horror.

"And one time," he continued, "I heard the master call out. Terrible loud and fierce his voice was: 'Have you come for your moonshine, Eldred Werne— take it!' And with that, a bottle of whisky comes hurtling through the window and fell almost at my feet. I felt a wind blow across my face same as if it blew right off an iceberg; and as I stood there afraid to move hand or foot, I heard the laugh way down among the trees, getting fainter and fainter just as if someone was walking away down the path— and laughing and laughing to himself all the time!"

I listened aghast to the old man, and a vivid picture arose in my mind of Eldred Werne as I last saw him in life— the tall, emaciated figure, the arresting face with its beautifully chiseled features, and above all the strange gray eyes as they had dwelt in that last deep look on Jason, the burning mocking fire which lit them and the fathomless contempt of the strong mouth."

"You will pay— you will pay!"

The words rang in my ears as if Werne were standing at my side speaking them at that very moment. I sat down abruptly on a fallen tree, and lit a cigarette with unsteady fingers.

"Now look here, Soames," I said at last. "We mustn't let this thing get us seared out of all common sense and reason. I admit it's a beastly unpleasant business, but I can't— I won't believe yet that there is no natural explanation of these things. Someone who owes him a grudge may be putting one over on Mr. Drewe. It may be a deliberate plot to annoy and frighten him. There was a— er— well, a misunderstanding between your master and Mr. Werne over the purchase of this Tareytown estate, and Mr. Werne was quite capable of planning a neat little revenge to square his account a little. He was a very sick man, remember— and sick men are apt to be vindictive and unreasonable."

"I guessed as something had happened between the two," murmured Soames, "but I didn't rightly know what it was."

"You and I will watch the house from now on," I said. "We'll arrange to be outside, one or other or both of us, directly after sunset. And if—if we see nothing, if we find no one there—"

"Aye—you won't, sir!"

"Then I shall do my best to persuade Mr. Drewe to leave this place and return to the city."

"And that you'll never do. He'll never give in and go away, not if it means his death. The master is terrible obstinate, and he fair blazed up when I kind of suggested he wasn't looking just himself, and that maybe Tareytown didn't agree with him.'

And remembering Jason's defiant eyes and the bluff he put up last evening for my benefit, I was inclined to agree with Soames.

"I'll do what I can," I said, getting up and brushing off twigs and leaves.

"I'm thankful to know you're here, sir. There was no one I dared say a word to until you came. The servants are in mortal terror, and never a week passes without one or more of them leaving. Soon we won't be able to get anyone to stay a night in the place!"

"If your master could be persuaded to send the boy away for the rest of his vacation—"

"He won't do that," was the lugubrious reply. " That would be sort of owning up that there was something here he was afraid of! He'll never admit that— never!"

iv

OUR FIRST vigil took place that night. The boy was safe indoors— he never went over the threshold of the house after dusk fell, I noticed. Jason had established himself with his favorite drink, a stack of newspapers, and a box of cigars, in his library. I left him looking as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar— and as gray!

Soames and I planted ourselves in strategic positions on either side of the porch, where we could see both the big entrance door, and the whole of the front porch which ran in front of the library, dining-room, and sun-parlor. A pale moon sailed serenely overhead, and I felt a passionate longing to be as far away from this evil-haunted little piece of earth as was the moon itself.

Revolt which was almost nausea seized me, as I looked around at the shadowy woods, and felt the unnamable creeping horror which waited there. Slow minutes passed.

The shadows grew denser, and the silence so profounder, that the falling leaves rattled like metal things on the dry ground, and the creak of the great trees made my heart thump furiously against my ribs. I could see Soames' small tense figure bent forward in a listening attitude, his face turned toward the entrance door. He looked like a terrier-dog straining eagerly on a leash.

My eyes roved restlessly to and fro, and fell at last on the long, uncut grass which grew about the tree trunks.

Quite suddenly I saw the reeds and grasses bend and quiver as if before a strong wind. In a long thin line they bent— a line advancing rapidly from the blackness of the trees out toward the open— toward the house— toward the entrance porch, with its broad steps gleaming silver in the moonlight.

My hand flew to my throat to stifle the cry that rose as I saw that sinister trail being blazed before my eyes. It advanced to the extreme edge of the tall grasses in a direct line with the entrance-door.

A moment of unendurable suspense— an agony of terrified expectant waiting!

Then it came— loud— thunderous— awful as the stroke of doom!

The knocker had been removed from the door, and on the bare wood itself beat that devil's tattoo. I was paralyzed with the shock and thunder of it, and only when I saw Soames stumbling forward, and heard his hoarse cry, did I move— stiff and uncertainly as a man might move after a long illness.

We clutched each other like two terrified children when we arrived at the foot of the steps, and I felt Soames's body shaking against my own.

Then, abruptly, the infernal racket ceased; and in the momentary silence which ensued, a laugh broke out that sent our trembling hands over our ears, but we could not shut out the sound of that demoniac laughter.

Uncontrolled and triumphant it rang out again and again, and the vision of someone rocking with mirth rose as before in my imagination. But nothing was there on the porch in the moonlight! The whole porch was visible in the clear white light. No one, no thing, could have escaped our staring, straining eyes. There was no one there, and yet almost within touch of our out-stretched hands some invisible, intangible Thing stood laughing— laughing— laughing....

v

AFTER THAT night the horror fell more and more darkly. Soames, who was out all day working in the gardens and shrubberies, noticed increasingly sinister signs that our invisible enemy was marshaling his forces, and closing in on the last stages of the siege.

More and more frequently the old man would see the grasses bending and swaying around him in loops and circles, as though the laughing Thing moved to and fro in the mazes of some infernal dance.

Often Soames felt the chill of the Thing's passing, and noted the shriveled, blighted foliage which marked its trail.

The woods grew darker with every passing day, despite the thinning of the leaves. The autumn mists which lay so white and cloudlike in the valleys of the surrounding country, drifted in among the trees on the Tareytown estate like gray, choking smoke, dank and rotten with the breath of decay, shutting out the sunlit earth beyond, and the clear skies above, rolling up around the house with infinite menace and gloom.

Louder and more clamorous grew the nightly summons, and the laughter which followed echoed and re-echoed about the house throughout the night, sounding at our very windows, then growing faint and ominous from the depths of the brooding woods.

vi

AT LAST, the boy's terror precipitated a crisis. Jason, who had brought this cursed thing upon himself, it seemed, refused to acknowledge that he had been wrong, to make any amends which lay within his power, or even to move from the place which Eldred Werne had loved so passionately in the flesh, and haunted so persistently in die spirit.

Jason's courage, though I admired it in one way, was not of the highest order. I mean that his conduct was guided by no reason, but only by blind impulse. I tackled him more than once about Tony, and only succeeded in rousing furious opposition.

"What the devil are you driving at?'' he roared at me.

"This is my house, isn't it? These are my woods and my lands. I paid for them according to my bond. No one is going to drive me out—no one, d'you hear?—neither man nor devil!"

"But Tony!" I protested. "You ought to consider him. He hears the servants talking. He hears whatever it is that comes knocking at your door, Jason—you know best what it is! The boy is almost beside himself with fear. Can't you see he is desperate? He doesn't eat or sleep properly. D'you want to kill him as you did his mother?" I added bitterly, remembrance of my sister's lonely, unhappy life with Jason goading me to speech. But Jason was always impervious to anything he wished to ignore, and he brushed aside my last words and returned to Tony.

"The boy has got to learn— he's got to learn, I say! If this house is good enough for me, then it's good enough for him, too. Tony'll stay here with me to the end of his vacation. If I give in about this thing, it will be the thin end of the wedge. He'll expect me to indulge every girl's fad and fancy he has— and the Lord knows he's full of them! Here I stay, and here he stays, and that's all about it. Why on earth do you stay yourself, feeling as you do?" he added roughly. "If you're afraid, I'll excuse you the rest of your visit."

I didn't trouble to deny the fact that I was afraid, and went off cursing myself for interfering, and probably making Tony's relations with his father even more difficult.

vii

THAT EVENING Jason seemed absolutely possessed. Whether he had been drinking heavily, or whether his endurance had reached the breaking point suddenly in the long, silent combat of wills with his invisible enemy, or whether the blind gray figure of Fate had written the last chapter, and he had no choice but to obey, I do not know.

Everything that happened that last fatal night seemed obscured and fogged with the waves of terror and desolation that swept over the house and the surrounding woods. From early morning the attack on us strengthened perceptibly. Every hour I felt we were fighting a losing battle, and I had no comfort for Soames when he sought me out, and led me off to the potting-sheds after a pretense of breakfasting.

Tony had remained in bed, to his father's unbounded disgust. The boy had spent a sleepless night and I had given him a bromide and persuaded him to stay in his room to rest.

"Making a mollycoddle of him!" growled Jason, his eyes light and dangerous as a wild boar's above his flabby, sallow cheeks. He put down his cup with a rattle on the saucer, and scraping his chair noisily on the polished flooring, he rose and strode heavily out of the room, and I heard the stairs creak under his weight as he went up to the boy. Throughout the day, his evil mood grew on him, and Tony could do nothing right.

"Mark my words, sir," Soames had said to me as we stood in the potting-sheds that morning. "I've a feeling we've about come to the end! That Laughing Devil will knock for the last time tonight— for the last time! Mark my words!"

And as the day wore on I felt more and more assured that Soames was right.

Every hour the sense of imminent and immense danger grew heavier, and every hour Tony grew more and more nervous and Jason more brutally obstinate; for the sight of the boy's terror goaded his father into senseless anger.

The sun set that night in a bank of heavy dull cloud, which spread and darkened until thick impenetrable dusk closed about us. With the coming of twilight we waited in fearful anticipation of our usual visitation; but dusk deepened to night and no summons sounded at the door, no mocking horror of laughter was heard at all. Yet this silence brought no feeling of reprieve. Rather our expectancy grew more and more tense, and Tony sat by the fire with cold shaking hands thrust deep into his pockets, and tried to prevent his father noticing the ague of fear which shook his thin little body.

Jason did not send him to bed at his usual time— we all sat there waiting— just waiting! The big logs smoldered dully and reluctantly on the hearthstone. Jason's face was a gray mask; his thick lips sneered; his eyes gleamed between their puffy lids. He was like a cornered animal of some primeval age— a great inert mass of flesh slumped down in his big chair by the dying fire.

Nine— ten— eleven! The torturing hours crept on and still we sat there like people under a spell, just waiting —waiting! With the deep midnight chime of the clock in the library, the spell was broken with a hideous clamor that made Tony leap up with the shriek of a wild thing caught in a trap.

Jason got to his feet in one surprising movement, and stood with feet apart and lowered head, as if about to do battle. I sat clutching the arms of my chair, held by a blind terror that was like steel chains about me.

It was the Laughing Thing at last!

Long and furiously the knock resounded, sinking to a low mutter and rising to a crescendo of blows that threatened to batter down the heavy door. And over and above the thunderous blows rose the high mocking laughter— triumphant, cruel, satisfied laughter!

I blame myself— I shall always blame myself for what happened then. I might have held the boy back— guarded him more closely when he was too frenzied with fear to guard himself. But I did not dream what he was about until it was too late! When he ran from the shelter of my arms, I thought he meant to seek an¬ other refuge! But no— the boy was crazed beyond all reason and control, and ran desperately to the very horror which had driven him mad.

I heard his quick, light steps along the hall, and I thought he was making for the staircase, not the door—my God, not the door! There was the quick rattle of a heavy chain, the groan of a bolt withdrawn— then a long, wailing shriek of terror! With one accord Jason and I dashed out into the hall— Soames came rushing from the kitchen-quarters— and there stood the door flung wide, and from the porch without came a long exultant peal of laughter.

We flung ourselves forward and out into the night. In the distance among the trees we heard the dying echoes of that infernal laughter— then nothing more.

viii

UNTIL DAWN we searched the woods of Tareytown, and as the first gray glimmer of light broke in the east we found him.

Have you ever seen anyone dead of a sudden violent poison— such as prussic acid— with teeth showing in a terrible grin— the muscles of the face stiffened in inhuman laughter? It is the most dreadful of all masks which death can fix on human lineaments.

So we found Tony! His eyes— awful contrast to his grinning mouth— mirrored a terror too profound for any words to convey. Eyes which had looked on the unnamable— the unthinkable; spawn of that outermost darkness which no human sight may endure.

That night was the end of my youth and happiness. Jason packed up and went for a prolonged tour of Europe with his fears and his memories, and I have never seen him since.

For myself, I live, and will always live, on the Tareytown estate, where perhaps Tony's spirit may wander lost and lonely, still possessed by that evil which caught him in its net.

I must remain at Red Gables, and perhaps here or hereafter I may atone for the selfish fear which made me fail Tony in that desperate crisis. Somewhere—somehow, beyond the curtain of this life, I may meet the Thing which laughed— the evil, bitter Thing which once was Eldred Werne— the Thing which may still possess the boy and hold him earthbound and accurst. I failed Tony once, but I will not do so a second time. I will offer my own soul to set him free— and perhaps the high gods will hear me and accept the sacrifice.

_______________________

7: The Power of the Dog

Weird Tales, Aug 1927

"GREETING, effendi! I salute you in the name of Allah the Compassionate!"

Benson reined in his horse, as the Arab on the dusty brown camel approached.

"You have no news?" he replied.

"None," said Abou Koi. "It is true that an Englishman was at the oasis of Wad Eles; we found him there with many servants— digging foolishly in the sand! But it was not thy Englishman."

The manager of the El Adrar mine frowned thoughtfully, staring out across the broad yellow plain. Up to the present, he had ruled his little community of natives and white men with marked success. He was straightforward in his methods, and although he had little sympathy with the subtle, devious ways of the Arabs— he was never unjust. He listened to them, often laughed at them, and gave them more rein than a weaker man would have thought wise.

Now, for the first time in his seven years of experience at El Adrar, he was faced with a problem which he could not solve. It was a month now since his head clerk, Stephen Adams, had vanished so unaccountably. It was a mystery— and above all things, Benson loathed a mystery!

"You are sure you have made no mistake?— you would recognize Adams effendi if you saw him?"

Benson's gaze returned to the dark, sun-ravaged face of the old Arab.

"Hath Allah afflicted me with blindness, that I should not know him? What man could mistake his face— with one eye as blue as the lake of Kef-el-dour itself, and the other black as Eblis!"

"No— you could hardly fail to recognize him," admitted Benson. "Let us return to El Adrar now— I must see if the Bougie police have sent in their report yet."

As they approached El Adrar— with its handful of flat-roofed houses, and its native huts clinging like birds' nests to the rocky coast— Benson saw that an unusual crowd was gathered in the tiny market-square, and he rode up to ascertain the cause.

"It is Daouad!" Abou Koi informed him in an awed whisper.

Benson checked an angry exclamation. At every turn he came up against this name! Daouad the Wearer of the Veil, the worker of spells, the man whom Adams had named "dog" in a moment of provocation, and who had now avenged that insult in secret and terrible fashion, so the villagers said. Always this everlasting Daouad!

Benson was sick of the very sound of his name. There was not a shred of evidence to prove that Daouad had anything to do with Adams' disappearance; on the contrary there was indisputable proof that he had not; and yet the whispered rumors grew, and grew.

On horseback, Benson could see over the heads of the jostling, excited crowd. In their midst stood the veiled figure of Daouad, from whom the people shrank in awe, leaving a wide ring about him. He held a long whip in his hand, and its wicked lash flicked out continually, like a snake's tongue, to urge on a wretched yellow dog rolling in the dust before him.

The animal was being unmercifully punished by a vicious black-and-white mongrel, and its tawny coat was red with blood. The end was a matter of minutes now, for the black-and-white had a firm grip on the other's throat, and the yellow dog's struggles had almost ceased.

Benson slipped down from his horse, and was about to push his way through the crowd, when he felt a hand on his sleeve. He turned to find Abou Koi at his elbow, speaking low and urgently.

"It is an evil thing to come between Daouad and his pleasure! He will do thee some ill!"

Benson was accustomed to the unthinking cruelty of the Arabs, and, up to a point, found it politic not to interfere; but an impulse stronger than himself now urged him to rescue the yellow dog from its fate. He shook off the restraining hand and elbowed the natives aside, and in another minute stood with a revolver smoking in his hand, while the black-and-white mongrel rolled over with a bullet in its brain.

Daouad and the Englishman faced each other over its dead body, while the yellow dog panted for breath.

The Arab laughed scornfully: "The effendi is merciful! May he obtain mercy when his hour comes!"

There was a threat in his insolent words, and a murmur of fear ran round the ring of spectators.

Benson was stung to most unwonted fury. "You're making a nuisance of yourself, Daouad! I won't have you here in El Adrar frightening the women and children with your tales of devils and witchcraft! If I were a superstitious man, you would be in prison now for putting your spells on Adams effendi— but I won't flatter you by taking you so seriously. Let me hear no more of this foolishness!"

Without waiting for more, Benson turned on his heel, and beckoned to Abou Koi, who stood back with eyes full of fear.

"Bring the yellow dog to my stables," Benson ordered, and mounting his horse again, he rode through the village to his big white house by the sea.

Half an hour later Abou Koi presented himself before the veranda where Benson lounged with a long drink at his elbow.

"Is the dog in my stables?" asked the latter.

"No, effendi! Daouad the Chief hath taken the animal to his own dwelling."

"What! ' ejaculated Benson, his recent anger returning in a hot wave.

"Master, I was afraid," replied the other simply. "Thou, with the magic of a white man, canst withstand Daouad and the devil that dwelleth in him, but with me it is not so."

"Then I must go myself and get the dog," replied Benson, after a long pause. Abou Koi shrank back, holding his hand before his face, and wailed.

"Thou too— thou too wilt vanish as did Adams effendi! Daouad will—"

"I tell you Daouad had nothing whatever to do with Adams effendi!" interrupted Benson impatiently. "That, I have proved. Daouad was up in the hills at Beni Gaza that day. And it was here, in this village, that Adams effendi vanished. He was seen approaching the village by the bridge, and walking along the road where it lies in the shadow of the eucalyptus trees!"

"Yea!" answered Abou Koi. "And beyond those trees doth Daouad dwell!"

"But Daouad was not there that day— and I had the house and gardens searched before he returned from Beni Gaza."

"Daouad was there that day," returned Abou Koi solemnly. "What if he was seen at Beni Gaza in that hour! Hath he not power to clothe a devil like to himself— and appear thus where he will?"

"Then I suppose you believe that both Daouad and Adams effendi were in the house when I searched it?"

"Master, I do believe it. They were there, but Daouad caused your eyes to be blind, that you might not see!"

"That is damned nonsense!" said Benson, striding across the veranda.

IT was more than a question of rescuing a miserable yellow cur, reflected Benson, as he walked up the village street— where swift blue dusk fell softly, lit by braziers of glowing charcoal and the firefly gleam of the smokers' pipes. Yes— it was a challenge to Daouad! The man had defied him by keeping the dog, and Benson intended to humble this insolent chief in the eyes of the credulous villagers.

As he neared Daouad's dwelling, and was about to enter the belt of dense shadow thrown by the trees across the dusty road, a long-drawn howling rose and fell, with an indescribably mournful cadence. Benson was surprised at the stab of fear he felt, and squared his shoulders impatiently.

"It's infectious—this talk of ghosts and devils," he murmured. "I'll be as foolish as any ignorant beggar in El Adrar soon!"

Again that wailing inhuman sound — and the eucalyptus trees rustled trembling leaves in warning, as it died away. Then as Benson looked ahead, he tasted fear again, so sharp and poignant that his joints seemed turned to water. A few yards away, on the little bridge beyond the trees, stood the tall veiled figure of Daouad— apparently risen from the ground!

The Englishman rallied all his common sense to his aid.

"He's been expecting me, of course," he thought, "and he's going to try a few of his conjuring tricks."

Deliberately he took out a cigarette, and lit it with steady hands. "Well, Daouad!" he said to the motionless figure. "I've come for that dog."

"The dog is my dog," came the deep answering voice.

"You can dispute that, if you like, before the magistrate next week. You don't know how to treat an animal, and I claim it. If you don't hand it over at once, I'll have you arrested!"

"Thou, too, art afraid then!"

"Not of an Arab dog!"

"Dog! That word again to me!"

The veiled figure approached, and Benson caught the glitter of the dark eyes, between hood and littrem*. "Look, white man! Look and see the power of the dog!"

_________

* Blue veil worn over nose and mouth

Benson felt a swift wind fan his face, and his eyes smarted as though staring at the midday sun. The aromatic gloom of the eucalyptus trees vanished, and in its place he saw a vast stretch of gray desert, from whose sandy floor heat rose in visible waves, to meet the white glare of the sky above. Across the desert a dark moving mass of horsemen passed with tossing spears. A great army— and at their head, the proudest and most kingly of all that splendid tribe— rode Daouad the Chief!

"The servants of the dog!" A voice sounded faintly in Benson's ear. The desert darkened swiftly, and under a red moon Benson saw a world of tents and the gleam of campfires— stretching over the sands to far-distant boundaries. But his horror-stricken gaze was focused on something in the foreground of the picture. Something hardly human, that crawled blind and writhing in the shifting sands, while Daouad spurned it with sandaled foot and urged his slaves to further torture.

As Benson stared spellbound, the chief snatched a flaming brand from a brazier at his side, and beckoned with imperious hand. Powerless to resist, Benson stumbled forward until he was face to face with Daouad's victim. From its twisted, blackened features, two eyes met his— the eyes of one in hell— but unmistakable to Benson!

For one was blue as the Lake of Kef-el-dour and the other black as Eblis!

Daouad laughed insolently as he saw that Benson understood— then, with a fierce gesture, thrust the blazing brand into his victim's face. Again that fiery wind fanned Benson's face; he saw the desert no longer— but only the little bridge, and the silver trunks of the eucalyptus trees, and the tall veiled figure of Daouad blotting out the moonlight before him.

He drew a deep breath, shaken to the very soul by that sudden opening of the gates of hell, yet he stood his ground stubbornly.

"Try again, Daouad!" he said, steadying his voice by an immense effort of will. "A very neat trick, I admit, but—"

"Yet you feared greatly, white man!" said the chief, pointing to the other's hands.

Benson involuntarily glanced down, and saw the palms of them marked deep with the indents of his own fingernails. He bit his lip at the betrayal— but his eyes were steady as he confronted Daouad.

"I admit that you took me by surprise," he answered lightly. "However, as it is only a conjuring trick—"

Daouad smiled evilly. "It was a true vision you beheld. Did he not call me dog?"

"If I believed that," replied Benson, his words stumbling and indistinct, because of a sudden dryness of his mouth, "you should be hanged before dawn breaks, for the dog you are!"

The Arab's eyes blazed, and he lifted one hand in a threatening gesture. Benson drew his revolver and covered him instantly.

"Enough of this fooling!" he snapped. "I want that yellow dog— and at once!"

Daouad came a few paces nearer.

"Shoot, white man! Try your magic against mine!" was the insolent reply. In a white heat of rage, Benson drew the trigger, and— nothing happened.

"By Eblis!" mocked the Arab. "Said I not thou wert afraid? So lost in fear and wonder of my magic, that I have drawn thy sting without thy knowledge." Benson could not repress a gasp. It was true— the devil had indeed removed his cartridges, while he himself had stood, fuddled and afraid, like any ignorant native.

"Your trick!" he said quietly, his strong face set in its grimmest lines, "You are a clever rogue— too clever altogether for El Adrar! And now that you have done your little turn, and satisfied yourself that you can impose on a white man— we may consider the show is ended."

"For you— yes! The show is ended!"

Benson controlled a shiver.

There was a sinister ring he did not like in Daouad's slow words.

"You shall learn the power of the dog," went on the Arab. "You shall learn— as did that other one!"

With a sudden movement Benson flung himself forward on that tall veiled figure— but he clutched the empty air and fell, choking and gasping, his eyes and mouth full of hot sand.

Utterly bewildered, he got to his knees, to find himself once more under that low-hung moon in the wilderness, among the tents and campfires of Daouad the Chief. And then naked terror seized him. For again Daouad stood before the great brazier— his torturers in a ring about him— and within that circle of evil grinning faces he himself was hemmed.

"Deliver my soul from the power of the dog!"

The words beat like a tattoo in Benson's brain. He knew now, too late to save himself, that such power was real— a blasting, devastating power that could destroy him, body and soul.

The chief pointed to him, and Benson strove desperately that he might not grovel before his enemy. A pock-marked Arab tore the Englishman's coat from his back with slavering eagerness, and cruel fingers were at the collar of his shirt, when a swift, lean shape darted across the ring, and sprang at Daouad's throat.

"The yellow dog!" burst from Benson's dry lips, as he heard a choking, terrible cry, and the vast floor of the desert seemed to rise up around him....

Then he saw clearly again he was under the eucalyptus trees once more, his coat flung on the ground beside him, his shirt tom open at the throat; and before him, on the bridge, in the white moonlight, Daouad strove to fling off that savage, tawny shape hanging at his throat!

Inch by inch the Arab staggered back until he reeled against the light handrail of the bridge. It bent and broke with a report which rang out like a pistol shot, and man and dog fell into the deep water below.

Benson dragged himself forward, and peered down. He saw the two locked together, sink and rise, and sink again. Then, after a long interval, both rose once more to the surface, and began to float slowly down the stream. He watched and saw how they drifted apart at last— Daouad was carried on in midstream, while the dog was drawn into the shallows and lay washing gently to and fro among the long reeds by the bank.

A quick impulse stirred Benson. He must at least give the animal a decent burial— not leave it like a drowned rat there in the water! Had it not been for the yellow dog—!

He shivered, and ran quickly down to the river's brink and drew the dog to land. The dead body was wet and heavy, and Benson staggered as he carried it up to the road. He put out a hand to shut its eyes— those staring glassy eyes! But he did not shut them— his hand fell to his side, and violent, nauseating horror, too great for brain and body to bear, overwhelmed him; and he pitched forward on his face in the road.

One eye of the yellow dog was blue as the lake of Kef-el-dour, the other black as Eblis.

____________________

8: The Lord of the Tarn

[Miles Warriner to his godfather, Sir Donald Fremling.]

The Green Palace Cinema, Liverpool, Sept. 30.

DEAR PATER:—

It's tremendously decent of you to offer to go up to Cumberland and see Coral yourself. This cellist, Torkel Yarl, who drifted into the Hydro after I left, sounds a dangerous sort of bounder, and I'm not only jealous but really afraid for Coral. It's so foreign to her nature to make sudden friendships with anyone— she's as shy as a blue-jay— and that's why this violent intimacy alarms me. She is wrought up to a fever-pitch of excitement over Yarl and his music, and seems to spend the whole day working with him. Our orchestra broke up when the summer season was over at Brackenfells Hydro, but both Coral and myself are booked for the Xmas season there. I took a temporary job of playing first violin at this cinema because the pay was so tempting, and means marrying Coral six months earlier. She stayed on at Brackenfells at a nominal salary to entertain any stray visitors that might drift in, and to rest before the Xmas rush begins ... They're tuning up, and the big drum I am using as a table is wanted. So am I. Do go as soon as possible. Your very worried Miles.

[Coral Deane to Miles Warriner]

Brackenfells Hydro, Oct, 7.

DEAR MILES:—

What soul-searching questions you ask! I can't answer them now because I have so much to tell you about the music I have been doing.. Torkel Yarl is marvelous! Even the great Casals seems to fade into a mere amateur beside him! It's not only his playing— he improvises superbly, too; it quite frightens me sometimes, for I can't understand how any man can do what he does! He plays from memory everything you and I have ever done. Not only cello solos, but arrangements of big orchestral things as well. The Lalo Concerto, Boellmann's Variations, Saint-Saens' Allegro and Chopin's Polonaise in C are a few examples of his repertory! Do you remember the Mendelssohn Fugue in E flat for strings? He produced a piano part for me in script and he does the rest! Don't ask me how—it is quite beyond me! His genius is so great that it is almost terrible. Particularly in his own compositions. They are more like the wildest sort of Slav music than anything else I have heard, but far more barbaric! I always dread playing his own works, though I don't know why I do! Torkel says I have a certain amount of genius, but am too sentimental to use it properly. I was furious when he said this, but he only laughed, and then took up his bow and played so divinely that I forgot to be angry any more. Of course I love you and miss you, Miles! Why do you ask me so often? I went up to the Red Tarn on Monk's Rock last week— that place has an extraordinary attraction for me now. I got a nasty deep scratch on my arm when I was by the tarn which won't heal up. I can't remember how I did it though. With love, Yours, Coral. P. S. Did I tell you Torkel has a finger missing on his left hand? I can't imagine how he does the stretches.

[Sir Donald Fremling to Miles Warriner.]

Brackenfells Hydro, Oct. 15.

MY DEAR BOY:—

As I have often told you, it gives me the greatest happiness whenever you turn to me for help. Your pride and independence make it difficult for me, now that you are no longer a schoolboy. You have been quite frank with me about Coral, and I will be equally frank with you— chiefly because you must be prepared to play the hardest part in the awful little drama which Torkel Yarl has staged. Your part is to wait and do nothing! No matter how desperate the crisis, you can not help— only hinder.

Torkel Yarl is not a man as you and I understand the word! He is not a human being— but superhuman, literally superhuman. Physically he has all the characteristics of his Danish forefathers (his name—Yarl or Eorl—gives you the clue to his ancestry, of course). He is powerfully built and tall in proportion, and moves with the ease and grace of a panther. His eyes add to this illusion, they are unnaturally bright and gleam under drooped eye¬ lids in a horribly compelling fashion.

As to his music— it is a weapon of such supreme power that it would rouse the dead to follow him over the edge of the world! Why am I not under his spell, you ask? Ah, because years ago I learnt what Power inspires such as Torkel Yarl—and behind those gleaming eyes of his I see his devil seated, lustful and mocking.

The missing finger on his hand is a distinguishing mark which may help, when it comes to the final proving of my theories. Don't forget to be cautious in your references to me when you write to Coral. She has no idea who I am.

Your affectionate godfather, Donald Fremling.

[Coral Deane to Miles Warriner.]

Brackenfells Hydro, Oct. 30.

DEAREST MILES:—

You always warned me not to let my dreams blot out reality too far, and I seem to have done it! I have wandered out into space, and when I want to return I find there is no room! You bring me back always—but I know that soon even the memory of your love will not draw me. I shall just go on and on—and never re¬ turn! Will that be death, Miles? But that's absurd, of course—I am perfectly well. I have changed my mind again about our wedding; if you still want me, I will marry you when you come back at Xmas. I hope Coral Warriner will be better worth your loving than Coral Deane— but I am afraid you are taking a risk, dear!

Don't you think it is curious that I have grown to love the Red Tarn so much? Do you remember the first time we saw it together, one late autumn day last year? What a desolate, wind-swept place it seemed then— the water of the tarn cold and gleaming under the gray sky— the tall yellow reeds rustling and shivering on its banks! I was never so afraid of any place out in the open before. Do you remember what a coward I was, and how I thought I saw figures crouching and stealing about among the stunted trees and patches of gorse? And yet I love the tarn now more than any other spot in Teordale.

Torkel has written music about it for me, called The Voice of the Tarn. It is the wildest music in the world and the sweetest—in B flat minor, my favorite key! The theme steals in like a ghost wandering lost and lonely by the tarn. The four winds carry its lament until it swells to longing and despair, in great, crashing chords that make me tremble. The modulations are very abrupt— breathless swoops from one height to another— and it finishes with a wild burst of gayety in a major key, like mocking laughter high above the tarn.

The curious thing is that I can never recall a single phrase of the music unless I am on the Monk's Rock. The instant I set foot on the ascent from the valley I hear vague murmurs which get clearer as I climb up. Sometimes I am dizzy and bewildered by the rushing harmonies that greet me as the deep waters of the tarn come into sight. It is almost more than I can bear to hear. Once I must have fainted—for I discovered later the deep scratch on my arm of which I told you, and I can't remember doing it! It still won't heal up!

One of the guests at the Hydro is a Mr. Donald. He has traveled all over the world and we have long talks together. I was telling him about you just before I began this letter. He seemed to bring you much nearer to me. That's why I can write and tell you how much I love you, Miles, in spite of my queerness—never believe that you are not the only one that really counts in the whole world to me! Good-bye, Miles darling! The tarn would be mysteriously beautiful by moonlight—I must see it! Your Coral.

[Miles Warriner to Sir Donald Fremling.]

27 Avon Sq., Liverpool, Nov. 6.

I'm living in a perfect hell of doubt and fear, Pater! Coral has just sent me a letter which brings her back to me, as she used to be before this infernal Yarl started in! But two things in it worry me horribly. First— what is the matter with her arm?— why won't the scratch heal up? Is it blood-poisoning on top of all the rest? And has she told you about wanting to see the Red Tarn at night? For heaven's sake don't let her do that! At night the shadows would make the path impossible— it's more or less dangerous even in the daylight. I am appalled at the idea! It's slow torture— this waiting business. Why can't I come and d.o the devil out once and for all? I'd rather be hanged for it than let Coral go on like this from day to day.

Miles.

P. S. Don't curse me for worrying you! I know you can't do more! But this is plain unadulterated hell!

[Telegram. Fremling to Warriner.]

Teordale, Cumberland.

Just sent latest report by express. It explains much. If you see Coral now you destroy her only chance. Wait.

[Sir Donald Fremling to Miles Warriner.]

Braekenfells, Nov. 7.

MY DEAR BOY:—

You can not realize at a distance, in spite of my daily letters, how things are going; and I am afraid you find my methods slow and dangerous, when Yarl is using every hour! So am I, however... but Yarl must be allowed to show himself in his true colors before I can act. The scratch on Coral's arm might be described in a rather dramatic way as a "devil mark." Yarl has evidently made an attempt to get her when she went to the Red Tarn on one of her solitary walks. He failed because his hour is not yet come. It will heal when Yarl ceases to exist, and not until then. It is not dangerous in itself— simply a brand! If it were of any use to kill this man outright, I should not hesitate to do so; but if he were sent out of life now, he would return in another human form— and with added power and malevolence! For your comfort I can tell you plainly that there is an hour, and a place, where I can come to grips with the devil that dwells in him; and for that hour I am waiting!

Now read the enclosed account of the early history of Cumberland and you will understand whence Torkel Yarl derives his power. I must go back to the year 936 A. D. when Hywel Dda, a prince of South Wales, made a law for the protection of cats; with the result that the chazza (the old High German name for cat) was brought over in increasing quantities from the Baltic shores, and became domesticated in our island.

New and terrible superstitions sprang up— the old Egyptian worship of cats was revived in crude revolting forms by our barbaric ancestors; and the chazza was the center and excuse for a thousand nameless obscenities. This cat worship lingered in remote parts of the country— and as late as the Twelfth Century there are traces of it in a few of the so-called religious houses of those days. One such abbey, given over to Satanism and every evil practise, was built here in Teordale by the Red Tam, which served as a fish-pond for the monks— and was known as the Tarn of Chazz (or Chazza). This abbey was built by a Danish Earl of Cumberland, the Lord of Chazz, who was immensely wealthy and powerful, and dominated the place to such an extent that its real spiritual head, Father David, was sacrificed at one of the abominable orgies for which the abbey was renowned.

This roused the countryside, and an organized attack was made under Father Ambrosius (the chronicler of the event) which surprized the monks in the very act of their demon worship. Father Ambrosius leaves much unsaid, and refers briefly and with pious horror to monstrous cats speaking with the voices of men and women, blasphemous prayers to Lucifer, wild hell-games played round the stately cloisters, shameful litanies recited in the abbey chapel, and the celebration of the Black Mass at the high altar— once dedicated to the Glory of God!

Father Ambrosius and his devoted band of followers burnt the abbey to the ground; and the smoke and flame of it lit the whole of Cumberland, according to the chronicler. The cats or monks or both, they slew by the sword— for against their blades, dipped in holy water, the power of Satan was useless. They flung the bodies into the Tarn of Chazz, until the black pond was red with blood, and it has been known as the Red Tarn ever since.

But the fiercest and most devilish of all that monstrous crew escaped! He fled spitting and snarling before the good father's sword— and, leaping off the face of Monk's Rock, vanished into the darkness of the night!

My belief is that this was the ruler of that infamous abbey— the Lord of Chazz— and that he lives still— in the person of Torkel Yarl! He is sustained by the power of those he serves, and in return for their protection, he sacrifices a victim at certain intervals!

The last Friday of this month is the Night of Sacrifice— and I need hardly add that Coral is the destined victim! Do not be led by blind love— or fear— into coming to interfere with my plans. It would be entirely fatal to Coral.

Your affectionate godfather, Donald Fremling.

[Coral Deane to Miles Warriner.]

Brackenfells, Nov. 21.

Dear miles:— Your last letter was a rather queer one, I thought. And you hardly mentioned all the new music I am studying—aren't you interested? Torkel has promised to give me the Ms. of The Voice of the Tarn on condition that I take him up to see the Red Tarn itself. We are going on Friday and I can think of nothing else! Torkel wants to see it by moonlight—and as the moon is full tomorrow night, it ought to be a marvelous sight. Think of it, Miles!... that strange, shadowy tarn with its fringe of reeds all silvered in the moonlight and the water gleaming white and silent! I can hardly breathe as the thought of it burns in my mind! What did you mean about my promise to marry you at Xmas? I have never mentioned it to you that I remember!

Coral.

[Miles Warriner to Coral Deane.]

27 Avon Sq., Liverpool, Nov. 23.

MY dear! How stupid of me not to have said how deeply interested in your new musical efforts I am. I never could write a decent letter— so I am not surprized at your reproaches. However, you'll have to use your imagination to fill up the blanks, and remember that I'm working hard in a cold, uninteresting, dirty city, and missing you every hour of the day! The heat of the theater makes me more dull-witted than usual, too. But don't think that I am ever indifferent to anything that interests you.

I'm glad you've made friends with Mr. Donald— your walks and talks with him ought to be a soothing contrast with the excitement of all your musical studies. The theater music here is deadly stuff! Jazz, punctuated by Rachmaninoff's C Sharp Minor Prelude when the hero fights a duel, or crosses the rapids, or crawls from a blazing house with the heroine in his arms! My violin sings very low now. You spoilt me entirely for an ordinary pianist, my bad little Coral! I was down for a solo last night— and upon my word that accompanist was as near sudden death as she will ever be! Think of me sometimes, my little girl. It's pretty lonely here. Goodnight, my Elfin Queen! Don't go off with the moon fairies if you meet them on the crags. I want you whenever you are ready to come to me! I hope that will be soon.

Your friend and lover, Miles.

[Miles Warriner to Sir Donald. Fremling.]

Liverpool, Nov. 23.

I'm a fool... forgive me, Pater! Coral's last letter proved how right you are. I took three hours to answer it! It's awful to think of the risk you arc taking for us—I am horribly anxious! You'll know all about Coral and Yarl going to the tarn on Friday night— she is almost delirious about it!

Your repentant and devoted Miles.

[Coral Deane to Miles Warriner.]

Brackenfells, Nov. 27.

Miles!...It's come at last... the lovely silver night! I wanted to write to say good-bye to you— I don't feel as if I should see you again. I sit in my bedroom writing this, waiting until the full moon rises over the top of Monk's Rock. The great crag stands out, black and splendid against the sky, and lights flicker to and fro across it! I can hear the music of the Red Tarn floating down to me from that distant height. That magic music! It is calling to me... and I must follow... follow! The moon is up—I see the golden rim above the dark ridge at last ... the music calls more clearly now!

Good-bye, Miles! I am divinely happy!

Coral.

[The Vicar of Teordale to the Bishop of Carlisle (extract)]

The Vicarage, Nov. 30

....Sir Donald Fremling and I reached the summit of Monk's Rock early in the evening. As the moon rose and the shadows deepened, the wide moorland grew more and more sinister.

It was a terrible vigil! I saw the reeds bend under the foot of some half-visible passer-by, and heard the whispering voice of evil at my elbow and echoes of high squealing laughter. And from the ghyll close by, the biting wind shrieked and tore its way— adding its fury to the terror of the night.

"The Hour and the Power," quoted Fremling in my ears, as he pointed across the waving grasses. I gasped as the fresh horror dawned slowly before us.

There, only a few hundred yards or so away, a huge bulk began to blot out the sky and stars. Walls rose and were roofed over. Courtyards and cobbled garths covered the windy heath. Gable and turret, tower and cloister all built themselves before our very eyes— until at last a stately abbey stood complete in every detail— its weather-vane gleaming in the moonlight, and every window brilliant with the lights within.

"The stage is set," replied Sir Donald, in answer to the clutch of my fingers on his arm. "It remains now for the Lord of Chazz to arrive and summon his guests to the revelries."

I must confess, my lord, that my faith burnt very dim in that hour of waiting. Had it not been for the unshaken courage of my companion, I should have fled from the unhallowed place and left my small part in the drama unplayed.

Suddenly I heard a laugh— a happy little sound which made the obscene mirth, echoing about me on the wind, more terrible by its contrast. I knew it was the girl Coral Deane, and Torkel Yarl, approaching the tarn at last.

In a few minutes they neared the tarn and stood in the strong moonlight, not far from the hollow where we lay hidden. The girl stood silent and enchanted— her delicate lovely face lit with a white fire of ecstasy— her hair streamed back in the wind like a halo of light— and her clear eyes were those of one who watches the gates of heaven opening to let her in! I was ashamed of my own fears as I saw her there, so unaware and innocent, and on the brink of such nameless horror; and I longed to dash that grinning devil by her side into the dark bubbling water of the tarn.

Suddenly Yarl stepped forward and gave a great ringing cry, which echoed and re-echoed, until I thought every hill in Cumberland had caught and thrown back that infernal summons.

As it died, the tarn rose in leaping waves, flecking the reeds which fringed it with blood-red foam. The girl's face lost its rapt dreaming look and she stared in horror at the tarn— for from its depths emerged an evil face and head, followed by the body of a man in a brown habit girdled with rope. He scrambled out of the water and up the bank— and at his heels followed a long procession, every one of which was more brutish and ugly than his fellow.

They were the monks of Monk's Rock come to make merry in their old haunt once more!

Yarl waved them on toward the abbey— and at his gesture the girl turned her stricken face and appeared to see for the first time the great illuminated building towering against the sky.

She gave a long, incredulous look and turned to Yarl with a little cry. Then as she saw him truly at last... a devil—mocking, lustful, and triumphant, she covered her face and sank to the ground.

He laughed loudly at her terror, and picking her up in his great arms, strode on toward the abbey— the mad, shouting crew of monks at his heels.

When the last capering figure had disappeared under the arch of the central door, Fremling and I followed and gained the abbey by a small door at the east end. We crept into the chapel and stood behind the high altar, hidden by a massive screen.

The reek of incense filled the place, and the flare of torches lit monstrous presentments of heathen gods and devils, on walls and pillars. Abruptly the main door was flung open— and to a burst of wild music, the monks came trooping in. Behind them followed Yarl— leading the girl with mock courtesy by the hand. She looked like a white flower in this fiend's abode; and swayed, half blind with terror.

Yarl led her to a great throne at the foot of the altar steps. The poor child sat, her hands clutching the skulls which formed the arms of her black throne, and her wide blank gaze followed each monk in turn, as he knelt at her feet, and with horrid jest and leer made homage to her.

Then they filled priceless jeweled goblets with foaming liquor, and crowded about Yarl and Coral as she shrank back in her place. Lifting their goblets high they shouted:—

"Hail! Hail, Chazza, Eorl of Cumberland! Lord of Life and Death! We drink to your Queen and our Feast tonight! Hail, Lord of Chazz! Hail!"

They drank deep— and as that magic draft worked in his veins, every monk changed his human form, until at last no trace of man or monk was left— and only monstrous snarling cats leapt and circled about Yarl and the girl.

Then I heard Yarl laugh, and saw him touch the girl on the arm— and a long scratch on it began to bleed. Yarl laughed again and all the beasts with him.

Instantly Fremling withdrew by the door we had entered— and I came out of my hiding-place and stood at the high altar, and lifted the sacred host above my head. A great silence fell— the squalling brutes were dumb— and I called loudly to Coral to come to me...

I called her in the name of God and that holy thing I held! She stood up swaying, and looked from Yarl to me— and back again. Yarl tried to hold her, but his power failed, and his arm dropped to his side. Again I called— and then, with a child's cry of terror and appeal, she stumbled down the steps of that hateful throne and fell at my feet.

I stooped and held her, while Yarl stood speechless, glaring at me, and his devils crouched as if turned to stone! Then, warned by some sound, Yarl turned to see Sir Donald Fremling standing behind him— a short dagger in his hand.

In a flash Yarl stooped and lifted a flagon to his lips; and in a moment crouched transformed and beastlike before his enemy.

Then the lights of the abbey chapel faded— the walls melted into thin air— and I found myself standing with Coral on the bleak moorland by the tarn, whose deep waters foamed blood-red over the bodies of monks as they sank beneath its waves.

I caught a glimpse again of Fremling struggling on the ground with his loathsome antagonist— and the spitting, hissing sound of the fight rose above the wind's shrill cry. Then I saw man and beast roll off the edge of the Ridge of Monk's Rock, and disappear into the depths below!...

[Extract from the Cumberland Comet newspaper.]

Monk's rock in Teordale, Cumberland, has been the stage for as strange an incident as has occurred in recent times. The Vicar of Teordale made the ascent to the Red Tarn last Friday evening, together with two members of the Brackenfells' Hydro orchestra— Miss Coral Deane and Mr. Torkel Yarl; and lastly, Sir Donald Fremling, the world-renowed mystic and savant. The latter appears to have had a fight of unprecedented horror with a wild cat, which met the party on the summit of the rock. Sir Donald Fremling was carrying a dagger (a remarkable occurrence in itself). He killed the beast, but in the death struggle they both rolled off the fell-side, and were discovered next morning by search-parties, far down the screes in a tangle of bushes.

The monster cat was cold and stiff, but horribly menacing even in death. The handle of the dagger protruded from its body and has been left there at Sir Donald's express wish. The latter seemed peculiarly interested in the fact that a joint and claw of the creature's left foreleg were missing. Sir Donald Fremling's leg was broken and he was badly mauled but is recovering rapidly.

The vicar hailed the search party from the summit of the Monk's Rock, where he had for hours vainly tried to restore Miss Deane to consciousness. She was carried home and appears to be making some progress toward recovery.

No trace has been discovered of the fourth member of the party— Torkel Yarl the cellist.

It is feared that in searching for Sir Donald Fremling after his fall from the rock, Yarl himself lost his footing and fell to the unplumbed depths of the gully between Monk's Rock and Greenfell.

___________________

9: The Devil's Graveyard

Weird Tales Aug 1926

"YOU don't understand, John! I used to laugh at it, too, but these last months the thought of that old curse has been more and more in my mind."

"Well, dear, why worry yet? It will be time enough if this proves to be a boy; after all, we may have a daughter at last."

"No! I feel convinced it will be another boy, and the words of that old saying go round and round in my head:

"When Radcliffe's heir has brothers six

And seeks to take to wife

The only child of Blackmore's line.

The Curse shall wake to life."

"But, Agnes, you are really inventing worries. Supposing this seventh is a boy! According to the silly jingle you quoted, the worst will only happen about twenty years hence, if our eldest boy should happen to fall in love with Blackmore's small daughter. And after all, it's absurd," he went on. "She might have any number of brothers and sisters in the interval— or she might even die," he added hopefully.

"You may make light of it, and I know it sounds absurd; but I feel so afraid, so miserably afraid, as though some black shadow was by my side, always whispering and threatening."

"My dear," said Radcliffe, now genuinely alarmed, 'You musn't let go like that! It's only a foolish old story, kept up by one generation after another. All old families boast of hidden treasures, or a curse, or a ghost, or something of that nature— it goes with the estate. You must not get fancies like that into your head, dear."

He got up and crossed the room to where his wife was sitting in the sunny window embrasure, and stood looking at her in a puzzled way, as though she were a new hybrid which had appeared among his treasured plants, and could not be accounted for. He was devoted to his wife, but hitherto she had been so normal, and well-balanced that this strange fantastic notion of hers worried him considerably. It was so utterly unlike her.

"Better have Dr. Green up tomorrow and have a chat with him."

His wife suppressed a sigh. It was impossible to make him take her seriously. It was of no use to try to explain the awful weight that pressed upon her heart— the monstrous fear that oppressed her. He put it all down to her health, and brushed aside her premonitions as mere fancies. But at. the same time it comforted her that he should take this attitude. His unimaginative practical outlook on life, and careless way of disbelieving what he did not understand, actually did, for the moment, make her feel that perhaps after all her fears were only imaginary.

She smiled at her husband in the sudden relief of her thought, as he bent down to kiss her and, drawing her wrap about her shoulders, said:

"It would do you good to have a turn round the grounds, Agnes. I'll take you down to the potting sheds. There are some new hybrids there that will surprize you. Perfect specimens! Even old Bums was almost enthusiastic about them; he never believed I could get that blue dahlia."

THE STILLNESS of a golden October evening enveloped the big room where so many generations of Radcliffes had first seen the light.

Mrs. Radcliffe lay dying in that room now. Her husband, bewildered and helpless, faced with the first great sorrow in a hitherto placid existence, stood over by one of the windows, staring out over the far-stretching acres of the Radcliffe estate.

The six elder sons had come and gone, she would see them no more; and on them, especially David, her first-born and dearest, the mother's thoughts were centered. She glanced from time to time at the cot, where slept her seventh son.

Who was he? What was he? Why did her whole being shrink from the tiny helpless thing? She had turned from him with loathing, when the nurse showed him to her first— how long ago was that? A day, or an hour? It was all a mist and confusion in her brain.

But after that they had troubled her with him no more. She looked again at the child. What was that dark shadow? Why did it move when everything else was still in that quiet room? A little cloud resting on the cot.

A vapor exhaling from the body of the child. Rapidly it darkened and spread, and soon loomed gigantic to the ceiling. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, it took form and shape! Its vague outlines became sharp and definite, and presently something dimly approaching the semblance of a man towered there— a leering unholy thing!

Its menacing bulk, shapeless and uncouth as one of the lesser animals in the far-off days of the primeval world! Its cold unsmiling eyes in dreadful contrast to the mouth distended in silent horrid laughter! Its bloated features a travesty of man even at his most vile! The evil hour had dawned. This was the horror which had haunted her so long, this was the doom that would haunt her first-born! She tried to call out— to move, and the pale eyes of that accursed thing gleamed evilly upon her efforts.

One last awful struggle with the icy numbness that pressed upon her limbs, and then the mother gave one great cry, pointing a shaking finger at the cot.

"The Curse! Kill— kill the child!"

John Radcliffe turned instantly; he saw nothing but the awful look on his wife's face as she fell back, and before he could reach her side she was gone— her heart had stopped in that supreme effort; and all unseen as Radcliffe stooped over the bed, that fell shadow moved about the silent room, and presently withdrew itself once more to the human habitation which sheltered it.

ii

FAR up among the heather which spread its rich carpet to the very verge of his own fields and parklands, David Radcliffe sat, and by his side the girl who had just promised to marry him. They were both extremely happy. The sun seemed to be shining for their especial benefit, the deep glowing colors of sky and moor to be painted just as a background for their joy.

"There is nothing to wait for, Maisie dear," said the man. "Now that my father is dead I must live at The Turrets altogether, and curb my desire for travel and expeditions. But you must marry me soon— very soon! I can't face the great lonely old place for very long without you. There's only Hirst at home now, and I see as little of him as possible."

"I shall feel dreadful about leaving my poor old dad by himself, though," answered the girl. "I know he would never consent to come and live at Radcliffe Turrets with us; he would never have a happy moment away from all those old Blackmore ancestors who gloom down on us from the walls. You've no idea how I dislike some of them."

"I expect you will dislike some of mine even more," laughed David, as he turned to kiss the sunburnt cheek so near his own. "Well, for sheer ugliness I think the Blaekmores score; your family was really rather handsome. But, of course, that horrible portrait you boast of is worse than all mine put together."

"Oh, you mean the man who was nick-named 'Giles the Thruster,' because he fought so many duels. He had a rather sinister reputation, and his face matches it. It is a very famous portrait, though."

"I hate it," said Maisie with a little shiver. "That sneering mouth and those long narrow eyes. Oh, it's a wicked face!"

David put a protecting arm about her.

"Well, it's only a picture after all; he's dead, hundreds of years ago."

"Yes, and I am very glad too. That old legend of the Radcliffe Curse is about him, isn't it?"

"Yes," answered David. "He said he was coming back to haunt us. I'm the one he ought to haunt, too! The eldest of seven sons, and you are a Blackmore, and an only child."

"Oh, David, what a perfectly horrid idea! Are you really the one that is meant in the Curse?"

He replied laughingly, "Yes, I really am. But, of course, it's only a fairy tale."

"What was the whole story of the Curse, dear? Why did your ancestor curse anybody at all?"

"Well, if you will promise not to take it seriously, I will tell you. I read it in some old manuscripts I found once in a secret drawer. The story goes that in the Thirteenth Century there was, as now, a family of seven Radcliffe brothers, and the youngest was this Giles the Thruster. He was betrothed to a girl, the only daughter of a Blackmore, whose land adjoined ours then, as it does now.

"The eldest Radcliffe also loved this girl, and the two of them ran away together. Giles pursued them, caught them up on the road, and the two men fought a duel in which Giles, blind with fury, missed his stroke, and was fatally wounded, and died, and was buried there in the clearing by the roadside, where they had fought. In dying, he cursed his brother bitterly, and swore that he would come again to earth and take his revenge.

"He prophesied that history would repeat itself, and that in the future once more seven Radcliffe brothers should be born, and the eldest again desire to wed a Blackmore's only daughter. Giles vowed that then he would return to snatch the girl from that eldest bom, and cheat him of his love as he himself had been cheated."

"Oh, David! How awful if such things really could happen!"

"Well, they can't. We don't live in the Dark Ages now, darling. I am afraid old Giles would have a rough time of it if he returned to England in these post-war days. Everything got killed in the war. Religion and superstition alike. People only believe in what can be seen and paid for now."

"Nonsense, David!— Of course they—"

She broke off and turned to look at him. He had let his arm drop from her shoulders, and was sitting up stiffly, his eyes fixed on something ahead.

"Why, what's the matter? What are you looking at, David?"

She caught his arm, her own rosy color fading as she saw his dreadful pallor and the stricken look in his eyes.

"David! David! Answer me. Oh, do speak! There's nothing there!"

She beat with her little hand on the man's clenched fist, but he neither moved nor answered her. "Oh, you must be ill. What shall I do? Can't you speak to me—just a word, dear?"

But he sat in frozen silence, his face a mask of horror.

At last she got up and moved toward the spot on which David's eyes were fixed so intently. Suddenly the wide sweep of moors seemed desolate, almost menacing. A dark cloud blotted out the sunshine, and a little squall of wind rushed up angrily against her as she moved forward.

"Come back, Maisie. A—a—h—h! come back."

The voice rose almost to a scream, and she turned to see David plunging over the heather toward her. He seized her roughly by the arm and dragged her away, and then stood holding her, panting as though he had run a race. The reaction of finding him apparently recovered made her irritable, and she said, "I'm not going to run away; you needn't clutch me like that. What on earth is the matter with you, David?"

The man did not answer, but clasped her to him, his lips moving silently. He did not heed her questions, but began to walk away rapidly, holding her hand in his, and urging her to greater haste. Once or twice he pushed up against her, as though to avoid someone or something at his other side, his hand gripping hers convulsively.

Maisie was first frightened and then annoyed at his behavior. Why couldn't he explain? It was ridiculous— dragging her across the moors like this.

She wrenched her hand free at last, and said, "I can't go so quickly. Leave me, David; I would rather go home alone."

He turned a white face to her, as she stood looking up at him, her brown curls all blown about her pretty face, her gray eyes wide and indigant. Her heart melted when she saw his look, and she said, "Oh, my dear, what is it? Do tell me. I can't bear to be treated like this. You look as though you had seen a ghost!"

Then as David recoiled, the horror on his face was reflected on her own, and she said, in a terrified whisper, "Oh, David, have you seen something? What was it? Tell me!"

The man's lips moved, but no sound was audible.

Maisie clasped his arm. "Was it really a ghost?" she whispered, with a horrified glance over her shoulder. "Oh, let us go then, quickly; it may come back; it's so lonely here."

For answer David put his hand to his throat with a sudden sharp intake of breath.

"Go away— go away," he managed to gasp out. She fell hack a few paces, her frightened eyes glued to his face.

"But why won't you let me touch you? I want to be near you, David."

"No, no," he muttered. "Keep away. It's— it's— oh, Maisie, it's the Curse!"

At the last word he shivered like one in an ague, and backed away still farther from the girl, his outstretched

iii

A WHOLE WEEK went by, and still Maisie, beside herself with constant anxiety, saw and heard nothing of David.

The memory of his face with that gray shadow of fear upon it, and the agony of his eyes haunted her night and day. She had never known how dear he was to her until now, when this awful invisible agency had thrust them asunder. Her heart was tom between the longing to see him and the fear of adding to his sufferings if she did so.

Every day she wandered aimlessly about the moors, seeking the high levels where she could command a view of the country round, and perhaps catch a glimpse of his tall figure. When dark came, she kept watch from the window of her room, staring for hours in the direction of Radcliffe Turrets, where the many lighted windows shone; and she pictured David alone and wanting her. All night she would keep the vigil, with the feeling that so she might help him, that her love would protect him when night and its evil shadows closed in around him; and when dawn came she would fall into heavy sleep, troubled by many dreams in which she and David fled over land and sea, pursued by a monster which would not let her go.

Then one day she saw him! It was late afternoon when she came upon him, sitting on a rough boulder, apparently watching the sun sinking into a smoky gray cloud-bank, which like a forest of dreams rose on the western horizon. "David!— Oh, at last, my dear!"

She ran eagerly. toward him, and he rose at the sound of her clear voice, and made as if to meet her. But at the first step he fell back suddenly, clutching the rock behind him with one hand and holding the other arm before his face, as though to ward off some invisible opponent.

"Don't come near me, Maisie," his voice came in a choking cry.

The girl stood rooted, and a great nausea swept over her as she watched the unspeakable loathing on the man's face, the blind terror with which he resisted some unseen foe.

Instinct warned her that in some way her presence was harmful to David, that her nearness increased his danger and suffering— and she retreated until she saw that he no longer struggled with that hateful enemy, but was sitting on the rock with his head bowed on his hands.

There she left him, and stumbling, with tears blinding her eyes, she went slowly home. The bitterness of despair filled her as she realized that she had actually been the cause of torturing David afresh. She must never see him again. She would write and tell him so tonight.

iv

"THERE is a letter for you, David, I found it on the hall table and brought it as I happened to be coming up."

Hirst Radcliffe, the youngest of the Radcliffe sons, entered his brother's study as he spoke, and stood, a tall, arresting figure, his pale cold eyes gleaming as he noted the bowed shoulders and drawn features of the man in the chair by the fire.

"It looks like Maisie's writing. I have wondered why we have seen so little of her lately—perhaps this will explain." Hirst crossed the room and stood leaning up against the fireplace. He held the letter carelessly, and as David stretched out an eager hand, with a sudden glow of color in his sunken cheek, Hirst slipped, stumbled, and in some way too quick for David to see, the letter fell into the heart of the flames and was destroyed in a moment.

"Oh, I say! How stupid of me! My dear chap, I am sorry. What a perfectly rotten accident."

There was a wild light in David's eyes as he sprang to his feet.

"You're not sorry! I believe you did it on purpose. Get out of my room. I loathe the sight of you."

"That's nothing new, is it? No one would ever accuse us of being a David and Jonathan! But it's no use letting your feelings run away with you like that."

"Will you or won't you get out?"

"Yes, when I am ready to go. I just came up to bring your letter, and tell you I thought of strolling over to see old Blackmore and Maisie."

David's fists clenched, and he made a spring forward, but a sudden blackness descended upon him, and from out its murk, that which he knew and dreaded began slowly to take form. He collapsed, suddenly limp and shaking, into the chair behind him, as with a sneering laugh Hirst sauntered out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

For long David sat, staring hard at the fire, as if out of the flames themselves he could reconstruct the precious letter they had consumed. At last he rose shakily to his feet and rang the bell.

"Send Reed to me, will you?" he asked the footman.

The valet appeared almost at once, an old servant of the Radcliffes, and devoted to David as he had been to his father before him.

"Reed, I have made up my mind to go away. I want you to pack for me at once, and also take a message to Miss Blackmore."

"Yes, Mr. David."

"I won't write the message. You must remember it, Reed— it's safer so. Tell her I am going to try to escape if I can! I am going to that little place in the Carpathians where I stayed once with a college chum. She knows where it is. Ask her to write and— give her my love, Reed."

The old man stood hesitating.

"Take me with you, sir," he burst out at last. "You must not go alone."

But David shook his head.

"No, no, Reed. You can do more for me by staying here at home. I think you know or guess something of what has fallen on me. I am cursed— a doomed man, Reed."

The faithful old servant nodded dumbly, and David continued. "Look after her for me. You and she are the only ones who know or understand. And now come, we must be quick; I want to start in a few hours."

v

MAISIE BLACKMORE was in the train on the way to London. It was some weeks, the darkest she had ever known, since David had fled from England.

The faithful Reed had given his master's message and she had written again and again to him, and waited now in the greatest suspense for news. It was a few days only since the wonderful idea had dawned which had impelled her to take her present journey.

It was her father who had been the unconscious means of sending her on it. At breakfast one morning, he had looked up suddenly from his Northern Mail, saying, "Well, well. I am sorry to have missed that. If I had known I would have gone up to town to hear him."

Maisie was absorbed in her own thoughts, wondering if David would write, if he had escaped from the Curse, and if she would ever see him again— and she answered abstractedly, "Would you?"

Mr. Blackmore continued with increasing enthusiasm, "Of course. Old Fremling was the best chum a man ever had. I shall never forget those years at Oxford together. And apart from that, his lecture must have been well worth hearing."

The girl's listless interest was roused at the name of Fremling, and she asked, "What was he lecturing on, father?"

"Devil Worship and Ancient Rites among the Nomadic Tribes of Central Asia."

"I would like to have heard that, too," said Maisie, her eye kindling with an almost painful interest.

"Nonsense, child! Not at all the sort of thing for you. The tales Fremling tells make even me— well, if not afraid, something very like it. It's appalling to think such things exist, even in foreign countries. Of course I consider Fremling exaggerates a great deal. He's an extraordinary man— a genius!— and knows more about Asia than, any man alive."

"I remember him very well, coming to stay here once, when I was a child," answered Maisie reflectively.

"Yes— about ten years ago," agreed her father. "He was very much interested in the strange illness of the vicar of this parish, who was said to be haunted." Maisie's voice shook as she asked, "And what happened? What did Sir Donald Fremling do?"

Blackmore buttered his toast, and helped himself to marmalade before replying, "Well, I never pretended to understand Fremling or his fantastic theories. He did explain his view of this particular case, but I have forgotten."

"But the vicar! Did Sir Donald save him?"

"There was no question of saving," said her father testily. "The vicar was mad— and he got better. Fremling helped in one way, soothing influence and all that, no doubt. But as to casting out devils— well it's not the sort of thing that happens to a decent Englishman. All very well for the colored races, with their hot climate, and priests, and opium."

And with this final statement the old man had risen from the table and gone out into the garden.

Maisie had swiftly made her decision; and accepting a long-standing invitation from a friend who lived in London, she left home two days later, determined to see Sir Donald Fremling and tell him the whole story of the Curse. Sir Donald Fremling!

The name rose up now in Maisie's mind, as a harbor light to a storm-tossed mariner. Could he really cast out devils ? Would he be able to save David?

vi

THESE TWO questions still burned in her mind as, on the following afternoon, she reached Sir Donald's house. He was sitting alone by his study fire, with a Great Dane stretched by his side, and an old worn book in black letter on a small table at his elbow.

He showed no surprize at her visit, and greeted her with a gentle Old World courtesy which gave her courage.

She sank into a chair on the opposite side of the fire. The dog looked at her solemnly, then stalked over and put one heavy paw on her knee.

"You see you are among friends," Sir Donald said with a smile in his deep-set eyes, as they met the hesitating doubt in her own. "You can speak freely! Tell me why you are here, in London, instead of enjoying your moors and heather at home? You don't look as though the city agreed with you, either. Why are you so unhappy, dear child?"

"Oh, I am— I am most unhappy," said the girl, clasping her hands with painful earnestness. "It's too awful. It's not the sort of thing that can happen, really. I feel you can't possibly believe it."

"There's very little I can not believe," answered the old savant gravely. "Tell me everything, and let me judge for myself. Remember I have spent my whole life in warring against those dark forces which are all about us, and which manifest themselves so terribly at times."

Thus encouraged, Maisie told him all she knew, first of the legend of the Curse— and of its subsequent fulfilment in the haunting of David Radcliffe.

Sir Ronald heard her without comment or interruption, and when she had finished he sat gazing thoughtfully at the Persian rug under his feet, his deep-set eyes almost hidden under his white eyebrows, his thin face showing many a line furrowed by past ordeals and encounters with Evil.

"Tell me all you can about the present Radcliffe family," Sir Donald asked presently.

"Well, as I said, David has six brotheis, and they are all particularly nice jolly boys, except Hirst— the youngest?"

"Ah! The youngest! And why is he so different?"

"It is difficult to explain what he is like. But I hate him, and so does David. In fact, none of the brothers got on with him, and as soon as they were old enough they left home rather than live with him. It's been a very unhappy household since their mother died. The father loved Hirst best, and could see no fault in him; he sacrificed all the rest of the family to his caprices and wishes."

"This is most valuable information," Sir Donald said, his keen eyes alight with interest. "Go on, tell me all you can remember about this youngest Radcliffe."

"He was the strangest child. Even as a baby no one ever knew him to cry or shed a tear. He has never had one hour's pain or illness in his life, and is absolutely callous to everyone else's suffering. In fact, I am sure he enjoys the sight of pain. He is a horrible man— cold, sneering and hateful."

"How did the other boys treat him at school?"

"Oh, no school kept him more than a few days. There were dreadful scandals about it. He had a tutor finally— a Mr. Fane. And that was the worst of all."

"What happened to the tutor?"

"No one knows exactly— that's the horrible part of it. He got to look wretchedly ill and miserable while he was at The Turrets. David once begged him not to stay, because it made him feel so angry to see how Hirst treated him."

"And why didn't Fane go away then?"

"He told David he couldn't go— he would give no reason, simply said he couldn't go. Then he disappeared, and they found his body later, lying in the woods among the bracken and dead leaves. The doctor said he had died of shock, and his face was terrible to see, I believe."

"And was Hirst held to blame for the tragedy?"

"Well, no! Not exactly. And yet everyone who knew Hirst well, and had seen Fane with him, felt uneasy. The poor man had so obviously been in his power, and cringed before him in a most painful way."

"And is this Hirst Radcliffe living at home now?"

"Yes," answered Maisie. "He rarely leaves The Turrets; he has a suite to himself, and is supposed to be studying astronomy. He's got telescopes and all sorts of apparatus fixed up on a flat roof, very strange instruments some of them look, but I have only seen them from a distance."

After a few more questions Sir Donald said, "It's well for David Radcliffe that you came to me. He will not find a place of escape in Europe, or on any spot on earth until the Curse is broken and its power destroyed. Will you give me his address? I will go in search of him and bring him home. The Curse must be undone where it was first uttered, and David must help me to find that place."

Maisie rose, her white face raised imploringly to Sir Donald's.

"And do you think there is any hope of helping David?"

"Yes, my child," Sir Donald said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "There is always hope, and you have done much to help him already by coming here. In the meantime stay in London, do not return north. You must not see David again until he is a free man once more. Another meeting between you would mean danger to you both in the highest degree. And as to Hirst— I will explain more fully later, but if you value your immortal soul keep away from him. He is not what he seems."

vii

DAVID RADCLIFFE stopped walking and stared around him. He realized suddenly that for the last few minutes that long-drawn-out sound had persistently forced itself upon his consciousness, but, absorbed in his own despairing thoughts, he had paid no heed to its appeal.

The broad highway over the Carpathian Alps stretched out before him, flinging its endless leagues about the shoulders of the mountains that towered in proud desolation to the wintry sky.

David stood for a minute, trying to penetrate the gloom of the dense firforests that marched on either hand; then, guided by that repeated cry, he turned off the road and plunged in among the trees. It was some minutes before he could locate the call accurately, but at last on the edge of a clearing he saw that an old man was there on the ground, leaning up against a tree and evidently in pain.

The stranger explained to David that he had walked out from Borviz, a small mountain hamlet about three miles distant, but had unfortunately slipped and wrenched his ankle, and found himself unable to walk or even stand. Radcliffe, a great fair giant well over six feet, looked down on the slight figure of the injured man with considerable interest and sympathy; and for the first time in many weeks he felt the burden of his thoughts lifted, and an unwonted sense of se¬ curity enveloped him.

"There's only one thing for it, I think, sir— I must carry, you, if you will trust yourself to me."

The other man smiled up at this modern Sir Christopher. "I think that would be imposing a little too far on your goodness, I am heavier than I look. But if you could find some conveyance and bring it here to me—"

Radcliffe shook his head. "No! That would not do at all. These woods are far from safe even in the daylight, and it is already dusk! Night would have fallen long before I could get one of those rascally Tsziganes back here with a horse and cart. It is not safe for you to be here alone. Better let me carry you."

The older man looked up at his companion.

"Perhaps if you took me down to the road, someone might pass and give me a lift."

"I don't think there is any chance of that. Won't you let me try to lift you? We ought to start at once, there is a big fall of snow just about due."

As he spoke David knelt and hoisted the stranger on to his broad shoulders, and began to make his way slowly through the increasing darkness to the open road.

But there he halted. The snowstorm had arrived! And a stinging icy wind blew a flurry of sleet against his face as he emerged from the shelter of the forest.

"You can't do it in this. Better set me down again in the shelter of the trees, and make your way to the nearest village," said the stranger.

David answered with quick indignant warmth, "You don't know what a night, or even a few hours, means in these heights at this time of the year, sir. You would die of the cold, even apart from the danger of wolves. No! the only thing is to make a night of it together. I will build a fire, and find some sort of a shelter."

And in spite of protests, David carried his burden back to the woods, and having found a spot comparatively sheltered from the fury of the ever-rising storm, he proceeded to break off the lower branches of the fir trees, and soon made an effectual screen from the wind.

A fire was quickly built, and its cheerful crackle and the fragrant odor of the resinous wood drew a sigh of satisfaction from the man by whom Radcliffe now seated himself.

"You are showing great kindness to an absolute stranger—I owe my life to yon," said the former, as he looked earnestly at his young benefactor, noting the hunted expression of the blue eyes, the marks of pain and fear on the young face.

David's color deepened as he made an awkward gesture of denial.

"I can't tell you how awfully glad I am of the accident that has brought us together," continued the old man. "I have come to this part of the world for the purpose of finding you."

"Finding me!" echoed David. "But I don't quite understand, I am afraid. Perhaps your name—?"

"My name is Fremling," answered the other.

"What! Not Sir Donald Fremling the famous traveler?"

Fremling smiled at the young man's enthusiasm.

"Yes, I suppose that describes me."

David put out his big brown hand and clasped that of the older man.

"I can't tell you how awfully glad I am to meet you, sir. It was only the other day I came across some friends of yours in Budapest. They were talking about what you had done for them, and all the strange places and people you had known."

David paused; then, encouraged by the listening attitude of his compan¬ ion, he continued, rather hurriedly, "Is it true that you are interested in the supernatural, and—well, in what is called Black Magic?"

Fremling's face became very grave as he answered slowly, "Tell me what it is that haunts you."

"Haunts me!" gasped David. "But I did not say— I don't know why you think—?"

He suddenly turned and faced the other man, staring hard into Fremling's deep-set eyes.

"I am haunted! No man was ever haunted as I am. Do you believe in the power of a Curse?"

"I believe in the power of the hate which prompts a Curse," answered Fremling quietly. Still David looked long and eagerly into the other's tranquil face; then, as if he had found what he sought and was satisfied, he turned away.

"It is not necessary for me to say that I am David Radcliffe," he said at length. "Evidently you know who I am, and why I am here."

"Yes, I know everything. I have seen Maisie Blackmore—in fact she came to see me, and it was from her that I learned the danger you are in. I am an old friend of her father's, and remembering that I am interested in all supernatural manifestations she brought your case to me."

David flushed with pride and pleasure in this new proof of Maisie's love and ceaseless efforts to help him.

Sir Donald smiled. "You are very young still in spite of your trouble. A girl whose spirit is so finely tempered as that of Maisie Blackmore, when she loves, loves without counting the cost at all—she would become the haunted one herself if by so doing she could free you from your Curse!"

"And what is your opinion, Sir Donald, now that you know all? What is it that haunts me—and why?"

"My opinion is that you have lived all your life with a demon at your side— your brother Hirst! He is not a human being, as we understand the term. His body is a vehicle borrowed by an Elemental. Your ancestor Giles died in a moment of eternal hate! And after death his strong personality was still bound to earth by its own overwhelming passions. Consequently it would ally itself with those Elemental forces of evil which strive unceasingly to gain access to mankind. Thus Giles has acquired force to project his hate down the centuries; and by infernal aid has at last gained possession of a body so that he may live on earth again."

David tossed a branch on to the fire, adding more and more fuel, until the crackling hiss of the flames almost drowned the moan of the wind, and the encroaching shadows of the forest fell back reluctantly.

Fremling noted the furtive glance the young man threw over his shoulder, and the nervous dilation of his nostrils.

"Tell me," begged David at last, "this—this thing that haunts me... can you destroy it... can you lift the Curse? Oh, I can not bear more."

"Poor boy!" said the older man. "All alone here in the wilderness with that ever at your side. I can realize what you must suffer."

At the compassion and understanding in Fremling's voice, the other looked up with tears in his eyds.

"I am going mad. I meant to end it all tonight. To walk on and on into the very heart of the storm, until the cold and snow had frozen the life out of me and I could never wait or fear or suffer any more."

"Only to find your implacable enemy awaiting you on the other side of the door you would thus force open."

"What do you say? No... Oh, no! I can't believe that."

"Won't believe it, you mean," corrected Fremling. "I do not wonder that you are eager to meet death— that you long for its merciful oblivion! But believe me when I tell you that there is no such easy way out of it as that. Should your enemy overcome you while you still possess your human body, his hate would cause your death... the death of your body, that is! But that would be the end, for in the effort he put forth to bill you, his power would expend itself, and your true self would henceforth continue freed from his malice.

"But on the other hand—should you cut short your span of human life yourself, Giles would meet you as an equal; you would have descended to his level, have pulled down the barriers between... and his hate would absorb your very being into his, and add incalculably to the diabolical force which gives him existence."

David leant forward in terrible agitation, and spoke rapidly, "Are you a devil, too? Has he sent you to taunt me—to drive me to greater despair? You have taken away my only hope. Death was my one refuge."

His blue eyes glared at Fremling as he spoke, and it was only too evident that his reason was tottering to a fall. With all the compassion of a father for a frightened child, Fremling clasped the hand of the unhappy man and answered gently,

"I will help you. That is what I am here for. If you have courage and will to obey me, you may yet be saved. I can promise nothing, because so much depends on your own efforts and strength of purpose— but I have saved others in more desperate case even than yourself."

David's brief moment of madness passed, leaving him deeply contrite and ashamed of his outburst, and as the two men sat talking together hour after hour, David felt a spring of hope and confidence well up within him. His former passive acceptance of his awful fate changed to a strong determination to fight the evil which shadowed his existence. And when dawn came at last and the storm died, the quiet stillness of the mountains was reflected in his own heart as he rose to tread out the red fire and prepared to carry Fremling to some place of shelter and safety.

viii

OVER THE jagged spine of rock which crested the hill known as the "Devil's Teeth," in that neighborhood— the great reddened orb of a harvest moon rose like the eye of some gigantic Polyphemus peering down on that unhallowed spot with wide unblinking stare, eager to witness once again the triumph of deathless hate— to gloat with full-orbed vision on the resurrection of all that was evil and abominable.

Fremling and Radcliffe stood watching the rising of this ill-omened moon, the younger man with beating heart and a feeling of helpless terror which made his hands and feet icy cold, and the breath come short and quick through his nostrils.

His nervous excitement was in strong contrast to the calm of his companion, who looked alternately from his watch to the heavy shadow cast by the hill— a shadow retreating gradually like some furtive guilty thing back into the bulk of the hill which had cast it forth. Fremling drew from his pocket a roll of parchment yellow with age, and consulted it narrowly.

"In half an hour's time, according to this manuscript," he said, "the outline of the grave should be distinct, and we shall learn the exact spot where Giles' blood was shed. It is there that we must meet the demon-soul which possesses your brother's body— and it is there alone that we can destroy it."

A long shudder shook David's body as he looked furtively round at the trees which encircled the open grassy space on which they stood. He watched the inky shadow of the hill, until its sharp outline became hazy and indistinct and the whole scene swam in a pale mist before his aching eyes. For a moment he shut them to recall Maisie's face— to nerve himself by the thought of her love and belief in him to face what was coming.

"Ah—h—h"— the low exclamation from Fremling made his heart stop beating; then his pulses throbbed furiously as he followed the direction of the other's pointing.finger.

A luminous red stain, its shape unmistakable and sinister, was growing momentarily more distinct there on the grass in front of them... not six feet distant!

Every leaf and blade of grass or weed within that rectangular boundary gleamed red as blood and fiery bright. Sir Donald picked up from the ground a short, broad-bladed sword, worn and stained, its hilt encrusted with rubies whose fire outshone even the crimson glare of the grave itself.

"Dig... dig swiftly," he commanded, putting the weapon in the young man's hands. "Do not lose a moment— all depends now on your speed— before midnight that grave must lie open to the moon and stars, or we shall meet Giles unprepared and helpless."

Urged and goaded by repeated warnings, David pursued his dreadful task. The red grass came up easily enough, being rooted in a light pow¬ dered soil of the same deep red stain as the grass itself.

As the last sod of that stained weed was cut up and tossed aside, Fremling drew David quickly back from the graveside, and as he did so a great tremor shook the whole place, and a tongue of fire shot with a hissing roar skyward from the uncovered grave.

When it died Fremling went forward and peered cautiously into the grave, beckoning David to his side. Clutching the older man with icy hands, the other looked, and drew back with a gasp... a dark shaft had opened, reaching to unfathomable depths, in whose yawning chasm a far-off point of green light burned like an evil star of the underworld.

David recoiled with ashen face, while Sir Donald's firm mouth set in its sternest lines.

"It is Gaffarel! Gaffarel the Mighty! Gaffarel and the Four Ancient Ones who come against us," he whispered to his trembling companion. "This place is saturated with unspeakable guilt."

His eyes closed for a minute as he muttered a few low indistinct words. Then taking from his pocket a small phial he turned to David again, and with a certain rare and fragrant oil he rapidly anointed the eyes, nose, and mouth of his companion and himself.

"I warn you," Fremling said, "to wait in. silence now for what shall come. Do not utter a syllable, or you will plunge us both into that devil's tomb where Giles and his legions await us."

Chill eddies of wind swept up against the silent pair as the mid¬ night hour approached ... the pound under their feet trembled with the thundering march of some invisible army... the sound of countless hoarse voices and echoing horrid laughter came faintly to their ears.

Fremling drew forth a rod of ancient ivory, carved with symbols of magic as old as the dawn of the world. Its tip gleamed with pale fire, and as Sir Donald traced on the ground the outline of the sacred pentaele, the rank grass burned fiercely in its wake, and within the fiery five-pointed star David and Fremling stood by the graveside waiting.

Strange flickering lights moved among the trees which hemmed them in. Shadows formed and re-formed in sinister array about them. The chill of death gripped David's heart, and he turned to look at his companion, standing upright and stedfast, his face raised to the midnight sky, his lips moving rapidly.

Suddenly all noise and movement ceased abruptly, and in the intense stillness which fell, David nerved himself for the last supreme effort. To face Giles the Thruster— to defy him— to pit his own will against the awful power of the demon.

It was coming— coming!

In every nerve he felt the dread approach of the Enemy. With cold lips he murmured over to himself the ancient words of power which Fremling had taught him, and with shaking fingers pressed a leaf of vervain to his nostrils.

There upon the open grave stood Giles, a gigantic shadow, his beckoning figure drawing David with irresistible lure.

Like one in a trance, David took a stiff step forward, but ere he could move again, Fremling advanced swiftly and interposed his own body between the monstrous Shadow and its victim.

At this, the baleful lights outside the pentaele drew eloser, and dim forms were visible, bestial and uncouth, surging forward with horrid effort to pass the barrier of fire. Fremling stood as though carved in stone; not a step did he give back, as with almost imperceptible movement Giles advanced upon him.

There was not a hand's breadth between them, when Fremling held up the fire-tipped rod, and in a loud clear voice commanded Giles to return to the place whence he came.

Three times Sir Donald repeated the terrible name which can command even the Ancient Four themselves, and slowly Giles the Thruster retreated— his hate powerless against the divine courage of his antagonist. Inch by inch Sir Donald advanced— inch by inch Giles moved backward to the grave.

Sir Donald's face was awful in its set intensity, his steady eyes fixed on the flaming eyeballs of the demon who opposed him. Good and Evil matched in a colossal struggle for supremacy.

Back over the brink of the grave Giles was forced, and then with the swiftness of light Fremling raised the magic rod and plunged its blazing tip deep into the Thruster's heart.

A great tongue of flame shot up from the fathomless depths of the grave, wrapping round Giles like a winding sheet of fire! And in that same moment the phantom lights that pressed about the pentacle vanished utterly— the blazing star itself dimmed, and went out.

David gripped his companion's arm convulsively as they waited. The black clouds overhead were tom by a blinding glare, followed by crash after crash of thunder, which seemed to shake the solid earth.

Then came the rain, sudden and torrential— washing the evil of the haunted spot from off the earth, and Fremling and Radcliffe lifted their faces thankfully to its cleansing sweetness.

At last it ceased, the darkness lifted, and from a ragged fringe of cloud the moon shone clear and bright. Grass and trees glistened with the silvery sparkle of some enchanted forest.

How strangely altered was that sullen ring of trees! That ragged, haunted, desolate spot! Not haunted now— quiet and lonely, perhaps, but not desolate. A calm sweet peace brooded over the place; the threatening copse had become a friendly shelter from the storm, where the birds cowered and shook their wings, piping encouragement to one another as they dried their wet feathers.

The circle of grass was wholly green. No red stain now, nor gaping depth was there. Green and fragrant the weeds and long waving grasses shone in the moonlight. But that which had walked among men as Hirst, the youngest of the Radcliffe brothers, would haunt them no more. Cold and terrible in death they found the mortal body deserted by its demon!

It faced them as they burst open the locked door of the study— sitting upright in a high carved chair— one hand clenched over its heart— the features twisted by inhuman rage. The pale cold eyes were hardly changed by death, and stared into the horror-stricken faces around— and stared— and stared.

________________

10: The Return

Weird Tales Apr 1927

"H-M-M! Might spend a night in many worse places than this!" said Arnold Drysdale to himself, as his host disappeared; leaving him alone in the great vaulted room, lit by the dancing flicker of a log-fire.

The portraits on the paneled walls were veiled by the shadowy darkness, but beyond the circle of radiance within which Drysdale sat could be seen the dim outline of the Bechstein grand, the huddle of chairs at the far end of the music room, the pale glimmer of flowers in tall vases, and the clouded splendor of the gold brocade curtains drawn across the windows.

"Yes! It's a very easy way of earning five pounds!" went on Drysdale reflectively, lounging back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. "And what's more— I believe it's done the trick with Millicent," he chuckled complacently; "she thinks I'm no end of a hero to take on the wager and spend a night in the haunted room!"

His lazy brown eyes half closed as he thought of Millicent Fayne— her youth, her loveliness, her dawning love for himself, and above all her wealth. "Nothing like a misspent youth for teaching a man the sort of woman he ought to marry," he concluded; "discrimination is better than innocence, and experience than much fine love!"

He looked round sharply as the far door of the room opened, and a man's tall figure showed for an instant against the lighted corridor without, before the door was closed again and the intruder approached.

"That you, Holbrook?" said Drysdale, thinking his host had returned to add a word of warning or advice. "Come back to see me hobnobbing with your spectral friend— eh ?"

"It's not Holbrook! It's I.... Jim McCurdie!"

"Wha-a-a-t?" Drysdale sprang to his feet. "Why, where... how?"

"I wasn't sure if I could get here tonight, so I did not let Holbrook know I was coming— thought I'd just give you a surprize!"

"Surprize!" echoed Drysdale faintly, his hands clenched so that the knuckles gleamed, his cigarette dropping from suddenly relaxed lips to the rug at his feet.

Jim McCurdie sat down at the table, and looked across at his companion with a grin.

"I heard you were at your old game of playing hero," he said, "and I thought it was a good opportunity of finding you alone. I've wanted this little chat with you for the last eight years!"

"Then you weren't.... you didn't.... you came back after all from that expedition?"

"Yes— I came back after all. We're pretty tough— we McCurdies— and there were several good reasons for my getting back. It's a bit too late for doing all I meant to do— but there's still one thing!"

A silence fell. The shadows in the big room seemed to thrust forward to peer and listen, as Drysdale sank into his chair and looked at his old rival opposite him—incredibly aged and altered from the gay, carefree youth whom Drysdale had sent on that deadly mission eight years ago.

"Then the ambush—?" Drysdale bit back the words too late; against his will the fatal question had shaped itself into words.

"Ah yes— the ambush! You knew all about the ambush, didn't you? You urged me and my men to take that particular route across the desert, knowing that Ibn Said and his ruffians waited by the Well of Tiz for us! You cowardly— lying— thief!"

The last deliberately spoken words bit like ice into Drysdale's consciousness, and partly steadied his whirling thoughts.

"Thief?" he stuttered; "thief!"

"Thief— one who steals what belongs to another man," explained McCurdie, leaning forward until his eyes blazed like points of blue flame into those of his companion. Drysdale's gaze fell before them and he half rose from his seat.

"Sit still," ordered McCurdie. "I've come a long way for the pleasure of meeting you once more; and now you're going to listen!"

"Don't make a fool of yourself," sneered Drysdale, his confidence returning as he began to adjust himself to the situation. "Thief— you call me!" He shrugged his shoulders. "Jean Kennedy was quite ready to be stolen, if that's what you mean."

"You tricked her and lied to her and deceived her! You left her to die miserably— as you left me."

"That's your own rotten imagination at work," answered Drysdale. "She went abroad the year after you— er— disappeared; no one ever heard what became of her."

"She went to Bruges— she lived at a mean little inn called Le Chat Gris— and died there when her son— and yours— was born!"

Drysdale started back, his nonchalance again stripped from him. "How the devil did you—?"

McCurdie's lean brown hands toyed with the match box on the table. "I know where she lies buried in the paupers' graveyard down by the river— she and her nameless son. I know that you stopped her allowance when her reproaches annoyed you; and that she became a wretched, half-starved slave to the innkeeper, Pere Grossart, and his drunken wife."

"Damn you— you paid them to tell you this fairy-tale!" blustered Drysdale.

"I have never spoken to them in my life," was the answer.

"Liar! No one else in the world could know that she— that I—"

"So— you corroborate the story."

"No, curse you, I don't!" shouted Drysdale, getting to his feet. "You've found them out by accident and concocted this tale to try to ruin me."

"Before you ruin Millicent Fayne— as a climax to your varied career."

Drysdale's angry face changed, the red faded, and ugly unexpected lines appeared round his mouth. His brown eyes were suddenly hard and calculating.

"So that's your little game!" he said at last. "We're rivals once more! I did not know you had ever met Millicent," he went on. "You're going to try to use my 'guilty past' as a weapon! Very neat— I see— I see! " And turning to the whisky and soda which stood on the table, he began to fill his glass.

For a moment the other man sat very still, looking steadily at Drysdale; then, pushing back his chair, he got up and stood with his back to the glowing fire, his thin brown hands clasped behind him.

"I thought that even you would see such an obvious thing," McCurdie rejoined at last. "You'll leave here tonight— now, in fact!"

All the baffling, violent emotions that had possessed Drysdale during the last few minutes boiled up suddenly within him, his interlocutor's words of easy command setting a match to his fury. With a swift, uncontrolled movement he hurled the glass he held, striking McCurdie full in the face.

There was a sharp hissing sound as the liquid splashed on the hot tiles of the hearth, and the glass shivered against the mantelpiece a few feet behind McCurdie's head.

"Good God!" Drysdale's voice was a mere thread of sound, as the eyes of the other man continued to look stedfastly into his own. "Who— what are you?"

"I am Jim McCurdie, whom you sent to death eight years ago in the Desert of Tlat."

Drysdale gasped and held on to the back of a chair, while the familiar surroundings of the music room receded to vast distances and a swimming darkness enveloped him. Then, slowly, reason asserted itself. How absurd of him to think, even for a moment, that the glass had passed through McCurdie's head! It was merely an effect of the firelight and his own jangled nerves.

"It appears you did not die— in spite of my efforts," he answered, with a barely perceptible tremor in his voice.

"I was buried by the Well of Tiz, with six spear-wounds through my body."

Drysdale looked stunned for a moment, but a lifelong habit of disbelieving what he did not understand conquered his rising fear.

"Either you're Jim McCurdie or his double! In any case you're making a nuisance of yourself," he said finally, and drawing an automatic from his pocket he leveled it at his companion, who had moved until he stood with his back to the paneled wall at the right of the fireplace. "I am going to shoot you. If you did not die in the desert, you'll die here and now! I shall say I thought you were the ghost that haunts this room!"

"I am the ghost!" replied McCurdie. "I have waited eight years to get back again; and tonight gave me my entrance to the world of humans once more. In this room there is power I could adapt to my needs— power to materialize— to borrow for a brief time a visible human garment for my soul."

"Splendid!" answered Drysdale, with a sneering laugh. "You always had a powerful imagination, McCurdie. Well, I am going to deprive you of your garment once and for all."

He raised his arm and a shot rang out—but the tall figure stood motionless before him, the blue eyes steady on his own.

"Curse it!" muttered Drysdale, "This light—" he fired again and yet again. "Die, can't you!" he shrieked, stumbling up close to that quiet figure, and putting the muzzle of his weapon to its breast he fired one shot after another in rapid succession; then fell with a wild yell of laughter to the ground, the smoking revolver clenched in his fingers.

Holbrook was the first to find him lying there, and hastily dropped his handkerchief over that agonized, grinning face, before the startled guests and servants poured into the room.

The paneled wall to the right of the fireplace was riddled with bullets; but no sign of blood— no foot nor fingerprint of any assailant did the keenest man from Scotland Yard ever discover.

What or whom Drysdale had tried to shoot was never known— for the dead can not speak; or if they do, they are not believed.

_____________________

11: The Djinnee of El Sheyb

Oriental Stories Spring 1932

1: The Turquoise Ring

JACK DEANE adjusted his field-glasses and looked down the gloomy gorge of El Fumm. It was a desolate, haunted place. Towering granite walls shut out the sky.

"Good Lord!" He stared into the depths below at a red-brown burnoose caught among the rocks. "It's a man—dead, or badly stunned."

With the eye of an expert climber, he examined the narrow ledge winding across the cliff-face, then cautiously lowered himself into the chasm, creeping by slow zigzag degrees to the fallen man.

"Ugly-looking customer! Desert thief! I'll bet he lost that eye putting up a good fight." A trickle of blood oozed from beneath the Arab's chechia; he hung limply across the rock, his face gray, his mouth open. Jack pulled out his flask and lifted the wounded man's head.

The Arab opened his fierce, bright eye.

"It was a sharp stone, billah, that caught my head," he explained. "To thee, effendi, I owe my life. By this Gorge of Death, never shall One-Eye forget thy deed."

To divert the stream of gratitude, Jack held out the brandy flask. "Better keep this. You may need it."

The long, difficult climb to the ledge above safely accomplished, One-Eye took elaborate farewell.

"May Allah have thee in his keeping!" The Arab drew a ring from his finger and held it out to Jack. "Take this in proof of gratitude, effendi! It is my wasm—the tribal mark of the Zendas. Now hast thou a passport to the desert better than a two-edged sword."

In token of love and fealty, he touched Jack's hand to breast, lips, and forehead and, turning, walked slowly away through the gloomy gorge.

Left alone, Jack looked curiously at his gift. The ring was of wrought silver in which a turquoise was set with strange effect. Like a clear blue eye, the stone seemed to return Jack's gaze. "One Eye's wasm, eh! And very fitting, too—nearly as remarkable as the man himself!"

2: A Secret Enemy

DRIVING SLOWLY through the crowded streets of Zilfi one afternoon, Jack had an uneasy premonition that something evil was close at hand. Frequent narrow escapes had bred in him a sort of sixth sense of late. Someone was deliberately trying to kill him. He had made an enemy—a secret, persistent, unrelenting enemy. The whole thing was inexplicable to him, for his friendly encounter with One-Eye five years ago had proved a good omen. Ever since, he had lived on the best of terms with the Arabs, and the recent attacks on his life seemed unaccountable.

That little warning bell in his consciousness saved him. He twisted like an eel as the bearded marabout sprang. The gleaming blade only ripped his coatsleeve in its downward thrust.

The old man was off through the crowd like a minnow in a pool. Across the crowded souk Jack followed, but was delayed by an Arab with an enormous bunch of bananas, and lost sight of the marabout. He returned to his car and drove off hot and angry, for these affairs were becoming a serious nuisance. He recalled one after another as he drove on in the golden sunshine and purple shadows of the afternoon.

There was the spider— the deadly Galeodes arachnida. He had waked one night to see a dark figure jump off his balcony, and brilliant moonlight had revealed the spider running over his sheet. The affair of the boulder had been a nasty one, too. Placed so ingeniously at the corner of the sea-road, it had almost sent his car crashing a thousand feet to the rocks below.

This last attempt in the open street showed that his secret enemy was losing patience. He could think of but one man who might conceivably be planning his death so deliberately— Omar Ben Saif.

Leaving the car at a garage, he made his way down to the sea-road and found Linda, his fiancée, already at their trysting-place. Sitting together on the rocks by the dazzling sea, Jack explained what had delayed him.

"I can't figure it out at all," he went on. "The only one I know who might have a reason for getting me out of the way is Ben Saif. I shall be twenty-six next week, and am entitled then to be made a full partner with my brother, Fenton, in the firm of Deane & Son. He seems anxious enough to take me in with him, but I'm doubtful if that rascally Ben Saif will like it— and he sends the bulk of our cargoes. It's my belief that he's using our ships for private enterprises of his own."

"Yet your brother trusts him."

"In some ways, I understand the Arabs better than Fenton does. He was a thorough-going American boy when dad first settled in Zilfi and built up the shipping business. But I was born out here. True, I went home for my education, but I've lived in Algeria all the rest of the time. I flatter myself that I know the people."

"Mother thinks you are much too friendly with them. She was complaining about it to Fenton after we'd been sightseeing with you. Said she disliked going about Zilfi with you, because the Arabs came up and talked as if they were boys of your own class at Harvard. Poor mother, she's terrified of them."

"Mrs. Webb prefers Fenton to me as a future son-in-law. He is her ideal of a steady, industrious, wealthy man."

"She's got another grudge against you now."

"What's that?"

"The ring One-Eye gave you! It's a pity she heard that story about it. She's all upset over your having such a notorious bandit for a friend."

"Hardly a friend!" Jack laughed. "He wouldn't know me from Adam if we met now. I had a mustache five years ago, and I was wearing sun-goggles, not to speak of a bad heat-rash. Anyhow, you may be sure I'll not be the one to claim friendship. He's the biggest rogue in the Barbary States."

"I wish we could have the luck to meet One-Eye when we go to El Fumm tomorrow. It would be thrilling to say I'd met such a famous character."

"Not a chance! The French are hot on his trail after that last hold-up of his in the desert. He won't come within a hundred miles of Zilfi now. Much more likely to meet some of Ben Saif's ruffians at El Fumm; that's the reason I objected to having a picnic there. I don't see why Fenton insisted on it."

"He wanted to please me. I'm terribly anxious to see the gorge. Aren't you exaggerating the danger? El Fumm's only a few hours' ride from Zilfi. Why don't you want us to go?"

"Don't want you to go," he corrected. "You wouldn't guess the intrigue and plotting out here in Algeria beneath the surface of apparent order. Slavery's always existed in this country, and the Arabs can't see any moral reason for its suppression. It goes on under the noses of the French. Quietly and secretly— just like bootlegging at home. It never stops."

"But where does El Fumm come in? Is it being used as a slave route? Oh,"— Linda drew a deep breath of enlightenment— "you mean Ben Saif uses it— that he's a slave-dealer?"

"There's no proof yet, but he's under suspicion. The government can't afford to make mistakes."

"It's strange your brother is so indifferent to Ben Saif's reputation."

"Fenton finds it convenient to shut his eyes and ears. He won't listen to me. Pretends to think what I hear in the souks is just rumor and gossip. He and Ben Saif are hand in glove. Fenton makes no attempt to hide their intimacy. So far the government hasn't interfered. But Ben Saif is being watched, I don't believe Fenton realizes how closely."

Linda pondered. "I see. And, of course, as soon as you're a partner in the firm, you'll be able to do something about it."

"Yes, if they don't wreck the firm's reputation entirely before I get into it."

"Even if Ben Saif is all you suspect, he wouldn't dare to interfere with us at El Fumm, though."

"You might be in serious danger. It wouldn't be the first time a girl's been carried off in these mountains. El Fumm's a desolate spot. You'd disappear before we knew what hit us."

"Jack! They wouldn't steal a white girl like that! Ben Saif could never get away with such a ghastly outrage!"

"Dear, you don't begin to understand the subtle game that slave-dealers play out here. It's the hardest thing in the world to pin anything on to them. Ben Saif's cutthroats would rather die than breathe a word against him. In Algeria, a traitor's fate is— horrible!"

"You don't think—" Linda hesitated, her eyes troubled. "Fenton's acting very strangely. I wonder if he—" She broke off abruptly and got to her feet. "Its nothing— just a foolish idea! I'm so anxious about you, that's all. But we really can't back out of the expedition now. Everything's arranged. Mother's all set for El Fumm. Nothing will put her off now."

"I suppose not," agreed Jack unhappily as they left the sea and turned to walk back to Zilfi.

3: The Affair of the Orange

THROUGH the Bab-el-Ghrabi, Gate of the West, they passed into the white-walled town, and, by winding streets, reached the marketplace.

Ochered, crumbling walls of ancient buildings enclosing the square were brilliant with sun and opalescent shadows—blue, dusky purple, and gold-flecked green, they quivered beneath balconies and outthrust tilings, under arched doorways, and among the baskets and pyramids of fruit before the gaudy booths.

"What gorgeous color!" Linda was enchanted.

Across the souk, in the shadow of an archway, a little fruit-seller in black gandourah and dingy turban smiled ingratiatingly beside a red-gold pyramid of mandarin oranges. Linda stopped and took one from him. He showed all his teeth in a yet broader grin, pressed another orange into Jack's hand, and spoke a few words in Arabic.

Jack peeled his fruit carelessly, absorbed in watching Linda. His mind was full of plans. Next week he would be a partner in the firm of Deane & Son. He and Linda would be married....

The black-clad fruit-seller got to his feet in one swift movement, observing Jack narrowly; the whites of his eyes gleamed as he furtively withdrew and melted into the darkness of the narrow lane beyond the archway.

Preoccupied, Jack broke off a quarter of the orange he was absent-mindedly peeling. His eyes were fixed on the fruit, but for a moment what they saw did not registered in his brain. Then his absent gaze focused sharply.

The flies!

For a paralyzed second he watched them drop off, or fall dead within the hollow cut of the partly broken skin, standing up like tulip petals about the fruit.

"Linda!" He snatched at the remaining quarter of her orange.

Watching with eyes full of horror and apprehension, he saw flies hover and sip. His breath almost stopped, then came in a gasp of relief. Thank God, it was all right! Only from his orange the flies fell dead— poisoned! On Linda's orange they sipped, and crawled, and sipped again, unharmed.

"I thought they'd got you, too!"

"What was it, Jack? Darling, don't look at me like that! I don't understand."

"Poison! My orange was poisoned— something deadly. That fruit-seller—" He glanced round and discovered that the vender had vanished. "Where'd the little rat go? No matter, I'd never have caught him. Let's get home out of this."

She clung to him, thoroughly unnerved, the bright glory of the day suddenly darkened by creeping fear. "Jack, this is all too horrible! You can't go on from day to day, never knowing when or how they'll strike!" She shuddered, recalling the black flies speckling the dust as they fell from the poisoned orange. "I ought to tell you that— you may have guessed it, anyhow!"

He looked at her in silence, waiting.

"I'm afraid you'll be angry that I suspect him." She hesitated "It's Fenton! He wants to marry me. He wouldn't accept my refusal. I'm afraid of him."

"You— afraid?"

"Yes, yes! But that's not all. Jack, he's jealous of you. Oh, I know. I've seen his face— his eyes!"

"Why, Linda! You must put the brake on now and then. You're not trying to tell me that Fenton's out for my blood?"

"Oh, I know it sounds absurd to you. But I have the feeling that his jealousy is somehow connected with all the rest... with your partnership and his business with Ben Saif! Perhaps Fenton is not so ignorant of Ben Saif's secrets; perhaps he's not merely a catspaw!"

4: In the Hold of the S. S. Pearl

JACK GUIDED his horse carefully, for the Empty Land was rough going. Here and there, over the dun levels, Zilfi and other small towns lay like scattered beads, their domes and white walls twinkling in the sun.

He was making for the little port of Biodh, where he expected to find Deane & Son's newest ship, the S. S. Pearl, in harbor. To his surprise, only a few fishing-boats rocked gently alongside the quay. He rode on to the cliffs, and saw the Pearl standing well out to sea, about a mile up the coast.

He was puzzled. It was unusual for their ships to leave the quay until the last possible minute— hours, sometimes days after the scheduled time. Native exporters made no effort to comply with shipping rules and regulations. They regarded the white effendi's passion for fixed hours as inexplicable, even impious. A ship could sail only when Allah willed. How useless, therefore, to strive against his decrees!

So they traveled across the Empty Land with their laden camels, bringing cargoes of fruit, wine, olive oil and cork down to the little harbor. If no ship was there, they made camp, and smoked, and dreamed away long idle days until another ship arrived.

Yet the Pearl lay anchored well out to sea a good twelve hours before she was due to sail.

Suddenly a launch drew out from an inlet a mile or two up the coast, and headed directly for the anchored ship.

He frowned. "Fenton's launch! Now what the devil?"

He watched the launch cut across the sea— pink as cherry-blossom in the rising sun— and run in against the Pearl's starboard side, which was hidden from his sight. In a few minutes it streaked back to the coast again.

"I'm going on board if I have to swim out there," he vowed, dismounting, and giving his reins to the servant. "Wait here for me," he ordered and tramped off with long, swinging strides down to the harbor

Pierre, harbor-master, was vehement in answer to Jack's inquiries. Recently arrived in Algeria, the young Frenchman was full of homesick contempt for everything in the country.

"No, m'sieur," Pierre's voice squeaked with indignation. "I was not informed why the Pearl put out to sea before her time. The good God alone knows why people do things in this country!" The little sailor rolled despairing eyes skyward.

"I want you to row me out to the Pearl."

Pierre chose the least clumsy of the fishing-boats moored in the harbor, and began to pull toward the distant ship.

"Ahoy there!" Jack sent out a stentorian hail as they drew near the Pearl.

A turbaned head was thrust over the side, then vanished hastily.

Jack admonished Pierre in a low voice. "Get up a row of some sort with the captain. Say anything, do anything to keep him off my track. Half an hour alone on that ship is what I want."

"It will be a pleasure, m'sieur! For long I have desired to insult that pig of an Arab captain."

The little Frenchman carried out orders to the letter, goading the captain to fling a cup of coffee across the chartroom table. During the profane and noisy duet that ensued, Jack escaped unnoticed and made straight for the ship's hold.

No one stopped him. Those of the crew he met saluted indifferently. The affairs of the white effendi were nothing to them. He went down a ladder into the hold.

Reek of tar, rope, and sacking mingled with spicier odors as he stood for a moment at the foot of the ladder. He struck a match and moved slowly forward among the heterogeneous cargo. Skirting a damp, sticky mound of date-sacks, he came to a sudden pause, staring....

Although he had feared and expected to see it, the thing appalled him. The match went out between his fingers. He lighted another hastily, the small action serving to steady him, and looked again at the young Arab girls huddled up in a narrow space before him. They drew their haiks across their faces as they confronted him.

Slaves!

His questions elicited very meager information. He gathered that the launch had brought them to the ship at different times during the past night; obviously there were more of them than could have been carried on the single trip he had seen. They had come a journey of many moons from desert oases in the south. They did not know who had brought them, or where they were going. Unblinkingly, their dark eyes regarded him from between the folds of their veils.

"It is written," they echoed with the fatalism of the East.

Reaching the chartroom once more, he found that he had not been missed, and that Captain Robah— sprawled on the floor— would feel little interest in anyone on board his ship for some time to come. Beside him knelt a frightened servant, endeavoring to staunch the blood from a cut on his head with a corner of his gold-embroidered tunic.

Pierre, waving the neck of a broken brandy bottle, waited with a rapturous smile for Jack's approval.

"Good! You've made a fine job of it."

The two hurried on deck, went down the ship's side to their waiting boat, and pulled quickly back to land.

FENTON, in pajamas and silk dressing gown, was enjoying an after-breakfast smoke on his bedroom balcony when Jack appeared.

"I've just been down to the harbor and found your rascally old captain had put out to sea. I couldn't understand it, so I went to see why. Good reason— he'd been taking slaves aboard."

"What?"

"Yes, slaves! Three or four dozen girls."

Fenton ground the stub of a cigarette viciously, his eyes avoiding Jack's. "Slaves! On board the Pearl! If the government gets wind of this, we're ruined!"

"I judge they've been taken from oases in the southern territory."

"That's Ben Saif's country!"

"Those slaves have got to be taken off the Pearl as quietly as they were sneaked on," Jack said at last.

"It's a damned ugly business," Fenton growled, "damned ugly!"

"Who ordered Captain Robah to anchor out at sea?"

"I did. To oblige Ben Saif. He wanted to smuggle a few cases of his special liqueur on board. I let him borrow the launch."

Jack ran his fingers through his hair, slumped down at the breakfast table, and twiddled a teaspoon thoughtfully. He spoke with slow emphasis. "It's a thin yarn, isn't it? You'll never get away with it— not to the French!"

Fenton moved to stand directly opposite his brother, a dark purplish color rising on his flat cheeks, his pale eyes blinking rapidly. "See here, Jack, I've been every kind of a fool you like to mention. But I swear I did not believe Ben Saif would do a thing like this. You'll learn when you're made a partner, my boy, that there was a mighty big inducement to turn a deaf ear to all the rumors about him."

Jack waved the teaspoon emphatically. "Get hold of Ben Saif. Tell him to take those slaves off, and take himself to the devil as fast as he can. We're through with him."

The purple tint in Fenton's face deepened.

"I'll tell him that and a trifle more. I'll make it so hot for him that he won't two-time me, or anyone else in Zilfi, again. The scoundrel!"

"I suppose it's our duty to report this business, but the firm would suffer badly if we did. The French are getting really fussy about slaves. We can put a stop to Ben Saif's trafficking along this coast anyhow."

"He's due at my office at eight-thirty; so I'll get along, and put the fear of Allah in him."

"I suppose the El Fumm excursion is all fixed?"

"Why, yes!" Fenton's voice was conciliatory. "There'll be no danger of interference from Ben Saif now, as you feared. He won't try any more monkey tricks with us."

5: At El Fumm

THE FONDUK— starting-point for the expedition to El Fumm— was the usual rectangular enclosure typical of North Africa, with arcaded walls, small stone prayer-chambers where the faithful besought Allah's blessing on their journeys, and single high, narrow entrance gate. Two garflas having recently arrived, the caravanserai overflowed with temperamental camel-drivers and their dusty, complaining, evil-smelling beasts.

Followed by servants and horses, the picnickers passed through the narrow gate. A few donkeys, laden with firewood and hampers of food, pattered on neat little hoofs at the end of the procession. Their patient eyes reflected a truly Arab resignation to their fate.

As the horses began to pick their way between granite boulders and lentisk bushes, Jack edged his mount alongside his brother, letting the others pass on. "You've seen Ben Saif?" he asked.

Fenton's eyes held a cold gleam. "Don't worry! I've told him where he gets off."

"He doesn't scare easily. Besides, he knows it's not to your interest to report slaves on board your own boat."

"Don't worry!" repeated Fenton. "I've got things fixed just the way I want them now— and then some."

The bitter hate in his brother's eyes fairly startled Jack. He felt for a moment as if it were directed against himself, and his pleasant, whimsical face became very grave. Fenton's temper, when roused, was a nasty one— very nasty indeed. Such cold venom was an ugly thing to witness even though Ben Saif was its object.

Linda's fears and warnings, her conviction that in his brother he had a deadly and determined rival, came back to his mind as he spurred on to join the rest. Of course, she was wrong... and yet—

"This place gives me the shivers." Mrs. Webb was wilting badly after two hours over the sun-baked plain. "It's like a cemetery."

"You're right," agreed Jack. "El Fumm's the dreariest spot in North Africa, I believe. But you'll own it was not my choice of a happy hunting ground."

The dark gorge looked as haunted as the Arabs believed it to be. Its long tunnel was dank and sepulchral in spite of the blazing sun. The sound of rushing water reached their ears—the voice of a hidden torrent foaming at the base of mile-high cliffs, seeking escape from its gloomy prison to the sunlit world beyond.

Suddenly a shrill voice startled the sight-seers. A horrible, semi-nude figure emerged from the square-mouthed cave at the entrance to El Fumm. Making for the intruders with curses and unearthly yells, the old man leaped and gibbered, his long beard blowing about his withered neck, a wreath of yellow flowers pressed down over blazing eyes.

"All right, Linda!" Jack touched her arm reassuringly as he moved to stop the capering madman. "We've disturbed the old marabout at his devotions, it seems. I'll try to soothe his ruffled feelings."

A handful of cigarettes, a few small coins, and a ceremonious apology soon pacified the offended saint. With a wide, toothless grin, he invited Jack to inspect the treasures of his cave. To humor him, Jack followed to his grotto, but halted on the dark threshold and peered into the gloom, mindful of possible danger. He waited, alert and wary, one hand on the butt of his revolver, until his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness. A flickering lamp burned in the shrine. The grotto was small and untenanted save for the marabout, who knelt before his tiny altar, fumbling a string of beads and muttering rapidly.

"Jack! Jack!" Linda's voice, calling on a high, quick note of terror, struck to his heart like a knife.

He wheeled swiftly. At that moment he collided with Fenton, and the impact sent him reeling backward. He staggered, recovered himself, and burst out of the cave with the force of a young bull charging into the arena. Mrs. Webb was stumbling awkwardly across the rock and stubble toward him. The servants, huddled in a frightened group, stared and pointed down the gorge.

His eyes followed their gaze. He could see nothing.

He turned to Fenton. "What was it? Where is she?"

Winded by the force of their collision, Fenton crouched gasping outside the cave, one hand pressed to his side. "Over there!" He waved vaguely to the gorge. "Arab knocked me down... can't go after her... sprained ankle..."

"Jack! Oh, Jack!"

Faintly, the cry reached his straining ears. Head thrust forward, body tense, he strove to pierce the gloom of the gorge. Suddenly he saw her. She was slung over the shoulder of a desert man in dark burnoose, who was running, swift and sure-footed, along the giddy path, into the yawning blackness of El Fumm. Tailless monkeys watched him from the lofty crags. In the narrow roof of sky above, vultures hung brooding like evil spirits over the abyss.

Jack was a good athlete, almost as lean and hard as the Berbers themselves, but as he started in desperate pursuit, he realized that he was outmatched. The delay caused by Fenton had given the Arab an excellent start. Loose stones underfoot and tough polished tree-roots lay in wait to trip him on the narrow, giddy trail. Cursing his heavy riding boots, he slackened speed. He dared not take them off. His feet had not the tough, calloused soles of the desert man running barefoot ahead.

Resolutely, he thrust aside his fears for Linda— fears that sent his wits spinning— and began coolly to plan and calculate his chances. Nothing was to be gained by overtaking the Arab on this narrow ledge, where a struggle would send all three into the chasm. There was only one chance— to catch them before the Arab could plunge into the dense cork-oak forests at the farther end of El Fumm.

He forced himself to look to his footing, to keep his eyes from watching the glimmer of white on the brown back ahead of him. As he followed the dizzy path, he was no more conscious of its peril and the yawning depths below than of the stones hurled by the monkeys above. To decrease the distance between himself and the swift-footed Arab was his only thought.

The last two hundred yards of the gorge took a sharp turn. As the brown burnoose vanished round a shoulder of the rock, he set his teeth for a terrific spurt. Luck was with him as, flinging all caution to the winds, he dashed forward and scrambled round the intervening bluff.

He was gaining. The Arab was impeded by Linda's weight, but they were very close now to the dark, sheltering trees, and the distance widened as the kidnapper put forth a last desperate effort.

They were gone! At the spot where they had vanished, Jack stared desperately round. A flash of white sent him full tilt toward a clearing nearby.

He reached it too late. Only the trampled earth where the Arab's horse had stood; only the sound of hoofs over the rustling leaves; only a glimpse of Linda's white dress in the crook of her captor's arm! He drew out his revolver, but stuffed it back with a curse. He couldn't risk trying to shoot the horse with Linda on its back. If he could only get nearer! But the Arab guided his beast with cunning skill, weaving his way without hesitation through the tangled woods.

The trail grew steeper, winding up to bare, rounded hills. Soon, neither sound of hoofs nor glimpse of white dress guided him any longer. Drawing clear of the trees at last, he saw them a mile ahead. The horse cantered lightly and easily over the smooth slopes. They were on the road that led to the mountains and he watched intently, making certain of their direction.

Yes, they were going to Ubbeyt. The mountain road they followed led to no other goal. Assured of this, he flung himself down in the lee of a great boulder, panting and exhausted. It took all his resolution to lie there while he gathered strength for the long pursuit, knowing that every minute bore Linda farther from him.

Twenty miles lay between him and Ubbeyt. But in that mountain village he could count on one good friend. Tollog the Sheikh would give what help he could, lend him a horse and put him on the right track.

His mind flashed back to the rest of the picnic party. They must have left El Fumm by now. Probably they were hurrying to give the alarm at Zilfi. Certainly none of them could, or would, follow him. Fenton was helpless with a sprained ankle. No bribe or threat would induce the servants to enter the haunted gorge. And Mrs. Webb would be expending her energy in telling the world her grief.

6: Night in the Hills

THE SUN, throwing down long javelins of fire in its flight, was hurrying westward as Jack took the mountain road to Ubbeyt. He loped along in a jog-trot that ate up the long miles steadily, his shadow lengthening behind him on the white, dusty road. The hills humped massive green shoulders in his path as he doggedly advanced toward the black, jagged line of the Atlas Mountains.

Soon, from deep valleys on every hand, crept purple mists and shadows to veil the hills and shroud the clear shining of the afterglow. A chill wind blew fitfully from snow-capped ranges. Night like a black veil dropped before his face, made him falter and stumble in the dark.

He was devoutly thankful to see the moon rise at last, round and full and brilliant. Jackals howled dismally from barren hillsides as he toiled on. Dark bird-shapes swooped and hovered. Bats squeaked and circled about his head. Inky shadows, sprawling across his path, concealed stones and hollows which brought him crashing to his knees. But he stumbled on, husbanding his strength, fighting the impulse to shout, to dash blindly into the darkness in a last desperate effort to overtake Linda.

As the moon climbed, he made better speed. His thoughts, less occupied by the path, turned to the tangled web of his fears and suspicions. He was convinced that Ben Saif had planned Linda's capture. He knew he was following her into a baited trap. She was being used as a lure to get him where Ben Saif wanted him.

It was Fenton's part in the affair that worried him. That his brother had delayed him purposely at the cave seemed certain. But did this mean that he was fully cognizant of all Ben Saif's schemes? Had he agreed to them even to the point of murdering an inconvenient younger brother?

Breasting a steep hillside, at last he caught sight of the village of Ubbeyt. In the moonlight it gleamed white on a distant mountain spur. His eyes, keen as a falcon's, raked the rough track that led to it. No horseman, no object of any kind moved there. Yet he stood watchful, alert, waiting for evidence of something he expected to see.

He counted at least half a dozen tiny red points of light. They flickered intermittently at shadowed angles of the road between himself and Ubbeyt. He knew those red sparks to be glowing kief pipes. Not one solitary figure was visible, but each pipe stood for an Arab with gun and twisted knife.

"Ah, I thought so!" his parched lips whispered the words in disgust. "This is Ben Saif's work, all right. No one else would be smart enough to post sentries. That damned scoundrel's the only competent Arab in Algeria. I'll have to leave the road and crawl over these cursed hills to the far side of Ubbeyt."

The detour took even longer than he had feared. He was cut, scratched, bleeding, and weary to death when he reached the hill above Ubbeyt, and crept through the scrub and coarse yellowed grass in the cactus-hedge about the village.

He wondered if he could manage to summon his friend, Tollog, without rousing other sleepers. He crouched down near the hedge and gave a long, rasping parrot cry—the signal his Arab friend knew well. Again and again he repeated it, his eyes on the white walls of the sheikh's house.

He had begun to despair of making the old man hear when a bearded face and red checchia were thrust from a window. A hand signaled to him, and the head withdrew. In a minute or two, Tollog's lean, wiry body wormed itself through a thin place in the cactus-hedge and cautiously advanced to where Jack lay. Not until the two had crawled up the hill and gained a strategic position overlooking both road and village did Jack explain himself.

"Uggurah! I knew not it was a white Sitt he held in his arms. She was swathed in his burnoose close as a young ear of corn in its leaves. I caught no glimpse of her face, and she sat before him on his horse without sound or movement."

Tollog's words brought a stifled bitter curse to Jack's lips.

"What road did they take past Ubbeyt?"

"The road to Beni-Ghat, effendi. The Berber told me he was going back over the hills to Biodh."

"Back to the coast— to Biodh!" Numbing fear dawned in the chaos of Jack's mind.

"Allah ya' sallamah! God save you!" was Tollog's pitying reply. "She will doubtless be put on board a ship with other slaves for Arabia."

"Not while I'm alive!" The mad marabout himself had not looked more savage than Jack. "Get me a horse, Tollog, and I'll pay you anything you ask. These sentries—"

"Leave them to me, effendi!" Tollog wagged a benevolent beard. "They are thirsty as the desert sands, the miserable ticks of an ass's tail. I will take them lakby to drink. They shall hear and see nothing when thou dost ride from Ubbeyt, I promise thee!"

Tollog made good his boast. The strong, fermented juice of the palm scarcely needed the drug he added to it. In a short time Jack rode from Ubbeyt under the paling stars, while on the road behind him some half-dozen veiled and bearded men lay snoring noisily in the dust.

He rode his strong, sure-footed mountain pony hard. At Beni-Ghat the road forked, and Jack took the track leading back over the hills to Biodh, as Sheikh Tollog had advised.

Dawn found him emerging from the hills to the gray level of the Empty Land. Beyond it the sea was brightening in the east, as it had been twenty-four hours ago, when he had looked down at that stretch of water and seen the Pearl riding at anchor with her cargo of slaves on board.

The light, reflected from the gleaming water, struck his aching eyes with intolerable glare. The harbor was empty, save for a few fishing-boats. Neither at the wharf nor out at sea was there any glimpse of the Pearl. She had sailed.

Down on the quay, Jack marked the many cargoes that had come too late. There must indeed have been desperate need of haste.

Was Linda on board the Pearl? She couldn't have been put on at Biodh. A cold conviction seized him. The Berber had taken her by the other road from Beni-Ghat to some spot farther up the coast. Tollog had been deceived in thinking she was to be brought to Biodh.

7: The Truth—or Some of It

"YES, YES! I can understand you feel that way, Jack! But try to be reasonable. Linda's in no real danger."

"Then you and I have different ideas about danger." Jack strode up and down the private office of Deane & Son, dusty and unshaven, his eyes desperately anxious under his rough thatch of hair. "You've kidded yourself about Ben Saif all along. You're still doing it. What possible reason have you for not wanting him shown up?"

Fenton ran a finger round his immaculate collar and shot a quick glance at his brother, standing at the other side of his broad desk. "The trouble with you is," he began impressively, "that you imagine our business can be run on the same lines out here as if we were in Boston and dealing with dyed-in-the-wool New Englanders. Now about Ben Saif, let me tell you—"

"You're stalling! I came to tell you something! I'm on my way to report at Headquarters. Linda's gone, and I'll burn up the whole of the Barbary coast to get her back, if necessary."

"Linda's safe, I tell you." Fenton's calm was beginning to wear thin. "If you'll give me twenty-four hours, I'll have her back in Zilfi again. It's only a question of money. That's all Ben Saif wants. Just leave him to me. I'll fix him."

"You're the last man on earth to handle him now, if what you told me about the infernal racket you kicked up with him yesterday was true. He'll double-cross you again, as he has before. He'll take the money and keep Linda, too. This can't be handled privately now. I don't care what it costs the firm in money, or reputation either. Linda's safety is all that counts."

"Linda's safety is not endangered, you headstrong young fool! It's you who'll put her on the spot if you interfere."

"Did Ben Saif take those slaves off the Pearl?"

"Certainly, he did. I superintended the job myself."

"Now I know you're lying!" Jack put two extremely dirty hands on the polished desk and thrust his angry face within a foot of his brother's. "I've been to Biodh this morning, and found that the Pearl weighed anchor within an hour of my visit to her yesterday. She sailed without putting off those slaves! And more than that— your launch took Linda out to the Pearl!"

Fenton stared into Jack's face with pale eyes that blinked just once, but gave no further sign of perturbation. "Quite an amateur detective in your own way," he remarked, mechanically straightening the pens and pencils on the blotter under his hands.

"It's true, isn't it?" Jack still leaned across the desk.

"How should I know?" parried Fenton, his face mask-like as he sorted pens and pencils. "And how do you know?"

"I asked the coast guards."

"And they saw Linda put on board?"

"I'll admit it is only a guess about Linda. But I'm determined that ship's going to be searched for her, anyhow. I'll use the slaves to get the French going on the job."

"Once and for all, Jack, I tell you Linda's perfectly safe. You'll see her again tomorrow morning as surely as you see me now."

"And just how can you swear to that little fact? There's only one reason that can make you so all-fired certain! You and Ben Saif planned the kidnapping together! You're both out to get me, and you're using Linda, you—"

"If you'll only listen to reason, no one's going to get you. You've guessed half of it, however; so I might as well acknowledge that the kidnapping was an arrangement to which I gave my consent— a most unwilling consent. Ben Saif had me cornered. The girl's perfectly safe." Fenton drew back from Jack's furious gesture. "She's being held until Ben Saif gets clear away. He didn't trust you. He didn't believe you'd keep it dark about the slaves until he'd made his getaway."

"I'm through with you! I'm off to report all I know about Ben Saif's dirty work, and your part in it, too."

"No!" Fenton took up a heavy ruler.

Jack flung himself bodily across the desk. He knocked Fenton backward, and the two of them crashed to the floor. They fought silently, with the suppressed antagonism of years. Rolling and scuffling over and over in blind rage, neither was aware that a door opened close by, or that a man entered softly.

"Gibani!" Ben Saif closed the door behind him and stood for a minute to watch the struggle. At last, seeing Fenton's purpling face, the Arab unwound his sash in deliberate fashion and joined in the fight. Jack was tied up and gagged almost before he recognized his new antagonist.

"All haste is from the devil, and tardiness from the All-Merciful!" quoted Ben Saif with pious unction. "Jack, effendi, thou wilt learn patience in the long years which I pray Allah may grant to thee. The slave's yoke is heavy, but are not thy shoulders broad to bear it?"

Fenton took a bottle of brandy from a wall-cupboard and his eyes met Jack's with bitter scorn. "So now you know!" He filled and raised his glass. "Here's to your future career! You'll be celebrating that birthday of yours on board the Pearl in a day or two."

Jack lay still, his eyes fixed on Fenton's face. It was not a pretty sight, with its bloodshot eyes and mottled flush.

Fenton went out with Ben Saif. The door was slammed and Jack heard the sharp click of its double lock.

8: Another Visit to the S. S. Pearl

AT THE END of a grim twelve hours, Jack still awaited Fenton's return.

He had slept at intervals, uneasy sleep with dreams that were a punishment, but it had partly restored his strength. Through the windows of his prison he saw the sky change to flaming gold and crimson sunset, fade to shadowy purple, deepen at last to profound night-blue. Brilliant stars blinked. Voices, laughter, the distant sound of native music died. Night and sleep enfolded the little white town.

When the door opened to admit Fenton and Ben Saif once more, he lay in the half-stupor of exhaustion, and took them for another nightmare dream. But he began to believe them unpleasant facts when his bonds were loosened and the gag removed.

The food and drink put before him cleared his wits. Strength and confidence revived. He felt new springs of hope rise. After all, he was alive! That was something.

He began to expect a miracle. True, his enemies held all the trumps, but there was still another round to be played, still a chance that luck might deal him a winning hand at the finish. Bound and gagged once more, he kept up his courage during the ride that followed by concentrating on the lucky but improbable break for which he hoped.

After an interminable drive, the car stopped somewhere on the seacoast. His gag was finally removed, and, with wrists bound behind his back, he walked across the sand dunes to where Fenton's launch awaited them. The outline of the Pearl loomed up about a mile away on the moonlit waters, a light smoke rising from her funnels.

Jack watched that smoke-veil with a sinking heart. So the Pearl had steam up all ready to start! He didn't quite know what else he had expected. But the sight of her brought home to him how very slim was any chance of escape.

As he climbed the ship's side, and set foot on the white deck, he looked round instinctively for Linda. No one was visible. His tottering hopes crashed about him as he reluctantly followed his captors down the companionway.

In the cabin, Captain Robah awaited them. Jack leaned back against a white and gold pillar and returned the venomous regard of his three enemies with what insolence he could muster.

His heart almost stopped as Linda appeared in the doorway.

She was standing very still, her face was white and tear-stained, her shadowed eyes were fixed earnestly upon him. Her face grew whiter still as she saw his bonds, his exhaustion, and the despair in his eyes that not all his will could hide from her.

"Jack! Jack!" she whispered with shaking voice. "I thought I should never see you again!

She clasped him to her, and for a minute they stood forgetful of everything save themselves.

Fiercely jealous, Fenton put a shaking hand on Linda's arm. He could bear it no longer, even though he had planned this farewell scene himself. He had wanted Jack to drink the very dregs of torment, to go straight from Linda's arms to a slave's yoke. Sharply, he pulled the girl back, looking from one to the other with envy that almost choked him.

"I have a choice to offer you." His pale eyes made Linda shiver. "Please listen very carefully unless you want Jack to die at once."

"Don't believe his lies." Jack's voice was low and shaken. "Don't be trapped into giving your word to anything."

"Keep quiet!" Fenton snapped savagely, then turned back to Linda. "Your first and wisest choice is to marry me. If you consent to this, Jack will become a slave with the privilege of seeing you once a year. I must point out that he will live just as long as you keep silent. If you betray me, he will die by torture—the desert tribes are good at that sort of thing!"

Extremity of fear kept Linda silent. With horror, she stared into Fenton's pale eyes. Her white lips strove to answer him, and failed.

"You may prefer the second choice, after all." Fenton's eyes were merciless as they met the utter loathing in the girl's. She could not have regarded a swamp adder with more intense aversion.

"The alternative to marrying me is this: I will have you both flung overboard to the sharks."

"To the sharks! Murder both of us... like that! Oh, no, no! You'd never dare! You couldn't get away with it... you couldn't!"

"Quite simple." Fenton glanced at Jack, and, satisfied by the expression of his brother's face, smiled at Linda. "Ben Saif has reputable witnesses ready to swear the two of you were carried off into the desert and abandoned. We shall allow a reasonable time to elapse for you to die of thirst, and for the vultures to dispose of you. Then we shall produce two skeletons of you— they're all ready, and waiting among the sand-dunes for their cue."

Jack did not respond to the anguished appeal in Linda's eyes. He couldn't. His mind was picturing her tossed overboard to the hungry sharks. For himself, he preferred death— even the cruel death offered— to the long purgatory of a slave's existence. But she must not die.

Linda turned again to Fenton. Her eyes loathed him. The four men watched her silently. The very walls of the cabin seemed waiting in hushed expectancy for her decision.

A loud yell sounded above. A babel of voices broke out. There was a rush of feet. A long, clear whistle cut through the noise with penetrating command. Two sailors in torn, dirty rags burst into the cabin.

"The French! A cutter approaches!" they babbled fearfully. "By Allah, they are coming to search the ship! They will shoot us all! What evil chance! What shaitan has betrayed us?"

"Get back, miserable mud-fish that you are!" Robah's heavy hand and loud voice drove the men out. "Let the accursed Nazrani search—what have we to fear?"

Jack's eyes flashed to Linda's. Was a miracle to happen after all? His body tingled, his heart thumped against his ribs. Then he suddenly became aware of a new element in the situation between Fenton and the Arabs.

In spite of Robah's bravado with the frightened sailors, Jack was convinced there were slaves on board. The captain and Ben Saif seemed to consider themselves completely masters of the situation, but if the slaves were stowed away so secretly that there was no danger of discovery, why was Fenton so uneasy?

Clearly all was not going as his brother expected. Had the Arabs something up their sleeve— a surprise for their confederate?

"You take it coolly," Fenton's voice was as sharp and uneasy as his look. "Where have you stowed the slaves? The French won't miss much!"

"By my beard, there are no slaves, effendi!" The captain showed his white teeth. "I put them ashore before you came on board."

"No slaves... no slaves on the ship?" Fenton's surprise was almost grotesque.

"You have made a mistake." Ben Saif regarded him contemptuously. "You sought to play your own game. You meant to find safety for yourself, while I paid the price for both of us. Ya bissahi, you thought to cast Ben Saif like a worn sandal to the dunghill."

"What do you mean?" Fenton made desperate efforts to control his rage.

"I mean that I sent a spy after you today. You went to the French to tell them I had put slaves on board the Pearl without your knowledge or consent. You asked them to send a cutter tonight, knowing that I should be here, and hoping to witness my capture. All this my spy heard as he lay outside the room where your treacherous, lying tongue betrayed me. Do you not recall the old beggar who lay in a fit outside the commandant's room as you left it? It is a marvel that poor one sees and hears so much during fits so terrible! But, Allah be praised, he recovers rapidly. He was able to report every word that you said."

The tramp of feet sounded on deck above. "Uggurah! They come aboard!" said Robah. "May Allah prosper their search."

"But"— Fenton started forward— "I must see them— tell them—"

"Already has your tongue told much, too much!" Ben Saif made a fierce gesture to the captain. "In there, until this farce is over."

Robah manipulated a panel of the wall, which slid back to disclose a small cupboard of a room. Into this the Arabs bundled Fenton, with Jack and Linda. All three were gagged and securely bound. Satisfied that they could make neither sound nor movement, their captors left them and closed the panel.

A long agony of waiting ensued. Jack fought and struggled to loosen the cords that fastened him, to spit out the gag. He nearly strangled himself in the attempt, but it was no use. The Arabs had made an excellent job of it. He was forced to give up at last, and, as he lay with pounding heart and aching muscles, voices from the cabin reached his ears.

He listened, his gloomy thoughts brightened by the knowledge that Fenton was also overhearing the conversation, and that it must be gall and wormwood to him.

"I offer the deepest apologies, Sidi Ben Saif!" came the clear, crisp accents of the French officer in charge. "There has been some deplorable mistake. You shall receive an apology from Headquarters, in addition to my own, at the first possible moment. We acted on the best authority, from information received. I regret exceedingly to have held you prisoner while the search was conducted, but we had our orders."

"It is understood." Ben Saif was suave "I have many enemies, alas! Many who envy my wealth and authority. Jackals run ever in the lion's train. You do not tell me the name of your informant." Jack could imagine Ben Saif's mocking smile. "It is for me to speak it then. It was Deane, effendi, who came to you with lies under his tongue concerning me. May his face be blackened! May his soul rot in Gehenna!"

"Certainly! Certainly, Sidi Ben Saif! It is understood! Great injustice has been done you."

"Not to you, the blackening or the shame!" Ben Saif raised his voice, and Jack understood the reason for it as he heard the Arab's last vindictive words. "Not on you, nor even on those who sent you is mine anger! But that traitor who sought to ruin me— he shall pay the price!"

The voices ceased. Footsteps were heard retreating. Silence fell. In a few minutes the panel-door was opened. Robah dragged the prisoners back to the cabin and pushed them roughly down on a long seat. Their gags were removed and their agonizing tight bonds were loosened.

Jack despaired. The cutter was gone. He had enjoyed Fenton's unmasking, but it did not improve the situation for Linda and himself. On the contrary, Ben Saif would not spare the brother of one who had so utterly betrayed him.

And Linda! What would happen to her?

"No one plays a game with me— and wins it!" Ben Saif assured Fenton. "You tried to use your brother and me as pawns in your double-dealing. Jack, effendi, wished also to destroy me, and for that he shall pay dearly. Moreover, being of your accursed blood, he is not fit to live. But you shall pay a greater price."

"You're wrong." Fenton strove for his old decisive manner. "Let me explain. I—"

"You desired," Ben Saif interrupted, "to rid yourself of me. You have made a fortune through our slave-trafficking. But it was inconvenient that I should know the origin of your wealth, thereby holding the whip-hand over you in future."

Fenton began to stammer, to plead, to bargain.

Ben Saif laughed at him. "A great sum you offer for a worthless life! Is it not wisdom to crush the scorpion when it lies before one's tent? Ya, amma, thou blind one! Now shall your traitor's mouth be filled with dust."

9: The Wasm

"THIS ONE'S launch?" Ben Saif asked the captain, gesturing contemptuously toward Fenton.

"Yussuf ran it up into a cove until the cutter was gone. He awaits but our signal to bring it alongside again."

"Give the signal, then."

Ben Saif turned to Linda. "I will take you to a place of safety among my friends, mademoiselle. To my so beautiful oasis, I will take you. Ah, not that oasis of which the French have knowledge! No, for doubtless they will search for you.

"I will take you far south, to my desert stronghold, inaccessible to all save the desert-born. There you shall repay me for my losses and trouble over this affair."

Blind, suffocating rage seized Jack. The Arab's words stung him to battle like a galvanic shock. Tied though his wrists and ankles were, he launched himself at the speaker like a human battering ram, attacking head-foremost in a dive that took the other completely off his feet.

With an astonished grunt, Ben Saif went down like a ninepin, as Jack butted him savagely. Unfortunately, in place of the Arab's yielding and vulnerably solar plexus, a solid teak table-leg met Jack's head. He lay stunned, while Ben Saif got to his feet and drew a long, gleaming telek from his girdle.

Linda shrieked as she saw the dagger. She stumbled awkwardly across the floor. Ben Saif paid no heed to her at all; he was staring down at Jack with a surprise so great as to be almost stupefaction. When Linda tried to interpose her slender body between Jack and the glinting knife, Ben Saif put her aside as if she were an importunate child. He bent over Jack and took up an object fastened by a long chain about the unconscious man's neck.

In his infuriated attack on the Arab, Jack's shirt had been ripped open to the waist, exposing the turquoise ring he wore beneath. Its strange blue eye seemed to regard Ben Saif with solemn reproach as he stooped to take it in his hand.

One-Eye's wasm! The magic passport that meant more to a traveler over the unknown Sahara than an army with banners. Ben Saif looked at it with wonder; then, knife in hand, he bent over Jack. Linda shrieked again.

"Uggurah! Thou foolish one!" With a firm hand, Ben Saif led her back to her seat. He returned to Jack, and with one slashing cut of the telek severed the cords about his prisoner's ankles. A second cut freed the wrists.

Recovering consciousness to find his enemy splashing water over his head and chest, Jack was under the impression that it was a preliminary to some form of torture. He set his teeth and glared at Ben Saif. To his surprise, the Arab met his fierce look with a smile, and took his hand to touch it to lips and forehead.

"Will someone wake me up?" muttered Jack. "Is this a salute to a brave man about to die— or what?"

Ben Saif, who had found the English language a useful acquirement in his far-flung enterprises, answered with a yet broader smile. "A brave man, yes! But to die, no! May Allah grant thee long years! Where did you get this ring, effendi? This is the wasm of the famous One-Eye. How is it that you possess this passport and mark of favor from one so powerful?"

With a rush of new hope, Jack faced the Arab squatting beside him. "You recognize the ring?"

"Billah, truly I know that wasm. God be praised, I saw it before my telek cut thy soul from out thy body. By the life of thee, why hast thou kept this thing hidden from me?"

"Never guessed One-Eye was a friend of yours!" Even now, Jack did not altogether trust this change of front, and his doubtful glance searched the Arab's face narrowly.

"Ullah alem!" Ben Saif was deeply hurt. "God knoweth my thoughts are all for thy good, effendi!"

"Go ahead, then, if that's how you feel. Cut loose these two, and we'll begin to talk."

Without hesitation, Ben Saif freed Linda. He stood before Fenton in obvious doubt, the long, twisted dagger balanced in his hand. Fenton shivered as he met the Arab's eyes, fiercer and more menacing than the gleaming knife. A moment's tension; then, with a snarl, Ben Saif cut Fenton's bonds.

"Is it enough?" he asked. "Now will you tell me where you got that ring, effendi?"

"Surely," agreed Jack, one arm holding Linda closely. "It was given to me by One-Eye in the gorge of El Fumm five years ago. He had slipped off the path, and I heaved him up on deck again. That's all there was to it. One-Eye swore eternal friendship and gave me this ring as a memento of our meeting."

Ben Saif stood, staring incredulously at Jack.

"Five years ago! At El Fumm! You saved the life of One-Eye?" He repeated the words in amazement, his eyes still frowningly intent on Jack. "Allah! How many times I have come near to destroying you—you whose life is sacred to me. By my wasm here, Allah hath spared us both."

"Your wasm?" Jack blinked in amazement at Ben Saif's words, and the genuine remorse with which they were spoken.

"By Allah, and by Allah, I will show you that the wasm is mine own! Look!"

Ben Saif slipped off his hooded white burnoose. Erect as a palm tree, he stood in the red and brown striped gandourah and black, tightly bound turban of the Zenda tribe. A broad red leather belt clipped his slender waist, supporting a miniature arsenal of weapons. Lean, and long, and swarthy he faced Jack. Desertman unmistakably!

With a swift movement, he put up a hand to his left eye.

"One-Eye! You are One-Eye!"

"I am One-Eye." The man Jack knew as Ben Saif smiled at the profound astonishment he had caused. He held the glass eye he had removed. The sunken hollow of his left eye-socket, and the peculiar wrinkling of surrounding muscles, altered the Arab's dark face indescribably. His remaining eye took on a strange and sinister brightness. "I am One-Eye, whose life you saved, effendi!"

With eyes on the savage bandit figure, Linda whispered incredulously, "You will let us go?"

One-Eye made a magnificent salaam. "Mademoiselle is free to command me."

He escorted them up to the main deck. Fenton brought up the rear like some neglected cur that hopes for a stray bone. No one spoke, or looked at him.

On deck, the captain glowered in angry astonishment at the three unbound prisoners. His fingers involuntarily sought the handle of his dagger. Ben Saif explained in a few brief guttural words.

"May Allah reward him!" Robah saluted Jack with grudging respect. "But this one?" The captain spat contemptuously in Fenton's direction. "Is this traitor to go free? Is thine honor not to be avenged?"

"Mine honor holds the name of Deane forever sacred." There was a regretful note in One-Eye's voice, and he turned his gaze from Fenton as if resisting temptation.

"By the hundredth name of Allah!" swore Robah, "thou art unwise in this."

"I have spoken," One-Eye answered haughtily.

After a long, vindictive look at Fenton, Robah spat again, then turned to Linda. Carefully, he assisted her over the ship's side, and down the ladder to the launch. Jack followed. Last came Fenton stumbling and uncertain, to make straight for the tiny cabin and a certain locker where drinks were stored.

With Linda close beside him, Jack took the wheel, and was only vaguely aware that Robah at last left them to return to the Pearl. Intoxicated by freedom and happiness, he steered for land.

Leaving the launch safely moored at the water's edge, he and Linda began to walk over the sand dunes to the car, looming black and solid in the misty dawn.

"Good Lord! Fenton! I suppose he's blind to the world by now! I'd forgotten he existed."

Jack hobbled stiffly back to the launch, hoisted himself on board, and went into the small cabin. At first he thought the place was empty. Then he caught sight of his brother.

Fenton lay sprawled on the floor, a dagger in his heart. The distorted face and horribly staring eyes were things Jack strove ever after to forget.

With a tremendous effort, he pulled himself together at last, left the cabin, dropped awkwardly over the side of the boat, and rejoined Linda.

"Robah had no honorable scruples about the family of Deane. Fenton's dead."

She took his hand in silence, and in silence they walked over the sands, leaving the launch with its dreadful passenger behind them. Sea-birds wheeled and cried about the boat, waves lapped and rocked it softly. In its cabin Fenton lay still, oblivious to his requiem as dawn rose in the east.

THREE MONTHS later, when their grim encounter with the bandit had been forgotten in a more wonderful adventure, One-Eye again reminded Jack and Linda of his existence.

A camel-driver stopped the pair in the streets of Zilfi, and put a packet into Linda's hand. With a few words to Jack, and a quick salute, the man made off.

"He says it's a gift to you from One-Eye!" translated Jack.

Linda unwrapped crimson folds of silk, and stared at the ring in her hand—a perfect oval sapphire, curiously set in a hollow meshwork of gold.

"One-Eye's wasm!" she exclaimed.

"Hm-m-m! Wedding gift with the bandit's blessing! You ought to be happy. You've done very well for yourself in the short time you've been in Zilfi, I'll say! Picking me for a husband, and the biggest rogue in the Barbary States for a friend!"

____________________

12: The Whistling Corpse

Weird Tales, July 1937

"WHY, STEEVENS, whatever is the matter? You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

"And if I haven't, it's by the mercy of Providence," replied the chief steward, "though what we may see before this trip is over is something I don't want to think about."

Mrs. Maddox stared. She'd been stewardess on board the S. S. Dragon for the past five years, worked under Steevens all that time, and knew him for the most even-tempered, easy-going creature that ever sailed in a ship. She felt a nasty sensation of goose-flesh and clutched her bundle of clean white towels a trifle more tightly in her arms.

"Good gracious me! Well, what is it? You're getting me all in l dither!"

"They've— they've opened Number 14!"

She frowned, blinked, and several towels slid unnoticed to the floor. "Not the 14? Not 14 on deck A? No!"

Her voice rose discordantly, and Steevens was recalled to his duty by its sudden stridency. "S-s-s-sh! D'you want the passengers to hear? They're going down to dinner. Second bugle's sounded."

They were standing in one of the linen rooms, a narrow slip near a main companionway. Mrs. Maddox turned a white, stricken face. "Tell me, quick!"

"Captain's orders! This is his first command. He's young, thinks he knows everything. Isn't going to keep a first-class stateroom locked up on his ship. I heard the end of a row him and the chief was having. Mr. Owen up and told him as the owners knew all about it. And the Old Man said he was going to show the owners there wasn't no need to lose money every trip."

"Steevens!" Mrs. Maddox looked suddenly far older than her forty-eight years. "If I hear that whistling again I'll— I'll lose my reason and that's a fact."

He had no comfort to offer. The man's cheerful, weathered face wore the same look of dread as her own. "You can't tell the cap'n anything. But wait till he hears it too!"

"And when he does"— she turned on him with a fury of demoralizing fear— "what good's that going to do us all? It'll be too late then. The door's opened now and it's out again.... it's out!"

First-Class passengers were making their way to the dining-saloon for the first meal on board. The S.S. Dragon had left Liverpool landing-stage only two hours ago; so people straggled in without ceremony, tired from the bustle of embarkation, agitated about the preliminaries of settling down on board; the majority either wound up to a pitch that sought relief in floods of talk or preserved stony silence that would have done credit to tombstone effigies.

Mark Herron, a boy of ten, traveling in the captain's care, stood in hesitation at the entrance to the dining-saloon. One of the passengers, a Mr. Amyas, put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Coming in?"

Without hesitation now, Mark smiled up at the brown, wrinkled face with its piercingly black eyes.

"Waiting for someone, eh?"

"No." The boy's voice was as attractive as his slate-gray eyes that concentrated so eagerly on anything or anyone that attracted his attention. His rough shock of brown hair and equally rough brown tweeds made him look somewhat like a very intelligent, well-bred dog.

"I'm traveling alone," he confided. "I've been ill and Captain Ross knows Dad and told him I'd be better for a sea-trip. I'm going to Java and back on this ship."

The gipsy-black eyes twinkled. "That's my program too! We'll keep each other company— eh? My name's Amyas. And you're—?"

"Mark Herron, sir."

"All right, then. Now, let's plunge into the jungle and see what we can catch for a meal."

The little man made for a table over on the port-side, one of the smaller tables where some member of the staff had already begun his meal. As Mark and his new friend approached, the man looked up. Immediately he sprang to his feet, welcoming hand outstretched.

"How are you, Amyas? I'm delighted! Who's this you've got in tow? A stowaway?"

Mark was introduced to the ship's doctor. Mr. Amyas sat down. The boy stood, looking with bewildered frown at the third and only vacant place.

Doctor Fielding laughed. "What's the matter? Something wrong with that chair?"

The boy's face grew red. He looked from the doctor to Mr. Amyas with embarrassed reproach. "Oh-but—" He glanced apologetically at the third place, then moved hastily to a table near by and sat down there.

The two men stared at Mark. Covered with confusion, he was pretending to study a large menu-card.

"Must think we want to be by ourselves."

Mr. Amyas got up and crossed over to the boy's table. "Come and join us. What d'you mean by refusing to sit down with a friend of mine-eh?"

Mark glanced back at the other table. His face cleared. He went back with alacrity and slipped into the empty place.

"I think he was angry." He looked from one to the other of his companions' blank faces. "He's gone out without any dinner at all."

Then, as they continued to regard him with expressionless eyes, he laughed. "Is it a joke, or something? That man didn't think it funny, anyhow, when you wanted me to sit down on top of him."

"What was he like?" The doctor's voice held a sudden arrested note of breathless interest.

"Didn't you notice him? Such a queer man, too! A yellow sort of face, very lined and cross, and he'd black hair— like the Italian organ-grinder who comes round with his monkey at home."

"Did you— did you happen to notice if he wore a ring?" The doctor seemed quite amazingly interested.

"Yes. A very big one, rather dull and funny-looking! I thought he must be a foreign prince. Like the ones in the papers, you know. Going off somewhere because they'd taken his throne away. That's what he looked like."

Doctor Fielding put his arms on the table, leaned forward, regarded the boy with a strange look of awe. "Look here! You're the kid the captain's looking after— the great Arthur Herron's son?"

Mark nodded, his face glowing at the admission.

"H-m-m! Captain Ross said you were a bit of a wizard yourself with your pencil. You can draw?"

Mark nodded again with calm confidence.

"Could you, by any chance, draw from memory the man you saw sitting here?"

The boy smiled and pushed aside his soup-plate. He turned the menu-card face down, dug a pencil out of a pocket and set to work. Both men watched intently, Mr. Amy as interested in the peculiar mixture of child and artist, the doctor wholly absorbed in a portrait growing under the small, amazingly sure hand. The table steward removed three plates of cold soup and put three protions of fish down with bored resignation. He hovered with a dish of potatoes, caught a glare from the doctor and went to bestow his vegetables elsewhere.

Mark handed his sketch to Doctor Fielding, who regarded it long and frowningly. Finally he got to his feet. His face was grave. "Sorry! You'll have to excuse me. I've— remembered something urgent."

He went out of the saloon with an air of absent-minded haste and took Mark's sketch with him.

"Oh! Was it a prince, d'you think? Is he going to look for him?"

Mr. Amyas discussed the possibility, then led the conversation to other things. The two hit it off famously and went together, afterward, in uproarious spirits to the billiard room.

ii

THE COOLNESS in Captain Ross's eyes bordered on contempt as he looked up from Mark's sketch. Doctor Fielding's lean, clever face and tired eyes showed a deeper weariness as he met that look. Captain Ross was one who admitted no breath from the chill void of eternity to penetrate his materialism. It was a solid wall about his thoughts.

The doctor's own mind, ever exploring, seeking, experimenting, found no smallest chink whereby to enter, yet he must attempt it. If he failed, if Captain Ross remained unconvinced, then the S. S. Dragon would become a floating hell.

"If the boy saw this man," Captain Ross tapped the menu-card with impatient gesture, "then the man must have been sitting there."

"I did not see him, sir. Mr. Amyas did not see him. The steward did not see him."

"But the boy did! He's not a liar— I happen to know that. If he told you he saw the man, he did see him."

"And I repeat— this man," Doctor Fielding indicated the drawing, "died on this ship a year ago and his body was committed to the deep. I. saw it done."

"All right, then. In that case there is a passenger on board who bears an extraordinary resemblance to him. That doesn't pass the bounds of possibility. Your idea of a revenant does."

A knock at the door interrupted them. The first mate, Mr. Owen, entered. Steevens and Mrs. Maddox followed.

"Ah!" the commander's frosty blue eyes regarded them quizzically. "You three, I understand, were on this ship a year ago when Number 14 on deck A was sealed up?"

"Yes, sir" replied the first mate.

The other two made muffled sounds of assent and endeavored to exchange glances while presenting elank, respectful faces to Captain Ross.

"D'you recognize this, Mr. Owen?"

The chief bent over the table to examine Mark's sketch, then straightened himself with a jerk. His ruddy face was suddenly a sickly brown. He averted his eyes from the sketch as from something that shocked him profoundly. His voice came with a queer uncontrolled jerk. "Yes, sir! It's— it's him!"

"I must ask you to be more explicit. Him?"

"Vernon— Eldred Vernon! Where...how—?"

He stopped, and thrust shaking hands deep into his pockets. Captain Ross turned his scornful, impatient glance toward the steward and stewardess. "Come on! Come on! Let's get this farce over!"

Timidly the pair advanced and peered reluctantly at the card thrust before their eyes.

"Well? Speak, can't you! Is this your old friend, Vernon?"

"God save us— yes!" muttered Steevens. He fell back from the pictured face in horror.

Mrs. Maddox gave a terrified squawk and clutched him by the arm. "A-r-r-r! A-r-r-r! It's him again! Take it away! I won't look at it! A-r-r-r—"

"Be quiet," barked the captain. "Take her over to that chair, Steevens. You two have got to stop here while this affair is settled once and for all."

He looked from one tense face to another and his eyes sparkled with temper. "You all agree, it seems, that this boy's drawing resembles—who's the man?"

"Eldred Vernon, sir— the late Eldred Vernon," replied the doctor.

"Eldred Vernon, yes. The man who was murdered on this ship in May of 1935."

"The man who murdered Mr. Lackland, sir," softly corrected the first mate.

"Murderer, or murdered, it's all one now. The point is, he's dead."

A deep, unassenting silence answered the statement. Four pairs of eyes expressed complete unbelief in it.

"A pretty lot of fools I seem to have on board! What is this mystery? Doctor Fielding, will you have the goodness to make a clear, sensible statement of the facts? The facts, I said, mind you. I don't want a fairy-tale packed with superstition and ghosts."

"Did you read the log for May of 1935?" asked the doctor. "And did the owners explain their reasons for leaving Number 14 sealed up?"

"Yes, to both questions. But don't forget that my predecessor, Captain Brakell, was a very sick man when he entered up that log. The owners had the facts from him—a sick man's delusions! I attach no value to them. I said as much in the office at Liverpool, gave my opinions. They understood that I proposed to run my own ship in my own way. I will allow no tomfool nonsense to interfere with it."

The doctor's face showed a stain of painful color. "You are very much mistaken, sir, in thinking that Captain Brakell was ill when he entered up the log. He was a very sound man, sound and sane and healthy. His mind then, and to the end of his days, was particularly clear. He was a man of enviable courage and strength and determination. Otherwise he could never have done what he did."

There was a stir and murmur of assent in the small, brightly lit room.

"Captain Brakell collapsed only on reaching port. He brought his ship home first. He brought her home with that devil, Eldred Vernon, imprisoned in Number 14."

"You mean Vernon didn't die during the voyage, after all? You have already told me you saw his body committed to the deep."

"I repeat that I did. But Eldred Vernon's devil lived on— an audible and visible thing."

"And I repeat that I don't believe a syllable."

AGAIN COLOR painted the doctor's sallow face an angry red. "Words mean nothing," he answered curtly. "Words mean nothing. Captain gave his life to make his ship safe. He was heroic, I tell you. Faced terrific odds, and won by sheer strength and goodness. He cornered that crafty devil, Vernon. He couldn't destroy him— that was beyond even his wisdom, but he managed to imprison him, to make his ship safe. And you—"

He broke off, remembering he and the captain were not alone. There was an awkward pause. Captain Ross sat with broad, well-kept hands folded on the table before him. Aggressive unbelief depressed the corners of his long, firm mouth. His upper lids drooped quizzically over cold inquiring eyes. Doctor Fielding sighed, paused as if to marshal inner reserves of strength, then began again on a new flat note of narrative devoid of emotion.

"The whole thing started with an affair between Guy Lackland and Eldred Vernon's very young, very lovely wife, Kathleen Vernon. It blazed up tropically swift and hot. Lackland was attractive, very! Nordic type. In love with life, with himself, and above all with Kathleen Vernon. Brilliant, rollicking youngster. Irresponsible as a puppy off the lead. And whistled like a blackbird."

A stifled groan escaped the stewardess.

"It was a characteristic that features largely in my tale, sir, Lackland's whistling. Dancing, swimming, deck-games, strolling round—you could always keep track of him by that trick he had of whistling. But there was one tune he whistled for one person alone— a sort of lover's signal. The tune was Kathleen Mavourneen ."

Mrs. Maddox engulfed herself in a large, crumpled pocket-handkerchief. Steevens rubbed a bristly chin. The first mate shifted his feet as if the deck had rolled beneath him, and his throat muscles worked convulsively.

"Her name was Kathleen, as I said. She was a dark, fragile, exquisite thing. Lonely and unhappy. Afraid of her husband. Ripe for a lover. And she fell for young Lackland hard. Inevitably. I never witnessed anything more heart-breaking than her passion for him. Like seeing a brilliant-tinted leaf riding the peak of a monstrous tidal-wave. Swept past all barriers. The pair of them— lost to everything but youth and love— the glory of it! Tragic young fools!"

Captain Ross made no audible comment. His set, obstinate face spoke fathomless misunderstanding.

"Eldred Vernon was a good fifty. A lean, secretive, silent man. Intellectual-repellently so. His brain-power was abnormal. His reasoning faculties, will, concentration were terrific. He'd developed them at the expense of every other quality that makes a decent, likable human being. There was dark blood in him, too. His swaying walk, a peculiar way of rolling his eyes, the lines of jaw and skull. The boy shows it in his sketch here."

Captain Ross glared at it and grunted noncommittally.

"The ugliest thing of all was his jealousy. It's a poisonous quality in anyone. In Vernon it was Satanic. He never interfered, though. On the contrary, he arranged to throw them together quite deliberately. We didn't begin to fathom his motives, but the whole situation made our blood run cold. There was none of the ordinary scandal. The affair was too serious, everyone felt scared. I spoke to young Lackland; so did others. One or two of the women warned the wife. Both of them laughed. Eldred Vernon laughed too. It sidetracked the pair of them, the way he laughed! She vowed her husband didn't care two straws what she did as long as she left him alone. Incredible! Everyone was afraid of what Vernon would do except the two most concerned."

Doctor Fielding dropped his cigarette, which had burned down unsmoked between his fingers.

"The inevitable crisis came. She gave Vernon a sleeping-draft in his last whisky one night, then went along to Lackland's stateroom. Number 14 on A deck. Waited for a moment. Heard him inside, moving about, whistling-whistling Kathleen Mavourneen. "

"And how," interrupted Captain Ross, "do you come by this chapter of your melodrama?"

"She told me— later."

"You had the lady's confidence, I see! Perhaps after Lackland went you took his—"

"She was dying."

The doctor's voice and steady eyes did not waver. He went on like an automaton.

"She went into Number 14 to find— her husband! He was laughing, silently, doubled up, tears of mirth on his face. He tied her up and gagged her, laughing all the time. Told her Lackland would be late. He'd forged a note in her writing, sent it to Lackland asking him to wait, to come to Number 14 at midnight, not earlier on any account. Vernon had counted on a lover's obedience to any whim. He was right.

"Lackland came on the stroke of twelve. Vernon was ready for him— with a knife. In the struggle, Lackland got a grip of the other's throat. Vernon thrust home. In his death-agony, Lackland's hands tightened, fastened like a vise. Vernon was asphyxiated. A steward found them both dead, lying locked together at Mrs. Vernon's feet."

The bleak austerity in Doctor Fielding's eyes checked comment. "That's all of what you would call fact. Mrs. Vernon died— brain-fever in the end."

"And they were all buried at sea? All three of them?" Captain Ross looked not wholly unsympathetic.

"Yes."

"Then I know the whole thing from start to finish at last."

"No. It is not finished yet, sir. Vernon knew the secret of perpetuating himself in the physical world even without his body. That had been lowered over the side and I saw it done. But Vernon himself-his malicious powerful ego-had never left this ship."

The captain's softened expression was instantly combative. "I've listened to your story, to the end— to the very end! Thank you, doctor. I've no time to speculate on ghosts. Once and for all, I don't believe in the supernatural."

He turned to the others. "Before we break up this meeting, have you anything to say, Mr. Owen?"

The first mate was a Welshman, vivacious, sensitive, emotional. "The doctor's'not told you half, sir," he burst out. "You don't know what a hell the ship was for days and nights. God, those nights! Up and down the deck— up and down, whistling— if you could call it whistling."

"Whistling what? And what whistled?"

Mr. Owen was past being daunted by the captain's glance. "A high, queer sort of sound, sir. No tune or anything. Went through your head like red-hot wire. What was it? Don't ask me, sir! It doesn't bear thinking of."

"Exactly. That's my complaint against you all. You refuse to think. This absurd legend of Number 14 would never have existed if you'd thought, and investigated. Anything more?"

"I— we— there was the fog, sir! And Steevens here saw—"

"I'll take him in turn. Fog?"

"Yes, sir. Fog or sea-mist. The whistling seemed to come from it."

With a quick, irritable gesture, Captain Ross turned to the steward.

"Well? What's your little contribution?"

"It's true, sir. You'll know for yourself soon. The whistling and all! Something cruel! Drove you wild, sir! Aye, and that Number 14! Locking the door wasn't no use; no, nor bolting it neither. Chips did his mortal best. But every morning it was burst open, and the bunk— covered thick with dirty foam! The smell of it fair knocked you down, sir. Like something that had rotted in the sea."

Mrs. Maddox was obviously beyond giving verbal support to these statements. She sat shivering, white-faced, tears dripping down her large, pale face to the starched bib on her apron.

Captain Ross got to his feet. "Thank you, Doctor Fielding. Thank you, Mr. Owen. Steward! Report any complaints about Number 14 on deck A to me, if you please. The passenger who is to occupy it is Colonel Everett, a personal friend. He is aware of the facts. I've told him of the deaths that occurred. The rest interests him even less than me."

"One moment." The doctor followed him to the door. "I shall tell your friend, Colonel Everett, the exact nature of the risk he is running."

"Do! He will laugh at you. He shares my views of what you call supernatural phenomena."

"You are exposing him to hideous peril. It's murder, sir!"

Captain Ross looked bored and put his hand to the door-latch.

"One more thing." The doctor's manner was that of a lecturer making his points. "Eldred Vernon marks down his victims methodically, and in every case he gives twenty-four hours warning, a signal of his intent to kill. He whistles Kathleen Mavourneen. Last May, before Captain Brakell was able to seal up the door you have opened, five passengers heard that tune. Each one died in twenty-four hours."

"Logged as dying of virulent influenza. I gather the owners suggested your substituting influenza as your diagnosis in place of ghosts?"

"It was heart-failure from shock."

"Quite. Well, Captain Brakell and I had the same end in view. But we went about it differently. He calmed down his passengers by going through a ceremony of sealing up Vernon's supposed influence. I see more wisdom in letting sun and wind and everyday life penetrate Number 14. After this trip it will be a chamber of horror no longer. I'll have no locked-up rooms on my ship. And anyone who goes round encouraging a belief in ghosts will lose his job and needn't apply to me for references."

iii

"GOOD MORNING! Good morning!" A brick-red, large gentleman at the captain's table, engaged in adding a top-dressing of toast and marmalade to previous strata of porridge, fish, and sausages, spared an inquiring glance for a limp young man who slid into a seat next to him. The young man had butter-colored hair and looked as if serious consideration of vitamins had been omitted from his education.

"Why good?" he moaned."I've been kept awake all night."

The brick-red gentleman was surprized. "Eh? What? I slept like old Rip Van Winkle."

The limp young man unfurled a table-napkin with the air of one who drapes a winding-sheet about him.

"China tea. This brown toast and bloater paste." He lifted an eyelid to a hovering steward. Then, to his neighbor: "Perhaps you're married or live by a fire-station. I mean," he explained, "whistlings and shriekings and stampings just lull you to sleep! You on deck A? No! I'm in Number 18. There's a damned nuisance of a colonel in 14. Kept up an infernal racket last night."

"Pipe down, my lad, pipe down! He's a friend of the captain!"

"Well, he's going to have an 'in loving memory' label on him soon! Never had such a night."

A tall, straight ramrod of a man stalked in, made his way to the table and took the vacant place at the captain's right.

"I say!" bleated the butter-haired one. "What's the great idea of practising your tin whistle all night? You may think Number 14's sound-proof. Is it? All you've got to do is to come outside and listen to yourself!"

Colonel Everett drank down a cup of coffee almost at a gulp, murmured something about the shortage of reliable nurses, and gave an order to the steward. A good many faces were turned toward him. Other accusers gave vent to their rancor.

"If you're the occupant of Number 14, sir, I think it was damned thoughtless— damned thoughtless of you!" And:

"I'm not one of the complaining ones, but the noise you made was unbearable. My husband got up five times and knocked at your door. And you simply took no notice!" And:

"Are you the person in Number 14? I was just telling the captain that it's disgraceful. After all, one does expect some decency and quiet in first-class. My two children were awake and crying all night. No wonder! Such an uproar! Why, even steerage couldn't be more rowdy."

"What is all this about the noise in your stateroom?" asked Captain Ross.

"Someone's idea of a joke." Colonel Everett's face and manner were grim.

The captain frowned at him and spoke under his breath. "Were you pickled when you went to bed, Tom?"

"Don't be a fool! You've known me all my life. I never take more than four whiskies a day."

"Then why didn't you hear all the din?"

"Dunno! Unless I'm due for malaria again. I felt deuced queer when I woke. Dizzy. Couldn't get the hang of things. Feel half doped now."

"Hm-m-m-m! Perhaps you are doped! This fool notion about Number 14 being haunted! Some maniac's trying it out on us. I'll put him in irons, whoever it is. I've given fair warning I'll have no more of their pet spook on my ship."

Colonel Everett thrust his face forward. His eyes glared. His lips stretched in an ugly grin. His clear emphatic voice changed to a thin dry rustling whisper. "What are you going to do about it?"

Captain Ross's fork dropped with a clatter. He met the evil, malevolent stare hardily, but his face grew white to the lips. Quite literally, he was unable to speak. His thick black brows met. Was this Tom Everett? He didn't recognize the man he'd known so long and intimately. Those cold eyes— hating, defying him! This was a stranger! An enemy!

A voice broke the spell— a boy's voice, eager, confident, friendly. "How queer! I thought that was Colonel Everett at first. He seemed to change. It's the man I drew last night. The prince in disguise, you know."

Colonel Everett drew back, looked round him with a frown. His face and eyes were blank now. He seemed rather shaken, like a man who'd been just knocked down and winded.

Captain Ross felt a sudden vast relief. What an ass he was! Good heavens; he'd actually felt afraid, afraid of good old Tom Everett! The poor fellow was looking ill and shaken. Distinctly under the weather. He signaled to Doctor Fielding, who came round to the head of the table and put a hand on the colonel's shoulder. "Come along with me; I'll fix you up. You've had a rotten night, I can see."

Dazed, swaying on his feet. Colonel Everett allowed the doctor to guide him out of the saloon.

In the big, perfectly equipped kitchens the breakfast episode was discussed with terror.

"I tell you he looked as like him for a minute as makes no difference." The steward who waited on the captain's table was telling his tale for the eighth time for the benefit of those detained on duty. "One minute he was the colonel and next minute he was him! The Old Man noticed it and all! Looked as if he'd been and swallowed a h'asp."

A brand new young steward spoke up. "Who's this him when he's at home?"

"Someone you've not met so far, my cocky. And when you do, you won't crow so loud."

Mrs. Maddox, trying to drown her fear in floods of dark brown tea, intervened. "And how's he going to know if no one don't tell him? Nay! I'm not going to take his name on my lips. Someone else can do it— that hasn't heard nor seen what I have on this ship."

Mr. Amyas and the doctor talked in a corner of the deserted dining-saloon.

"He went along to the smoking-room. Revived as soon as we got outside, and refused to go back to bed."

"Hm-m-m!" The little man pulled at his short, pointed white beard. "Could you hear what he was saying to the captain at the breakfast table?"

"No. I saw enough, though. What the boy said was right. He was Vernon for a moment."

"Undoubtedly, Colonel Everett as Colonel Everett will soon cease to exist."

The doctor shivered, turned a stricken face seaward. Remembrance of last year's horror surged back with every movement of the restless, sunlit water.

"Eldred Vernon's taking possession of the colonel's body as one would a house. He's moving in," continued Mr. Amyas. "It's barely possible that if the real owner knew what was happening to him he might defend his habitation, drive out the intruder, but I doubt it. Evidence proves Vernon to have unique power. History has only produced two others on his scale. There is the Black Monk of Caldey Island, who has guarded his treasure there since the Tenth Century. And there is Lord Saul, a terror and a mystery since the days of Attila, who tried to kill him by fire and by the sword, and failed. Lord Saul lives to this day."

"Vernon was bound and safely imprisoned once. Can't we do it again?"

"You forget. A year ago Vernon was newly divorced from his body. He was taken at his weakest, before he'd learned the laws, the possibilities of life in a new element. In twelve months he's learned them, so effectively that he's almost achieved his great necessity— a human body."

"Surely that will limit him? A disembodied force is more awful than the wickedest of men."

"No. He'll gain the freedom of two worlds. He can operate in or out of his stolen body. And he can use the will and energy of the dispossessed owner for his own ends. It's a tremendous prize. He'll rank high in hell."

"But— how d'you know all this? You speak as if—"

"It's a long, grim, unnerving tale. Made an old man of me when I was in my twenties, experimenting, like the mad young fool I was then, in occult research. Some day, if we survive, I'll tell it."

"Isn't there the barest chance of saving Everett? Can't you make him believe?"

"That's what I don't know. I can only guess. It's one of the things that doesn't go by rule of thumb. Every crisis varies. But there is a moment—"

They were interrupted by a scream, sounds of running feet, a second scream. Mr. Amy as turned, ran lightly along to deck A with the doctor at his heels. An excited group of passengers was collecting there. The first mate appeared. Inside the open doorway of a lounge stood Steevens with several other cabin stewards. They appeared to be holding an agitated council of war.

The first mate addressed this twittering little group. "What's all this?"

"Sir! It's Number 14. We saw—"

"Get inside. I'll come along."

He returned to the startled passengers. "Nothing much." His smile was reassuring. "One of the stewardesses! She's had hysterics again. Husband died a few weeks ago and she's gone to pieces over it."

"Very neat," commended Doctor Fielding. "We'll come with you to see what's really happened."

Owen nodded. His eyes and mouth looked strained. Outside the closed door of Number 14 a huddle of white-coated stewards waited.

"It's what it was before, sir," whispered Steevens. "The bunk was covered with it. Foam— dirty gray foam-inches thick! Right over the bunk, pillows and all. And the smell— my Gawd!"

Owen stood rigid, one hand on the door-latch. Mr. Amyas saw him shudder, caught the loathing on his face as he flung open the door and went inside. Doctor Fielding and Mr. Amyas followed quickly. All three looked instantly at the bunk. A pall of dirty gray foam covered it, like the silt of a monster tidal wave; the air was foul with the odor of stale sea-water and things long dead. Doctor Fielding scribbled a few words in his note-book, tore out the leaf and gave it to the first mate. "Take that to the captain— at once!"

Thankfully the man escaped. A steward called after him. "If he wants this bunk made up he'll have to get another man for the job. I'd sooner jump overboard. I'm not going inside 14 again! He can put me in irons—but I won't—I won't—"

The first mate vanished beyond reach of the man's hysterical outburst. No one paid any attention to it. All eyes were fixed on Doctor Fielding and Mr. Amyas standing inside.

"Quick!" cried the doctor. "Out of here!"

Next moment, both were in the passage, and the door fast bolted, but not before they'd seen the blanket of gray foam ripple and heave as if water surged beneath it. And as the door banged to, a sudden shrill whistling began—like the sound of escaping steam. Footsteps approached, a firm, soldierly tread. Colonel Everett's tall straight figure advanced down the long corridor. The whistling ceased abruptly.

"What on earth? Are you playing 'Clumps'? And why outside my door?"

The colonel's eyes, friendly and puzzled, turned from the doctor's haggard face to meet the speculative watchful gaze of Mr. Amyas. He put a hand to his head.

"Better follow your advice after all. Doctor Fielding. I'm beginning to feel—"

Then, with appalling suddenness, he changed. Voice, face, manner took on the feral primitive hate of a jungle beast. He
loomed over Mr. Amyas. "You're one of the clever ones, you think— spying round, adding up, working out your little ideas! That's puzzled you, I'll swear!" He jerked his head toward the closed door; a wicked flare of laughter leaped in his eyes. "Go on worrying-I'm enjoying it! You'll not get me caged up there again, though. I'm out !... and I stay out!"

Todd, the hysterical young steward, gave an odd, sighing cough and slid to the ground. Steevens dropped beside him, unfastened his collar, held up his head. The rest ran for it, bolted in panic, their feet thudding along the narrow passage like a roll of drums.

Under Mr. Amyas's steady look the red glare died in Colonel Everett's eyes, his convulsed features relaxed. He steadied himself by a polished brass handrail that ran along the wall.

"I thought— I thought someone called me," he said. "I feel a little dizzy!" He looked vaguely from Mr. Amyas to the unconscious Todd, then to Steevens. "What's been happening here? What the deuce is wrong with everyone on this ship?"

"Colonel Everett!" Mr. Amyas was profoundly serious. "Will you put prejudice aside? Will you be persuaded that you are in danger? Will you believe that this room is more poisonous than a rattlesnake's lair?" He gestured to the closed door behind them. "Have you been in since breakfast? No! Well, it's taking a risk, but it may convince you."

He opened the door.

"Well?" the colonel frowned. "What is it?"

But Mr. Amyas found no answer. There was nothing to say. There was nothing to see except the bunk with its tossed bed-clothes— the flowered green curtains fluttering at the open window— the white enameled walls splashed by the sun with golden light. Mr. Amyas closed the door. The three men faced one another in the corridor.

"Is there any explanation for all this?"

The colonel, very large and indignant, stood with a frown. He was answered by a shrill, fierce whistle. It seemed outside the room now. Todd, who had recovered consciousness, glanced up, and fell back in a dead faint once more. Steevens cowered against the wall with mouth grotesquely open. He pointed at Colonel Everett. "Look! Look! It's him!... ah, ha ha ha ha ha!... it's him!"

The doctor and Mr. Amyas shuddered.

"You'd better look out for yourselves," came a savage whisper. "You'd better not interfere. Nothing can stop me. I'm out!"

A twisted mask of a face leered into theirs. "Look out for yourselves!"

On this last, Colonel Everett's hand opened the door of Number 14. He went inside. The door slammed to. The whistling shrilled louder... higher... higher....

iv

"FOG, SIR! Been drifting round for a couple of hours. I noticed it as soon as my watch began."

Captain Ross glanced down from his bridge toward the poop. There—among coils of tarry rope and a mass of canvas, iron, life-buoys, and other carefully stowed gear— a patch of white, woolly fog wavered and drifted. The captain snatched up a pair of binoculars and looked long and earnestly. "Go down and see," he ordered.

The third mate saluted and went. His face was white as he turned to obey. Captain Ross watched while he made his way to deck B and thence to the poop, saw him go forward, hesitate, peer at the eddying fog. Suddenly he threw up his hands with a startled gesture and turned to run.

"Good God! It's after him!"

Captain Ross gripped the rail under his hands as he spoke, and leaned over to watch with eyes almost starting out of his head. Stumbling, running, turning to look back over his shoulder at the thing that steadily pursued, the mate zigzagged an erratic course. A woman's shriek was heard.

An instant later, pandemonium rose on deck B. Men and women struggled from their deck-chairs. Some, entangled in rugs, tripped and fell. Some were too paralyzed by horror to move at all. Deck stewards, serving tea trays, let their burdens tilt, and the crash of breaking china added to the uproar.

The third mate ran with open mouth, his hands making queer flapping movements, his eyes wild with terror. The fog rolled up behind—closer—closer. A long white wisp of it seemed to blow out like a tentacle, touched the mate's neck, curled round it. The man yelled, put up clutching fingers. His cry died on a strangling sob.

Captain Ross roared out an order through his megaphone. The mate was down on his knees now. Over him the fog circled and hovered. Several of the crew came running; they were, so far, more in awe of the captain than anything else on board. They picked up the mate and carried him off at a run, vanished down a companionway.

Captain Ross let out a great breath of relief and put down his megaphone with an unsteady hand. The cloud of fog was blowing down deck again. Now it was drifting round the poop. And from it the captain heard a high, keening, intolerable whistle, rising, falling, rising again to torturing shrillness.

For minutes he stood watching, listening. At last he set a double watch on the bridge and went below. He knew at last what fear of the unknown meant. He knew at last that his ignorance and obstinacy had put his ship at the mercy of something he could not understand or control.

"Murder!" The word hammered and clanged through his brain. "Murder! That was the doctor's word. Said I was sending Tom to his death!"

Passengers huddled in groups, whispering, crying, cursing, utterly demoralized as he made his way through the luxurious lounge toward the deck A cabins. He knew it would be wise to stop, to reassure them, to check the panic that was running like wildfire in their midst. He knew also that he couldn't do it. His brain was numb with shock. He couldn't console these terrified people. He was terrified himself, sick and cold and stupid with terror.

He groaned as he hurried to Number 14. The door of the room stood wide open. Sunset light painted it blood-red. Its silence was horrible. A taunt— a threat— a prelude to disaster! He saw Mr. Amyas look in.

"Where is he? Where is Tom Everett?"

Mr. Amyas did not at first reply. He looked intently at the captain's altered face; then:

"You know—at last?"

"Yes, yes! I've seen— the Thing... the damned whistling Thing!"

Mr. Amyas nodded. "I was there. I ran down to look for the colonel while you were watching the mate. The cabin was empty then. I'm afraid we're to late. He's gone."

"Gone!" The word burst from the captain's white lips. He seized his companion's arm. His eyes were tortured. "Overboard?"

"No! No! It's worse than that. Eldred Vernon has become a permanent tenant now."

Captain Ross frowned in a fierce effort to follow the incomprehensible statement.

"I mean that Vernon has taken possession of your friend— body and soul! Colonel Everett appears to be in the smoking-room at this moment. In reality he's no more there than you or I. Vernon possesses him. Vernon is walking and talking in the body of Colonel Everett."

"But Tom— Tom, himself! Where is he, then?"

"A slave in bondage. In bondage so long as his body is possessed by Vernon. Suffering the torments of the damned. He is still able to think, to feel, to remember, but he is helpless. Vernon has overpowered him, taken his house from him. He's like a prisoner lying gagged and bound in some dark cellar of it."

"Go on, Mr. Amyas, go on!" The other's voice was harsh with grief. "What will happen to my passengers— my ship— to all of us, now?"

"I do not know. I can only guess. But I think not one of us will live to see land again. Your ship may be found— sometime— somewhere— a derelict, a mystery like the Marie Celeste!"

"There must be a way out. There must be a way."

"Only by destroying Eldred Vernon."

"How? How? D'you mean kill"—a look of awful enlightenment dawned in the captain's eyes— "you mean— I must kill-Tom Everett?"

"I don't know. I don't know." Mr. Amyas's brown face showed a network of lines and wrinkles. "I can only recall an affair I was once concerned in—an exorcism and a sacrifice—to drive out a devil."

"—to drive out a devil! Tell me what you know!"

And in the haunted silence of Number 14 Mr. Amyas told it.

v

"COLONEL EVERETT! Colonel Everett!" Mark called after the tall figure just stepping from the smoke-room to the deck outside. "You promised to tell me that tale about your tiger-hunt after tea."

The man paused on the threshold and half turned back to the boy. Mark, dashing across to him, drew up with a start about a yard away.

"I beg your pardon. I thought you were—" His serious slate-gray eyes flashed to the man's face, then to his dark green necktie, his collar, his gray tweeds—even his sports-shoes didn't escape the quick, keen scrutiny. "I-have you borrowed the colonel's clothes?"

The boy's clear, surprized tone seemed to ring out like a bell in the room.

"Borrowed my own clothes! I am the colonel! What's the idea, Mark? Is this a riddle? Or, are you giving me an intelligence test?"

The boy stood absolutely still. Quite suddenly he drew back, a look of horror dawning on his pale, intelligent face.

"You're not the colonel. You've got black hair and your skin is yellow and you're older— much older. Where is Colonel Everett? I want him."

Men were looking at the pair now, peering over the tops of their papers; glancing up from writing-tables. Desultory bits of talk now ceased altogether. Everyone seemed suddenly aware of a crisis of peculiar significance between Mark and the man in gray tweeds.

The latter looked down with cold venom. "Don't make a little fool of yourself!" His low voice reached Mark's ear alone. "If you ever say such a thing again to me I'll— punish you. No good running to your Mr. Amy as either; he won't be able to interfere much longer."

He went out quickly, leaving Mark staring, shivering, sick with fright. The glint of those cold eyes! The hate in that low-pitched voice!

"What's wrong, kid? What did he say?" A good-natured young fellow close by drew the boy over to a group in a corner. "Queer sort of man, that Colonel Everett! He's a bit annoyed with all of us today. Liver or something!"

Mark's white, drawn face did not relax. He shivered convulsively, tried to speak, failed. One of the group rose with an exclamation, glass in hand. "Look here, old man." He put a hand on Mark's shoulder, held the glass to his lips with the other. "Take a sip of this and tell us what it's all about."

The boy drank, choked, dropped his head down on his knees— a huddled, frantic heap of misery.

"Better get the doctor. The little chap's ill."

The good-natured young fellow went to one of the doors, collided with two men about to enter. They were Mr. Amyas and Captain Ross.

"Ill? Mark?"

They listened to the young man's hasty, confused explanation and hurried to the boy. He looked exhausted and was leaning back with half-closed eyes, his features twitching, his delicate hands clenched tightly.

It took Mr. Amyas some minutes to get a word out of him. Captain Ross waited with a pinched gray look on his altered face.

"He was-awfully, awfully angry! As if he wanted to kill me!" Mark gasped. "It's that man! It's the prince! He said he was Colonel Everett— he's wearing his clothes— so I thought at first—"

Captain Ross exchanged a somber look with Mr. Amyas, who was supporting the boy.

"Oh! Oh! There he is whistling for me! And I don't like it— I don't like it!" Mark clapped his hands over his ears, dropped them again in bewildered fright. "It's in my head— the tune! Oh!— oh! I wish it would stop. It's— beastly!"

A strange silence fell on the rest. To no one but the boy was any whistling audible. The good-natured young man winked and touched his forehead significantly.

"Oh! Oh!" wailed the boy; "it's that funny old song— my nurse used to sing it to me. Kathleen Mavourneen! Oh, can't you make it stop?"

Mr. Amyas lifted him to his feet, put an arm about him. Above the boy's head he met the captain's eyes again.

"I'll get the doctor to give you something so that you won't hear it any more. Come along to my room. No need to be afraid of anything. You're quite right—that wasn't Colonel Everett. Come along. I'll explain. You'll be all right in a few minutes."

The last red rays of the setting sun flashed on the boy's face as he and his companion crossed the room and went out.

"What the deuce!" The good-natured young man stared at the doorway through which the two had vanished. "Not the colonel! Is the boy a bit touched? He seemed such a bright lad, I thought."

Captain Ross glowered. "Brighter than all the rest of us put together, it appears. That was not Colonel Everett."

"Good lord! What! You don't mean it! I'd have staked my last shirt—"

"Not Colonel Everett," repeated the captain in grim, heavy accents. "I don't think it's any use to warn you, but keep clear of him— if you can!"

He stalked out.

"Raving!" a young man in flannels drawled. "There seems to be something that breeds lunatics on the S.S. Dragon. What is at the bottom of all this? Whistling and hysterics! Joke's wearing thin. I'm fed up."

A stout, quiet man, playing patience, voiced his opinion in the manner of one accustomed to authority. "I advise you to take Captain Ross seriously— and literally."

The flanneled one attempted to register world-weary contempt, but his smooth young face betrayed him into sulky resentment.

vi

MR. AMYAS RETURNED. He stood for a moment with his back to the light in a doorway, his black eyes raking the room— very quiet, not a hair out of place, and yet he gave an impression of most desperate haste and disorder.

"Has anyone seen Doctor Fielding?"

A chorus of anxious voices answered. No one had seen the doctor lately. Was the boy bad? They'd go and search. The quiet, sleepy atmosphere became charged with electricity. Some dashed off to find Doctor Fielding. The remainder pressed for information.

"Heart," Mr. Amyas stated briefly. "He's collapsed. Seems to have had a bad shock. Ah, here's Fielding—"

"Yes. It's the boy. Quickly!"

The passengers saw a look of understanding flash between the two men as they hurried away.

"Mystery! Crime! Adventure!" the man in flannels sneered. "Victim guaranteed every two hours."

"You rather underestimate the time." The stout man was putting away his patience cards. "However, optimism is a privilege of youth."

"Oh, go to hell!" said the flanneled one. But he said it under his breath, and only the trembling flame of the lighted match in his unsteady fingers made response. He walked toward a doorway.

"Er— look out for fog."

The quiet man stowed away his pocket-pack. His tone was perfectly casual.

"Fog! What d'you mean— fog?"

"Ran into some just before tea, I heard. Perhaps I should say— it ran into us."

"I know there was a hullabaloo. The mate got hysterics! But you don't suppose I think—"

"No! No!" the quiet man seemed really shocked at the idea. "Of course not. I know you don't."

The young man violently disappeared. The quiet man sat back in the attitude of one who awaits news. Several of those who had rushed off to find the doctor now returned. They seemed worried.

"Fog?" inquired the quiet man.

"What the devil makes you harp on fog?" one of them inquired.

"I was on deck B before tea," was the reply. "I've seen that sort of-fog, before! In North Borneo. Lived out there twenty years. It's apt to— er, hang about. Like poison-gas. More deadly, though."

"Well, you're right, as it happens," a muscular man in a Fair-isle sweater conceded. "There's a rum patch of fog or mist or something drifting around near the wireless room. I heard that everlasting whistle going strong and thought I'd do a spot of investigating. Almost ran into the fog. Could have sworn the whistling came from it."

No one questioned his impression. He went on with increasing embarrassment.

"Don't know what came over me. The thing looked— well, I funked! Legged it back here as fast as I knew how!"

"Very sensible," approved the quiet man. "My experience has been that it only— er, functions in the open air, for some reason."

In a cabin close by, Mr. Amyas and the doctor looked down at Mark's quiet, unconscious face.

"He'll do for a few hours. That stuff'll make him sleep. Only question is whether we oughtn't to let him go— now— easily! Seems damnable to bring him back to face that devil again. The boy knows. And he's heard the death-signal. Why let him wake? Why let him face tomorrow? What d'you say, Amyas?"

The other nodded. "I agree. He mustn't come back to that. How long will your stuff hold him? Four or five hours?"

"Easily. More likely seven or eight."

"Five will take us to midnight. We'll leave it until then. Captain Ross is sending out S.O.S's. Going to transfer to a home-bound ship, if possible. Best give him another injection at midnight if no ship answers us-in time."

No need to harass the doctor before it became necessary. Mr. Amyas, therefore, did not admit that he had no hope of their S.O.S. messages getting through. He'd seen what the young man in the Fair-isle sweater had seen. More! He had looked inside the wireless room. No operator was there. A cloud of fog hung over it. It was not humanly possible for any man to sit in the place with that shrieking menace in his ears. There was no chance of outside help. The Fight must be lost or won on board within the next few hours.

He looked down at the helpless, doomed little figure, turned toward the door, stepped back for a brief farewell. "I promised you a gift in memory of this trip together. You shall have it— before midnight, Mark."

vii

A PALE, chill twilight lingered in the sky. Electric lights shone from reflectors on deck. The sea ran smooth, gray-green below the ship's steep sides. Mr. Amyas looked about him with quick, bright eyes. Passengers— those not demoralized by fear, those who hadn't seen and didn't believe in fogs and foam and fantasies-were below, dressing for dinner. Those who did believe were dressing too. It didn't get you anywhere to encourage thoughts of that sort. A good dinner— dancing— lights— music— they'd forget it soon!

Mr. Amyas caught sight of the third mate making for the captain's bridge. Lights were on all over the ship. He thought how brilliant the S.S. Dragon must look, foaming on through the dark water, gleaming, illumined, swift. What passing craft would guess she was a ship of the damned? That she was bearing hundreds of souls to hell? That on her long, white, level decks, behind her lighted port-holes, in luxurious cabins and beautifully decorated saloons, horror stalked, biding its time?

His eyes followed the third mate. He was staggering uncertainly. He climbed up to the bridge with painful effort. The strong lights flooded him, showed a ghastly, twisted face of fear. He spoke with Captain Ross. Bad news, evidently. The captain's gesture was eloquent. He dismissed the officer, turned away, and stood frowning. Mr. Amyas went up to him.

"That devil's got us, all right." Captain Ross turned fiercely.

"Five men driven from the wheel this last hour. That infernal whistling fog! And I find it's the same with the wireless. He's cutting us off completely. What's the use of waiting, Amyas? I tell you it's madness to let him corner us like this. Every hour my ship's more at his mercy. Tom Everett is dead— murdered— I murdered him! It's Vernon, not Everett, walking round now, mocking us, destroying us. I'm going to shoot him. D'you hear me? It's time to do something. My ship will be helpless soon— driving blind— lost! There's only my first mate left to steer now— until that cursed whistling Thing drives him off too!"

"Only till midnight!" the other spoke with strong entreaty. "Only a few hours more! I know your friend is still alive. It will indeed be murder if you shoot him now. At midnight, I swear to you, Everett will be himself again. For a few minutes he will be the man you've always known— and loved."

"How d'you know? It's only a guess in the dark. And even if we wait-even if Tom does come back, he may not tell me how to destroy Vernon! You're only guessing all along the line. Why should Tom know this secret that you don't— and I don't? No! I must shoot that devil while there's a chance. It's monstrous— it's madness to let him destroy us inch by inch."

Mr. Amyas looked at him and said no more. He'd been afraid of this. The strain was inhuman. It passed the line of what could be endured. He turned to leave the bridge. Queerly enough, his submission touched some secret spring that protest and entreaty could not reach.

"Come back! Come back! Help me. Amyas! I can't watch here alone."

In the huge, handsome main saloon, unobtrusively reserved in gray oak and clouded-green upholstery, groups of cardplayers worked in isolated quartets, tense, serious, absorbed. Mostly elderly and middle-aged. The younger set was dancing. To this sanctum. Colonel Everett entered, stood observant, bright cruel eyes raking the unconscious players.

He walked, his accustomed firm decisive tread, now curiously sinuous and smooth, to a table where the Marchmonts and the Hore-Smiths were engaged in a long-drawn interesting battle. Wealthy, autocratic, exclusive, they represented a high average of breeding and brains.

"I shouldn't risk that."

Colonel Everett stabbed a finger down on the card which Mrs. Hore-Smith had led.

"Dummy," he went on, "has only queen, seven and three of clubs— ace and ten of diamonds— nine, five and two of hearts— and knave, ten, five, four and two of spades."

Four amazed, resentful faces were raised to meet the colonel's hard glare. Mr. Marchmont picked up the cards he had put face-down on the table and reversed them.

"You're right. Very clever. I've seen it done before— in Siam. Perhaps you'd reserve your— er— tricks until later!"

Cold malice leaped in Colonel Everett's eyes. "Reserve my— er— tricks until later!" he mocked. "Later! You gibbering, conventional puppets! There won't be any later for you. After midnight I rule here! Even now—"

Mrs. Marchmont, very handsome, very haughty, cut him short. "If you must talk, go elsewhere. Otherwise—"

"You don't want to talk?"

"Nor to listen."

He nodded and made a quick, insolent gesture. His eyes showed a gleam of wicked white. "Then don't talk. Play!"

The two couples, with strained, altered faces, resumed. In silence-in absolute silence they played. Colonel Everett sat back smoking, his long legs crossed, one foot wagging in perpetual motion. Not a single word escaped from any of the players. They sat stiffly. They moved hands and arms only. Their eyes sought his-read in his evil, mocking glance what cards to put down. Colonel Everett played out a whole rubber thus, merely using the Marchmonts and Hore-Smiths as physical mediums. And they knew what was happening to them. Their wills impotently battled his.

The rubber finished. Colonel Everett stood up and waved a hand that seemed boneless at the wrist. "It is not everyone who would respect your wishes so perfectly, Mrs. Marchmont. Well, we've had enough bridge now."

His sinister, sidelong glance collected eyes all over the room. Inexplicably to themselves, the players looked up simultaneously.

"We'll go and watch the dancing for a time. This game begins to pall."

He sat down, lighted a fresh cigarette, waited. Group after group rose from the tables. Well-fed, expensively attired sheep ready for the slaughter. The threaded a decorous way to the entrances and passed out of sight.

Colonel Everett rose to watch them go. Lucifer, Son of the Morning! So had he towered in dark lust to rule!

On the dancing-floor, color flashed like gorgeous birds among a forest of black coats. Musicians combined in assaulting every primitive urge possessed by man. Ordinary lights were turned off. The dancers swayed through shafts of green and purple, blue, red and yellow.

At Colonel Everett's entrance the shifting floodlights died. Brilliant white lights sprang to life from every bulb in the place. The dancers laughed. A buzz of talk reverberated. Dick Redlands glanced up in annoyance. The most beautiful girl on board was sitting out with him. He adored her. He was letting Wanda know about it and she seemed not uninterested. What fool had turned on the electric lights?

Wanda's grave, wistful, profoundly gray eyes turned to the doorway where Colonel Everett's evening clothes seemed to invest him with quite regal dignity. He bowed to her across the dance-floor and advanced.

"Look here, Wanda! You're not going to dance with that bounder." Dick lost his head in sudden, plunging, nameless fear. "It's impossible! He's... he's—"

"What is he?"

Dick was unable to say. The girl's black head with its narrow wreath of pearls was turned from him. Her fingers lay unresponsive in his clasp. Her quickened breath fluttered the gauzy petals of a flower at her breast.

"Wanda!" he urged. "No! Don't dance with him. There's something wrong-he's a rotter— a—"

The colonel was bowing low before Wanda now, drawing her to her feet, melting into the dance with the girl's supple figure held close. Dick stared after them. He was afraid— damnably afraid— and he didn't know at all what it was he feared. But his eyes followed the girl. Her face was turned to her partner's shoulder; his lips were close to her ear, moving, moving in ceaseless talk.

"...but it won't last. It can't last, your beauty! You are only a shell. A lovely, painted, fragile shell. After tonight all your beauty will be gone. You'll be dead. Have you ever seen a body that's been in the water for a day or two? For a week? For a month? Very revolting indeed. Bloated— swollen— oh! most nauseating. And the fishes—"

On and on went the horrible whispering voice, painting its hellish pictures, destroying her body— her eyes— her hair— giving her loveliness to hideous death with sure, unrelenting strokes. And, gripped in his iron arms, she had to listen. Her imagination flared to torturing life as all ability to struggle, to cry out, failed her.

"There are so many creatures of the sea that will come starved to rob you of this beauty you love. It would be a waste of time for your latest adorer to go on worshipping at your shrine. He shall see you day by day as you rot— and rot. I heard what he said. He shall live— and regret his living!"

Dick, watchful, not with anger, cold with terror, held in his place by baffling control, saw Wanda's profile as she passed before him— suffering— tortured.

Next time the pair came round, the colonel stopped, led Wanda to her seat, set her in it like a doll, then walked away in the direction of the band. Dick found himself unable to move a finger.

Music struck up again. An old tune. No one got up to dance. No one moved at all.

Colonel Everett stood as one crowned and robed with authority. Slowly, as if a heavy, jeweled cloak dragged at his heels, he turned and walked away.

The band played with maddening repetition. On and on wailed the sad little melody... Kathleen Mavourneen... on... and on.., and on...

ON ONE of his half-hourly visits to Mark, Mr. Amyas saw a tall, hatefully familiar figure standing outside the room. Colonel Everett's face, barely recognizable now in its dark, lean wolfishness, confronted him with a grin. "Very conscientious! Well, make the most of your time. You won't be sick-visiting much longer. I'll take the boy off your hands soon— very soon."

Mr. Amyas opened the door and closed it softly, abruptly in the other's face. He felt better for the small act of defiance. After midnight!... He choked back the cold, numbing sense of defeat that threatened, and crossed over to the bunk where Doctor Fielding watched.

"I've something to say to you," he began in a low, urgent voice. "No use telling you before— I wasn't sure of Captain Ross. And it's a remote chance anyhow. However—"

He explained briefly.

"I see." The doctor looked up, his eyes dead fires in a worn, ravaged face, "It all hangs on whether Everett knows, and if he does know, whether he will have the chance to communicate his vital knowledge. The only certain factor in the crisis is that Everett as Everett does momentarily take possession of himself again."

His companion assented.

"I admit my knowledge is limited. But I'm staking everything on it. And I have persuaded the captain to this point of view. About Mark—"

"Yes. If Everett speaks, Mark won't need the second injection. Very well. I'll wait for fifteen minutes after midnight. Then— if no message comes— I will use the needle."

The corridor was empty as Mr. Amyas went out again.

"I don't know," he confessed when he regained the bridge, "why the infernal fog leaves us alone up here. Vernon is reserving his powers, leaving us to the last— his strongest enemies. There must be laws and barriers in every state of existence, and Vernon must be prevented from touching us— yet!"

"My first mate's given up now, driven away," the captain informed him. "There's no one at the wheel. Luckily the ship's heading north, right out of the fairway. No danger of a collision. We're going dead slow, too. Three more hours of this. Three more hours! My God, Amyas, if Everett doesn't come— doesn't tell me!"

"He will come."

"But he may not know. He may not know."

For the hundredth time Mr. Amyas reassured him. For the hundredth time Captain Ross turned to pace up and down the bridge, his ears tortured by the incessant, insistent whistle, rising to maniacal fury, then dwindling to thin, distant, unearthly piping. He had tried stuffing his ears with cotton-wool. It was useless-worse than useless. It increased the torment; his brain had felt like a hollow tube; the whistle shrieked through it. redhot, searing as a flame.

And up and down the long, bare, gleaming deck below, to and fro, drifting, shifting, a horrible, seeking, wraith-like thing of fog loomed, hovered, eddied, wavered to nothingness, re-formed once more.

And northward through the dark sea drove the ship— haunted— lost— blind!— her slow, discouraged heart beating in heavy rhythm. Northward to her doom.

Almost midnight. On the bridge Captain Ross and Mr. Amyas kept watch. Almost midnight. A new moon. Hard, bright stars. No wind. And the low continuous wash and ripple of following seas as the S.S. Dragon drove on her unguided, crooked course.

In Number 14 on deck A, its occupant moved with quick, uneasy steps. The sinuous grace, the wicked, glancing eyes were changing. Something of fear, of doubt, of grief showed every now and then, like a star's clear shining between dark clouds.

"It's very far off— very far off." His voice was crisper in spite of its note of anxious, painful doubt. "I can't remember— I don't even know what it is I must remember."

A sudden convulsive shudder took him. A sudden darkness dimmed and blurred his features. His head went back with a jerk. His hands grew taut with fingers that clenched and crisped like talons.

"Fool! Fool! What am I doing? What am I thinking? Almost midnight. A few short minutes and I will pass through. The door stands wide. I will pass through."

He glared at the tall figure reflected in the long glass of his wardrobe, leaned forward as if speaking to the image mirrored there. "In a few more minutes I possess you utterly. Body-living human soul— all mine!"

The face in the glass returned his glare, grew gray and wavered. Its harsh and wicked lines smoothed out. Thought, emotion, effort showed in the mirrored face— stirring— changing it as wind changes the face of water. "No! No! Stay here. You shall not go! I command. I command. I rule you now."

But the eyes in the mirror did not match the voice. They were steady, resolute, brave. And a new voice answered the challenging words. "I am Tom Everett. I am myself And I must speak with the captain of this ship."

He turned from the mirror. All soldier now— squared shoulders, erect, decisive, disciplined. He moved toward the door; his hand was on the latch when his body was tom and wrenched as if by torture. He fell against the wall. "I must-speak—"

His voice grew thick and indistinct. His hands made blind, arrested movements. He lifted his feet as if he stood in quicksands and fell with a choking cry and hands at his throat.

Stubbornly he dragged himself upright, dragged open the door and stumbled into the corridor. Moving more strongly now with every step he took, he made for the deck above. From the bridge Captain Ross saw him coming, heard a faint calling through the night.

"Captain! Captain! Are you keeping watch?"

"Here! On the bridge! Here, Tom, here!"

The colonel moved swiftly in reply. He seemed to slip his fetters, came running. Next moment he had gained the bridge and stood with clear gaze on his friend.

Mr.Amyas fell back. It was between these two now.

"Tell me! Tell me quickly! I am ready. I will give all I have— body and soul, to save you!"

Everett looked deep into the agonized face confronting him. "Yes— I see you are— quite ready."

A shrill piping sounded far off-drew nearer-nearer.

"Now!" cried the colonel. He thrust a thin, long knife, trophy of the East, into Captain Ross's hand. "We must go together. We must fight him together, afterward! Will you come with me?"

Below, the decks were blotted out. Fog rolled up... blind white world of terror... closing in with the whistling, tearing shrieking of the damned.

Captain Ross took the knife, grasped it strongly. Understanding, then profound triumphant joy illumined his worn face.

"Ah! Now I see the way! Wait for me, Tom! Together... yes!... together!"

He flung up an arm and struck with sure, strong aim. Everett fell, the knife deep in his heart. The captain pulled his sharp blade free again, stood up. One tremendous shout— thunder-clap bellowing above the wind's shrill squeal. The bright blade flashed again, sank to its hilt in the captain's own broad breast.

As he fell, stars and moon and foaming sea were blotted out from Mr. Amyas. The night was filled with the howl of rushing winds. Blackness descended. The ship spun crazy and demented under him.

In mortal terror he heard the thrashing roar of battle all about him. His heart grew colder than his icy hands. A world of yelling darkness where all the winds of hell tore loose.

But louder than winds, high above the devilish tumult shrilled the whistle, ceaseless, shrieking its menace, its everlasing hate...

Utter silence. Silence, huge as the empty dawn of time. A wide, sweet sense of freedom filled the universe.

The watcher stood, breathing the clean salt wind, blessing friendly stars and moonlit water.

He woke like a dreamer and looked at his watch. Five minutes— only five minutes that agony had endured after all!

He knelt by the quiet dead, profoundly sleeping, utterly at rest. They were freed as Mr. Amyas knew himself to be. The dark soul of Eldred Vernon was destroyed.

_________________

13: El Hamel, the Lost One

"The fate of every man is about his neck."

—Arab proverb.

LIEUTENANT DESTINS was young, unreconciled to loneliness, passionately unwilling to support the burden of his consciousness without the distractions of friends, music, theaters, and the general effervescence of a gay city life— the life of Paris, in fact, now removed from him by the Mediterranean and many weary leagues of the vast Sahara desert. He was undergoing the severest trial a man of his temperament could experience, and his vivacious Gallic soul rebelled and sickened under the ordeal.

It was two years now since he had first arrived at Fort Djebel Sfah, one of the most isolated outposts of the French occupation, northwest of the great range of the Hoggar mountains. It was a region sufficiently desolate and heart-breaking without the added terror of being the stronghold and headquarters of he dreaded Touareg tribe.

The "Forgotten of God" these people are justly named—robbers, murderers, raiders of the most savage character. In spite of French vigilance, they made themselves feared throughout the desert— a fighting, untamable remnant of a white Berber race, over whose origin the learned still dispute. "Wearers of the Veil" is another popular name for this unique people, whose men from time immemorial have worn the littram jealously fastened across their aristocratic features both at home and abroad— sleeping, eating, fighting, dying in this mysterious veil that is so useful in their frequent raids, making identification and retribution equally impossible

Lieutenant Destins stood on the western ramparts of Fort Djebel Sfah and gloomily watched the far-distant Hoggar peaks— fantastic, brilliant pinnacles of rock— against the changing sky. The great vault overhead merged imperceptibly from azure to ultramarine; the far-flung carpet of pale yellow sand deepened to saffron from horizon to horizon. Gradually the whole firmament took fire, blazed in unbelievable reds, yellows, purples, greens, softened to a dusky amethyst, finally darkened in chromatic beauty until the brief desert darkness cloaked the wilderness.

Still Lieutenant Destins stood like a statue, immobile in his frozen, bitter nostalgia, while the moon and brilliant stars revealed the desert once more in the magic of a Saharan night. The soldier's well-knit, youthful figure, his military carriage, the poise of his dark head, the beautifully drawn lines of nose and jaw in the shadow of his sun-helmet, all gave a first impression of strength and elasticity, of the "dauntless stuff" which fiction loves to associate with men who hold the frontiers of empire.

In Lieutenant Destins' case, this first impression was misleading. The little muscle twitching at the angle of his smoothly-shaved jaw, the restless snapping of thumb and finger, the bitter despondency of the too flexible mouth, the clouded, dull despair in the brown eyes did not reveal heroic endurance.

Le cafard was about to claim another victim! That was clear to all within the sun-baked walls of Djebel Sfah who remarked Destins' symptoms. Le cafard— the madness that overtakes so many in the awful loneliness of Saharan outposts, a mortal sickness which too often drives its victims to end the unbearable monotony of their days in suicide.

A running, stumbling figure in a red fez and long white shirt that flapped about a pair of lean, dark legs, was approaching the fort across the moonlit sands. There was a shout from a sentry, repeated and echoed from within the walls of the fort, where native servants squatted round their cooking-fires, eating, smoking, and sleeping in the welcome coolness of the freshening wind.

The hubbub of excited voices pierced Destins' apathy; the distant hurrying figure, like an ant in that immensity of sand, attracted his attention at last. With the rest of the garrison, who tumbled like eager schoolboys from their quarters, he joined the group at the gates as the heavy doors were unbolted and opened to receive the traveler.

The whole garrison was stung to instant life and normality at mere sight of the approaching man. The sluggish tide of existence at the fort became in a twinkling a purposeful, swift-flowing river. Here was a link with the great outside world from which they were cut off. Here came tidings of good or evil, no matter which: tidings— news— the breath of life once more!

"Bachir!" exclaimed one of the natives. "Ya salaam! He comes with all the shaitans of the wilderness at his heels!"

And "Bachir! Ha! Bachir! Melek Taos! Melek Taos!" echoed on every side, with bursts of ribald laughter.

To see the vain, stately Bachir in this disarray indicated quite unprecedented tidings. Three days ago he had left the fort in company with six others—two servants like himself and three officers of the garrison. They had gone ostensibly gazelle-hunting, but rumors of a threatened raid on a garfla crossing from Timbuktu to Lake Chad had given purpose and direction to the hunters, apart from the chance of varying their restricted diet with gazelle steaks.

Three short days ago Bachir had departed, puffed up with pride and importance. Long service, and conspicuous bravery in several hot sieges and sudden raids, had placed him considerably above the rank and file of other natives at the fort, and an overweening vanity in the matter of dress decked him out in such abandon of glorious hues that he was nicknamed Melek Taos, or "Lord Peacock," by one officer who had been reading up the strange history and beliefs of the Yezidees, or devil-worshippers.

Near the gates, the disheveled, dusty figure collapsed suddenly. A dozen eager helpers ran out into the moonlight, carried him into the fort, and put him gently on the ground with his back to a wall. Water was brought. He took a mouthful, spat it out, his throat muscles working convulsively; then he drank deeply and raised a limp hand in salute as the commandant bent over him.

"A rhazzia!" he whispered, his stiff, blackened lips shaping the words with difficulty. "Near the Pass of Set-Set! Touaregs... big rhazzia... hundreds! All killed except me... wounded here!" he raised a shaking hand to his head. "I escaped... they pursued to the Well of Daz... but I had time... to drink... and spoil the water... poison plant near. My pursuers died. Lost my camel... yesterday. Touaregs come... swiftly, swiftly, Arfi!"

He stretched, sighed deeply once, and fell back. The Lord Peacock would strut no more. His body was hastily carried to a convenient corner to await burial at a less distracting moment—a bundle of dirty rags and indifferent clay.

THE ANCIENT fort hummed and buzzed. The pent-up energy of weeks of inaction turned officers and men alike into demons of effectiveness. Gunners stood at attention on the walls, ammunition was bought up by chattering, excited men, cartridge belts donned. In addition to the regulation government rifles, old flintlocks, wicked looking knives, and swords in strangely-chased scabbards appeared amongst the Arabs, who moved like cats in spite of the weight of the miniature arsenals they disposed about their persons.

With the rest, Lieutenant Destins became a dynamo of energy. Taut, erect, with throbbing pulses he stood again on the western ramparts, his narrowed eyes glued to the binoculars he held up, his whole soul concentrated on a barricade of hills running north and south almost in a straight line across the western horizon. Sand dunes rose to heights of several hundred feet on the distant skyline. In the foreground, stretching the base of the fort itself, the dunes flattened out to mere sandy swellings on the plain, covered with bush and dried yellow grasses, and affording excellent cover to such enemies as the Touaregs. With a perfection learnt through centuries of guerilla warfare in the wilderness, these Touaregs had a magic faculty of identifying themselves with bush and grass and shadow that no white man could hope to emulate.

"Something moves to the left of that tallest hill, Arfi!" one of the Arabs volunteered. "Under the big star."

Destins frowned, strained his sight in vain.

"Keep down, keep down!" he ordered. "If you can see them, they can see us. They mustn't guess we've been warned, and are ready for them. Next man who puts an inch of himself above the parapet will be taken down to the guardhouse."

This horrible threat of missing all the fun kept the excited natives huddled within the deep shadow of a heavy buttress, but they chattered like monkeys.

"Thousands— thousands were Bachir's very words!" they assured one another. "They come as the sands of the desert for multitude! The great Sheikh Ben Zaban leads them— who but he? Billah, the dogs! Scum of the Hoggar! Our guns will scatter them as eagles put wild birds to flight!"

Hours slipped by. The moon rose to her zenith and sank once more. The dark, cold hour before dawn was upon them, and the excitement in the fort was intense despite the long hours of waiting. This was ever the Touaregs' chosen hour for attack— that chill, discouraging hour when friend and foe are almost indistinguishable in the murk— the hour when blood turns slow and sleep lies heavy on the eyelids.

Lieutenant Destins drank scalding coffee from his pannikin, swore absent-mindedly as the hot metal burned his lips, and stamped his cold feet on the stones, his face turned constantly to the dunes.

Veil after veil of night imperceptibly lifted, and on the eastern horizon a cold white-gray patch increased. The wind that had nipped the garrison so cruelly through the night watches dropped suddenly. Even the Arab tongues were stilled. A moment of silence as intense as the peculiar quiet of a forsaken churchyard held the fort and its watchers in a spell.

Then, like a burst bubble, the quiet and hush broke into a thousand flying shreds.

A soft thunder of hooves on sand increasing to a roar. Shrill yells of fury. Ullah— Ullah— Ullah— lah— lah— lah! rose in a crescendo as, from the indistinct barrier of dunes, a cloud of horsemen surged forward like a great wave breaking.

An answering roar from the fort scattered them. Taken completely by surprise, they wheeled and circled in momentary confusion. But one figure, darting like a hornet amongst his men, rallied them. On they came once more, the hornet-like leader in the van brandishing his long gun over his head, while his gaily-striped burnoose stretched like a taut sail behind him.

Another flash of red leaped from the western walls of Fort Djebel Sfah, followed by a roar, and through the acrid smoke, the garrison saw the Touaregs mowed down, whirl, and mill about in confusion. The hornet-one did not halt—standing in his stirrups of wide native design, he harangued his men, and the Touaregs once more rallied.

On came Striped Burnoose, lead peppering about him briskly as he got within rifle range, but although men fell on all sides, he seemed bullet-proof and rode straight for the gates of the fort. Some fifty of the Veiled Ones reached the safety of the buttressed walls with him, and reined in so close that it was impossible for the defenders to shoot them down without exposing their own bodies as easy targets.

A clattering of horses' hooves on the stones of the great courtyard arose. The commandant's orders rapped out like a machine-gun in action. From under the gates, wisps and curls of smoke rose ominously. The Touaregs were attempting to fire the massive wooden entrance.

"—but not until we have engaged them thoroughly," the commandant went on addressing Destins. "They've surrounded the fort, but as soon as we open the gates, every last Touareg will rush in on us. Then leave by the postern gate and circle round to cut them off from retreat to the hills. I can only spare you fifteen men. If he escapes us, concentrate on the leader— Ben Zaban! Get him... bring him back alive or dead! We must make an example of him."

The gates were opened so abruptly that the raiders were again taken by surprise, and the French thrust out in a grim, determined wedge, meeting the yelling Berbers with the irresistible force of perfectly co-ordinated machinery. Pushing out through the swarming enemy, the defenders stood solid, taking aim deliberately, bringing down man after man until the riderless horses making toward the hills looked as if they were engaged in some sort of steeple-chase.

The Touaregs wavered, their morale breaking down rapidly under the steady strain. Their leader urged them in vain. Long distance sniping, guerilla warfare, the quick shock of hand-to-hand tussles in the hills with men as excitable and impassioned as themselves— that sort of fighting they understood. But this steady, resolute opposition was not according to their code.

They broke and scattered, riding off in all directions. Those that made for the hills were cut off by Destins and his men, strung out in a long line across the sand. Caught between these on one hand and the garrison on the other, few Touaregs escaped. But Ben Zaban's luck held, and he spurred determinedly for the hills, a flying streak of red and yellow.

Destins was after him, as closely attached as a tail to a flying comet. If Ben Zaban once reached his objectives, the Frenchman realized that all the advantage would be with the desert fighter. It was now or never. He reined in his horse, took steady aim, and fired.

For a moment nothing happened, and he thought he had missed completely. Then the Touareg reeled in his saddle, toppled, and slipped sideways to the ground. He was dragged in the dust until his body was caught and wedged by a mass of protruding rock. The horse broke free and dashed on, snorting with fear, and in a moment more had vanished among the winding defiles of the hills beyond.

Destins slowed his own horse to a footpace, for stone and stubble made the going precarious, and approached the bright huddle of Ben Zaban's body. He dismounted and looked down at the face that the torn veil revealed.

"A real warrior!" Destins looked regretfully down at the Touareg sheikh. "Modern civilization can never breed men like this again. A marvelous savage!"

He hoisted the limp body on the back of his horse and began to make his way back to the fort.

FROM THE bush-covered spur of a hill about twenty yards away, there was a faint tinkle of armlets; slender, henna-tipped fingers held aside a twig; two dark, brilliant eyes peered through the opening thus made.

Zamathar the Beautiful! Zamathar, whose songs of love and battle were sung at myriad campfires, echoing all the fiery passion and romance of her most ancient race. Zamathar, whose wit and beauty made her a queen amongst the fierce Touareg warriors. Zamathar, the star of Ben Zaban's tumultuous life— whose firstborn kicked and crowed in Ben Zaban's tent in the far-off Hoggar mountains, not knowing that his father lay still and silent in the dust before Fort Djebel Sfah.

Her eyes watched the limp body of her lover unblinking, her mouth steady, her whole body still as a marvelous statue, her breath deep and quiet, scarcely stirring the silken folds across her breast.

Despair... death... that might come later. The present was no time for private grief. The last act was yet to be played, and the deep magic gaze that followed Destins, as he led his horse with its burden across the stones and sand, missed no detail that might help her to play her part later.

A long time she lay hidden among the bushes, until the lizards, emboldened by her perfect stillness, began to whisk about her. The sun climbed steadily, the sky changed from blue to grayish white, intolerably hot and glaring. From the scant shelter of a rock, Zamathar watched and waited with the endless deadly patience of the East.

At last the gates of the fort were opened. A group of men emerged carrying something amongst them; they moved in her direction until they were quite near to her hiding-place, then threw down their burden on the sand, returned to the fort and vanished within. In a few minutes they reappeared with a ladder, which one of them mounted, and fastened something dark and round to a spike set in the archway over the gates. He got down and surveyed his handiwork from below, and the others joined him, gesticulating furiously. They were town Arabs from Algeria, Zamathar knew, and she despised them as only the true Berber can despise the town-dwelling Arabs. They went back through the gates at last, and the latter closed behind them.

Zamathar's eyes, keen as a young hawk's, knew instantly what that small round object was over the gates. It was the head of Sheikh Ben Zaban.

Her heart stood still with fear and horror and a bitter anger. No more awful punishment could have been devised for a true believer. Not only death of the body, but death of the soul! A dishonor that would blacken the name of Ben Zaban and his heirs forever.

Such punishment as this would deprive her beloved of all chance of peace and happiness in Paradise. He was lost— body and soul, he was lost, unless that dear and sacred head could be recovered and buried with his body in one grave.

Long and agonized were Zamathar's thoughts as she lay there. She crept at last across the burning sand to the burden that the men had flung down so carelessly, and beside Ben Zaban's headless trunk she made her vow. Stooping her proud little head to the breast that had pillowed it so often, her lips moved soundlessly. Then she vanished into the hills beyond, while the circling vultures dropped one by one from the brassy skies.

TWENTY-FOUR hours later, Lieutenant Destins rode out through the gates of the fort. The old, deadly nostalgia was stealing back— the old irritation and despair beginning to tug at him, distorting everyone and everything in sight.

A stiff gallop would shake him out of his mood for an hour at least, brace him up before the horrible tedium of mess-dinner with the same old faces, the same old jokes, the inevitable menu, and the choice between a game of cards, a quarrel, or the farce of studying a few dull books to fit himself for promotion.

"Promotion! Mon Dieu— promotion!" Destins said between his teeth as he passed under the archway. "And what does that mean in this cursed desert? Moving on to some other corner of hell! More flies... more sun... more fools to hate... more beastliness... and no recognition until one is skewered on some filthy Bedouin's lance! Then— a nice little hole in the sand and a label 'Died for his country.' Bah!"

He looked up at the grim object suspended from an iron spike above the gates. The bitter lines about his mouth deepened.

"And that's the end of you, mon brave!" he apostrophized it. "That's the finish of your glory and renown! Your handsome head hangs out for the sun to dry— and your body flung to the vultures! Well, I envy you. At least you died with the blood singing in your veins; you never knew the paralysis of inaction... of years of stupid monotony. You lived a man's life and died fighting. You were never cooped up like a wasp in a bottle until you were a soggy, dreary beast... until you didn't care... didn't—"

With a curse, he spurred his mount to a wild gallop, on to the far horizon, where the flaming disk that had made the fort an inferno from dawn to sunset now withdrew in a last defiant flare of crimson and gold.

In his hysterical, uncontrolled condition, the unhappy Destins rode farther and faster than he had intended. Outraged by the constant application of her master's spurred heels, his spirited mare flew on with a recklessness that matched her rider's mood. Darkness fell round him like a black curtain before Destins woke to a realization of his folly, but it was too late to prevent catastrophe.

The mare stumbled over a patch of rough ground, fell to her knees, and when Destins dismounted and got her up again, the beautiful creature stood shivering and trembling with pain. She rubbed her velvet muzzle against his arm as, full of contrition for his carelessness, he soothed her with hand and voice.

She was very lame, and it was doubtful if she could hobble home even without Destins on her back. The fort was entirely out of sight, but when the moon rose and showed the straight, black, interminable ridge of hills on the western horizon, it was not difficult to steer in the right direction, and man and beast began their tedious journey.

Destins was in no mood to appreciate the austere desolate beauty of his surroundings. The vast, solemn grandeur of the wilderness appalled him. Space... solitude... silence... and overhead the fathomless depths of night-blue sky.

His eager blood was chilled in his veins. He felt like a pale ghost divorced from his body. The desert was to him a bitter hell of sand and heat where a man lost all he had... all he was... all he ever hoped to be.

THE MOON rose higher; the desert, sketched in sharpest black and silver, became more remote, more mysterious. A man of far coarser imagination than Destins might well have been awed to the point of fear.

The mare hobbled along more easily; fifteen miles away, the dark, squat outline of the fort loomed up, while on the left, the hills ran down in long ridges and valleys not more than a hundred yards distant. Suddenly the animal halted, one forefoot suspended, intelligent, dark eyes turned inquiringly to those same hills, her delicate ears pricked.

A long, soft call came clearly, low and sweet as a bird note.

As Destins hesitated, his fingers around the butt of his revolver, a figure emerged from the shadows in the hills and moved swiftly toward him— a woman's figure, unveiled, desperate in its movements, bare arms outflung in appeal, the eager, slender body wrapped in crimson silk that reflected the light as some crystal goblet of rare wine.

The young solider stood still in the greatest surprise. Half aware of the morbid hysterical state to which he was succumbing by degrees, he felt a pang of horror.

"Am I mad, then?" he asked himself. "Is this a delusion, a trick of the senses?"

He shut his eyes to gain control of himself. Perhaps when he opened them, there would be no woman... he would know then that his mind was really going! He squeezed his lids tightly together— heard a faint high note singing in his ears— a quick, snuffling breath from the mare— then a faint musical tinkle of metal against metal!

His eyes flashed open in time to see a woman collapse at his feet, a sobbing, murmuring heap of brilliant silk; two clinging hands took one of his between their soft palms and held it to a tear-wet cheek.

"But... but—" stammered Destins, scarcely knowing even yet if he were a victim to a delusion or not, charming though it might be. He was silenced by a sight of the face raised imploringly to his.

"Effendi! Allah is merciful! He has sent thee... thou wilt not refuse thine aid!"

Destins looked long at her. Her face, like a dark, glorious flower, was lovely beyond any he had ever seen. Amazed, speechless, he stared with the conviction that he had not known what beauty was until this moment.

And Zamathar did not spare him. She recognized him at once, and her whole soul put forth its strength to lure and bind him to her; every nerve of her exquisite body responded to her demand.

She did not see a young French officer... she saw only Ben Zaban, standing proud and splendid before her. She was not speaking to Destins, but to him whose ears would never delight in her low voice again. With all the strength and passion in her, she clothed Destins in the body and blood of her beloved dead.

The man before her heard little, and understood less, of the tragic story she poured out kneeling there at his feet, her eyes outshining the stars in splendor, her perfumed hair a dark mist about her face and slender body. Some dim idea did penetrate his consciousness that her caravan had been attacked by men of the Tublu tribe, blood enemies of her people, that she had escaped and needed sanctuary. Someone she loved was killed; she was defenseless and far from her home. If he would hide her for few days... a very few days... until it was safe for her to return over the hills again.

"Effendi, thou wilt not refuse me this?" Her hands— the small-boned, exquisite hands of the Touareg aristocrat— held his gently as a child's soft fingers. Destins shivered under their touch.

He was so enchanted that for long moments he could only stand there stiff and stupid as a waxwork, watching the play of her features, her fathomless eyes under tear-wet lashes, her skin smooth and creamy as a deep tea-rose, and her mouth— crimson as her rich robe— pleading, lovely, irresistible.

He stooped to her, lifted her from her knees, holding her as if he feared his touch might break the spell, that she might melt and vanish in his clasp.

Her night-dark eyes were on a level with his own, and he saw that they were blue, not black, as he first believed. He drew her closer to him... closer, his eyes on hers. A flame danced down deep in those blue depths of hers, a flame of triumph... and contempt. Her tragic mouth twisted to a smile as he caught her to him.

"No! No!" she whispered breathlessly. "Not now— not yet! We must go swiftly—swiftly, effendi! Take me away from this place! Hide me!"

Destins woke from his trance, astonished at the sudden change in her. He felt like an awkward schoolboy beside this regal woman, who pointed an imperious hand toward the distant fort.

"Take me there!" she commanded. "Hide me for a week— one week!"

She spoke a local dialect familiar to Destins, with a liquid slurring of the vowels that pleased the young Frenchman's critical ear.

"It is as you please," he responded slowly. "I was thinking it will be easy to hide you for as long as you wish. I know of a place— if you are not afraid of shaitans [devils]!"

"I am afraid of nothing... nothing save the Tublu sheikh who is pursuing me," she answered. "There are no devils more dreadful than those I find in human shape."

Destins flushed, remembering uneasily his share, and his fierce joy, in the fight of yesterday. This woman would hardly have appealed to him if she had seen him shooting and hacking at her own tribesmen! He must be careful not to let slip anything about that.

Then a faint premonition of peril and disaster urged him to say:

"There is always the fort. Perhaps it would be wise for you to let me present you to the commandant. He will have you safely guarded, and you can send a message to your tribe."

"Never— never!" she cried. "A woman alone with all those rough soldiers and contemptible Arabs who are the servants of your army! My name would be blackened forever... my own father would shoot me like a dog if I dared return after such disgrace. It would be a shameful thing for a Touareg woman such as I! No, effendi, if you cannot hide me, then I die here in the desert."

She snatched at his revolver before he could move a finger, and turned the muzzle to her breast.

"Wait— wait!" Destins was seized with a quite incredible terror. "It shall be as you desire. I will find a secret place for you... no one, no one shall ever discover you there."

She lowered the weapon, and Destins seized it roughly, his hands suddenly cold and wet with the sudden fear that he had lost her.

"It was only for your sake I suggested the fort. I thought you might feel safer. I am no better than my brother officers," he added roughly, impelled to sheer honesty by the lovely look of confidence and hope that again dawned in her eyes. "Why do you single me out... why do you trust me? I am a man... and you... you are the loveliest thing I have seen in all my life!"

Once more that flame danced in her eyes— that little flame of triumph... and contempt.

"I know men," she said briefly. "I know those whom I can trust. I have known them in peace and in war. Men have loved me, hated me, desired me since I first learned to smile or frown on them! Beauty such as mine brings great wisdom, effendi!"

She spoke with a calm detachment that no one could mistake for vanity. Destins realized afresh that here was no lovely plaything to amuse a man's idle hours.

He knew the matriarchal system of the Touaregs, the unlimited power and freedom of the mothers and wives of this ancient white race, the independence of their women-folk from childhood up. This was one of the grandes dames of that mysterious tribe— a woman whose word was law among her people, whom warriors sought out for counsel and advice, who had no doubt ridden out to battle as other celebrated women of her tribe had done.

A brief doubt as to the meaning of her tears, her rôle of clinging, despondent woman, assailed him. Even in his infatuation, he realized dimly that such a rôle was alien to the stately creature before him.

Then she smiled at him, put a gentle, imploring hand on his arm. He was lost. What matter if she had been pretending? What matter the secret she concealed behind those dark blue eyes? What did he care? She had come to him out of the solitary wilderness— the first good gift it had given him, this loveliest of women had come to him. Why ask more of the Fates?

"They'll have sentinels posted," he said suddenly. "We shall be within their range soon. Better to wait here until the moon sets. That will give us a chance to get to your hiding-place without being seen. It is an old ruin about ten miles from the fort— the remains of an ancient castle. It is dry and there are no snakes about, and its reputation for being haunted acts like a charm for keeping it deserted."

She smiled at him again.

"It will be perfect," she assured him. "It is well for me that I have met you. Allah is good!"

Destins privately thought that Allah had been good to him also, and blessed his lucky star that had led him to ride out so fast and far that night.

They turned aside to a ridge of dunes, and in a deep hollow Destins built a fire from dried sticks scattered about and by its cheering warmth he watched the stars fade out, giving himself up completely to the magic of the hour. The play of light and shadow on the face and figure of the woman fascinated him. At times her head, in its cloud of hair, looked fateful, almost threatening— the eyes under their long lashes somber and tragic— the curved mouth austere to cruelty.

Then the leaping flame would set alight the fire in the blue eyes, her flashing glance would make his heart beat hard and fast, the proudly set lips would lose their tautness and relax to smile at him... to murmur gratitude and hope.

"What do they call you?" he asked abruptly.

She leaned toward him, holding out her hands, the jeweled fingers outspread.

"My names are many as the jewels I wear," she answered lightly. "As many as those who hold me dear."

"I hold you dear," replied Destins, his voice hardly audible above the crackle of the blazing twigs.

She looked at him in silence, her eyes holding his deep gaze with composure, her brows puckered a little, as if he were a page of some new book she sought to understand.

"You shall call me Nakhla!" she said at last. "Often that name is in my ears. Nakhla— which means a palm-tree!"

"Palm-tree! The crown and glory of the desert," was Destins' quick response. "It's a good name for you. And my name—"

"I will name you El Hamel," she interrupted, with a strange twisted little smile. "El Hamel— the Lost One! When I first saw you trudging with your head down, and your shoulders bowed, that is how you appeared— El Hamel."

Destins cheerfully agreed, laughing now at the dismal picture she sketched with an indescribable gesture of her supple wrist.

"That's what they will be calling me at the fort by this time, too," he remarked.

"Ah, yes! We must go!" She sprang to her feet. She was suddenly remote and withdrawn again, and Destins followed her, leading the mare. In the gray dawn they reached the ruined castle that was to be Zamathar's shelter.

What had been the ramp leading to the main entrance of the place was now a hardly risible path, and Destins led his companion carefully over the stones and rock half concealed by the straggling camel-thorn. He looked round at the gray ruinous pile in doubt.

"It will be light before I get back to the fort. What will you do all day without food or drink? What a fool I am! You can't stay here and die of thirst!"

She took his hand in hers.

"That is nothing for me, a Touareg woman! I can endure as much as a man. Often I have not drunk for many days together. Do not fear for me. I shall wait for your return tonight."

Destins took her in his arms— her hands crushed against his breast....

"At the earliest moment," he said, his cheek against hers, the perfume of her hair in his nostrils. "You will wait... you will think of me, Nakhla, my beloved!"

"I will think of you during all the hours of the day," she assured him gravely, and stood quietly in his arms as he kissed her. He grew desperate at the moment of parting, afraid that the cruel desert would steal this new great treasure from him with all the rest.

"I can't leave you... I can't!"

"You must go," she answered very gravely. "In the Name of Allah, I swear that you will find me here when you return tonight. Go now, El Hamel, if there is truly any love for me in your heart."

THE LAST long miles across the sand might have been a stroll through the streets of his beloved Paris as far as Destins was concerned. He looked up at the solid walls of the fort and at the sentry's grinning face with astonishment on his arrival. As the day wore on, his brother officers watched him at first with amusement, and then with pity.

"Poor fellow! Done for, I'm afraid! This cursed desert gets most of us one way or another!"

Destins, utterly unconscious of their looks and their interpretation of his dazed condition, lived the hours of the past night over and over again, counting the minutes until sunset and the friendly dark.

"IT AMOUNTS to this, then," said the commandant next morning. "No one has seen Destins since dinner last night. You, Boursoie, lent him your horse, and the sentry on duty then noticed that he took a southerly direction toward the Dazar oases. Take two Arabs and ride out there. If he has not been seen in that locality, round up a band of tribesmen for a search party. They're Tublus and at war with the Touaregs, as usual, so if any stragglers from those that attacked us are about, the Tublus will make short work of them. Keep a sharp lookout for snipers as you go, and report immediately on your return."

Boursoie saluted and went off. He drew a blank at Dazar, and spent the rest of the grilling hours of that day rounding up Tublu helpers and scouring the surrounding country. It was hopeless. At sunset he returned to make his report.

"Instruct the gunners to send up a rocket; every five minutes," ordered the commandant. "Double the sentries and tell them to keep awake for once."

But in spite of vigilance, nothing unusual occurred to disturb the serenity of the African night. From the distant hills came the occasional shrill yelp of a jackal— from the walls of the fort, the voices of the sentries echoed— and that was all!

The surrounding country was full of small hummocks and hollows, patches of bush and long grass, many places where the shadows lay densely black on the silvered face of the desert. More than once the sentries called to one another, thinking they spied something that skulked behind a bush, or crawled in the hollows behind the dunes. The rest would rally round, and, after a few minutes of concentrated vigilance, would jeer at the scaremonger unmercifully, for the sandy dunes were as empty of life and movement as the Dead Sea.

If the commandant had posted his men on the summits of the hills opposite the fort— those hills which had spewed out a Touareg horde a few days previously— possibly an extra sharp-eyed watcher might have seen Zamathar. Just as possibly not! For she moved supple and quick as a panther, and in the neutral-tinted cloth she wound about her so closely, she was utterly inconspicuous. The brilliant, royally clad Nakhla who had beguiled Destins was wiped out completely— only a phantom-like woman remained.

Her scarlet, silken robe, torn and stained and dusty, was slung across her shoulders, looped so as to contain some burden about the size of a water-skin, with the corners knotted firmly about her neck. The bundle appeared damp, dripping every now and then upon the hot sands.

Keeping to the hollows, taking the shortest cuts, going always with untiring strength and determination, Zamathar at last reached a position almost opposite the fort, where she lay and took stock of her surroundings.

In the brilliant moonlight she could see distinctly every detail of the massive building which faced her. The white walls glistened as if they were cut from hard-frozen snow. On the battlements, the sentries drowsily propped themselves on their guns and chatted in groups. It was almost three a.m. and they were thinking happily of hot coffee and their pipes.

For anyone skilled in guerilla warfare as was this warrior-queen, it was not a task of superhuman difficulty to approach within a hundred yards of the fort in comparative safety. True, that damp, sticky bundle on her back was not a convenient accessory to her strategies. However, she let it slip from her shoulders and dragged it along in the sand, making a long furrow behind her— the sand caked and stuck to it until it resembled a huge ball of sand.

Behind a large patch of bush, Zamathar waited for endless minutes. The voices of the sentries came clearly across the clear night air to the watcher, whose brilliant eyes glittered as she prayed that Allah would speedily bring these dogs to a very evil end.

Not a sound, not a movement on the walls of the fort escaped her. But chiefly her attention was riveted on that small dried object hanging from the spike over the gate. Zamathar's face altered incredibly as she gazed at this.

She glanced around. Ah! There it was, still lying in the dust. A mere skeleton now, picked clean by desert scavengers— that strong, splendid body that had been Ben Zaban's only three short nights since. Dead and dishonored! Her lover... dishonored!

Her small white teeth ground savagely together.

From sea to sea, in all the wide Sahara, none had borne a name more famous than that of the great warrior, Sheikh Ben Zaban. And now this shameful curse was put upon him by the vile unbelievers... a curse to keep his noble soul from the Paradise it had earned.

The sentries were dispersing. It was a change of guard. She knew the ways of the white man— his strange foolish ways. There were two or three minutes when the walls were absolutely deserted, the careless sentries going off duty exchanging badinage with equally careless sentries coming on.

"Now... now, Zamathar!" she adjured herself.

Catching up her bundle under her arm, she sped like a cloud shadow across the last intervening space to the fort— gained the shelter of the walls— dropped beneath them.

With her bundle again slung on her back, she once more looked up at the grim trophy over the gate. Then, clinging to the rough, uneven surface of the old walls like a bat, taking advantage of every crack and cranny, she fought and struggled upward inch by inch. Her delicate feet and hands were torn, her nails broken, her muscles strained agonizingly, but she managed at last to reach a wide shelf of stone which ran along on either side of the gates. It was easy, once she stood there, to undo her bundle and exchange its contents with that shriveled head impaled on the spike.

With the precious head clasped to her, she dropped in a soft boneless heap to the ground and crouched there waiting. Not a tear, not a sigh escaped her as she huddled there with that dreadful thing upon her knee. Not even yet was she free to dwell on her private grief. Vengeance was accomplished, but her duty to the dead was still incomplete.

An hour dragged by— two— three hours. At last she ventured to creep forward a few yards and peer up at the walls. Only one sentry in sight, and he nodded as he stood with folded arms, leaning against a gun.

"Allah guard me!" she breathed as she darted back to the shelter of the rocks and bush that fringed the hills opposite the fort, back to the hollow where the bones of Ben Zaban lay. She held the withered head to her soft breast.

"Remember me, where thou art gone, Ben Zaban!"

Digging a shallow grave in the soft sand, she laid within it both head and bones, covering all at last with a cairn of stones.

In the gray mists of dawn she vanished— back to the shelter of the enveloping dunes— back to her own tribe— back to drink the cup of grief to its dregs.

Shortly after dawn, the commandant stared in purple, apoplectic silence at that which replaced the head of the infamous Touareg sheikh, Ben Zaban.

True, a head still hung there from the iron spike over the gate of the fort— the head of a man as young, as handsome, as aristocratic as that of Ben Zaban's had been.

But this head was that of a Frenchman, not an Arab. Nor was it withered and dried by the sun. The face was still beautiful— more beautiful in death than in life, for peace and deep content were written on it.

It was the head of Lieutenant Destins.

_______________________

14: Werewolf of the Sahara

Weird Tales, Aug-Sep 1936

THE three of them were unusually silent that night over their after- dinner coffee. They were camp ing outside the little town of Solium on the Libyan coast of North Africa. For three weeks they had been delayed here en route for the Siwa oasis. Two men and a girl.

"So we really start tomorrow." Merle Anthony blew a cloud of smoke toward the glittering night sky. "I'm almost sorry. Sollum's been fun. And I've done two of the best pictures I ever made here."

"Was that why you burned them up yesterday?" her cousin, Dale Fleming, inquired in his comfortable pleasant voice.

The girl's clear pallor slowly crimsoned. "Dale! What a—"

"It's all right, Merle," Gunnar Sven interrupted her. "Dale's quite right. Why pretend this delay has done you any good? And it's altogether my fault. I found that out today in the market. Overheard some Arabs discussing our expedition to Siwa."

"Your fault!" Merle's beautiful face, and eyes gray as a gull's wing, turned to him. "Why, you've simply slaved to get the caravan ready."

Gunnar got to his feet and walked out to the verge of the headland on which they were camped. Tall, straight as a pine he stood.

The cousins watched him; the girl with trouble and perplexity, the man more searchingly. His eyes, under straight upper lids, flatly contradicted the rest of his appearance. He was very fat, with fair hair and smooth unlined face despite his forty years. A sort of Pickwickian good humor radiated from him. Dale Fleming's really great intellectual power showed only in those three-cornered heavily-lidded eyes of his.

"Why did you give me away?" Merle demanded.

His round moon face beamed on her. "Why bluff?" he responded.

"Snooping about as usual. Why don't you go and be a real detective?" she retorted crossly.

He gave a comfortable chuckle, but his eyes were sad. It was devilishly hard to watch her falling for this Icelander. Ever since his parents had adopted her— an orphan of six— she had come first in Dale's affections. His love was far from Platonic. Gunnar Sven was a fine creature, but there was something wrong. Some mystery shadowed his life. What it was, Dale was determined to discover.

"Truth will out, my child! The natives are in terror of him. You know it as well as I do! They're all against helping you and me because he's our friend."

"Stop being an idiot. No one could be afraid of Gunnar. And he's particularly good with natives."

"Yes. He handles them well. I've never seen a young 'un do it better."

"Well, then?"

"There's something queer about him. These Arabs know it. We know it. It's about two months now since he joined forces with us. Just after my mother decamped and left us in Cairo. The cable summoning her home to Aunt Sue's death-bed arrived Wednesday, May 3rd. She sailed May 5th. Gunnar Sven turned up May 6th."

"All right. I'm not contradicting you. It's never any use."

"You refused to wait for Mother's return in Cairo, according to her schedule."

"Well! Cairo! Everyone paints Cairo and the Nile. I wanted subjects that every five-cent tourist hadn't raved over."

"You wanted Siwa Oasis. Of all Godforsaken dangerous filthy places! And in the summer "

"You know you're dying to see the oasis too," she accused. "Just trying to save your face as my guardian and protector. Hypocrite!"

He roared with laughter. The Arab cook and several other servants stopped singing round their cooking- pots to grin at the infectious sound.

"Touché! I'd sacrifice my flowing raven locks to go to Siwa. But"— his face grew surprizingly stern— "about Gunnar. Why does he take such enormous pains not to tell us the name of the man he's been working for?"

"I've never asked him."

"I haven't in so many words, of course. But I've led him up to the fence over and over again. He's steadily refused it. With good reason."

"Well?"

"He works for an Arab. A sheykh. A man notorious from Morocco to Cairo. His nickname's Sheykh El Afrit. The Magician! His real name is Sheykh Zura El Shabur."

"And what's so earth-shaking about that?" asked Merle, patting a dark curl into place behind her ear.

"He's a very— bad— hat! Black Magic's no joke in this country. This Sheykh El Shabur's gone far. Too far."

"I'm going to talk to Gunnar. He'll tell me. It's fantastic. Gunnar and Black Magic indeed !"

Dale watched her, amused and touched. How she loathed subtleties and mysteries and tangled situations!

"She'd waltz up to a lion and pull its whiskers if anyone told her they were false. As good at concealment as a searchlight."

Gunnar turned from the sea as Merle walked purposefully in his direction. He stood beside her— mountain pine overshadowing a little silver birch.

"H-m-m!" Dale threw away a freshly lighted cigarette and took another. "Merle and I wouldn't suggest that. More like Friar Tuck and Maid Marian."

He was startled to see Gunnar suddenly leap and turn. The man looked as if he'd had a tremendous shock. He stood peering across the wastelands stretching eastward, frozen into an attitude of utmost horror.

Dale ran across to Merle. She broke from his detaining hand and rushed to Gunnar' s side.

"What is it? What do you see? Gunnar! Answer me, Gunnar!"

His tense muscles relaxed. He sighed, and brushed a hand across his eyes and wet forehead.

"He's found me. He's coming. I had hoped never— "

"Who? What are you talking about?"

She shook his arm in terror at his wild look and words.

"He said I was free! Free! I wouldn't have come near you if I'd known he lied. Now I've brought him into your life. Merle! Forgive me!"

He took her hands, kissed them frantically, then turned to Dale with burning haste and fairly pushed him away.

"Go! Go! Go! Now — before he comes. Leave everything! Ride for your lives. He'll force me to... go! Go!"

"Ma yarudd! What means this, Gunnar— my servant?"

The deep guttural voice seemed to come up from the bowels of the earth. The three turned as if a bomb had exploded. A figure loomed up not ten feet away. Merle stared with wide startled eyes. A minute ago the level wasteland had shown bare, deserted. How had this tall Arab approached unseen?

Gunnar seemed to shrink and wither. His face was tragic. The newcomer fixed him for a long moment in silence, staring him down.

"What means this, Gunnar, my servant?" Once more the words vibrated through the still night.

The Icelander made a broken ineffectual movement of his hands, and began to speak. His voice died away into low, vague murmurings.

"For this you shall account to me later," promised the tall Arab.

He strode forward. His black burnoose rippled and swayed about him. Its peaked hood was drawn close. A long face with pointed black beard, proud curving nose, and eyes dark and secret as forest pools gleamed beneath the hood.

Merle shrank back. Her fingers clutched Gunnar's. They were cold and limp in her grasp.

Dale leaned forward, peering into the Arab's face as a connoisseur examines an etching of rare interest.

"You speak very good English, my friend. Or is it enemy?"

The whole demeanor of the Arab changed. His white teeth flashed. He held out welcoming hands, clasped Dale's in his own, and bowed low to the girl. He turned last to the Icelander.

"Present me!" he ordered.

Gunnar performed the small ceremony with white lips. His voice sounded as if he'd been running hard.

"Zura El Shabur. Zura of the Mist," translated the sheykh. "I am your friend. I have many friends of your Western world. The language! All languages are one to me!"

Dale beamed. "Ah! Good linguist and all that! Jolly good name yours, what! Gave us quite a scare, popping up cut of the atmosphere like Aladdin's djinnee!"

El Shabu's thin lips again showed his teeth.

"Those that dwell in the desert's solitude and silence learn to reflect its qualities."

"Quite! Quite!" Dale gurgled happy agreement. "Neat little accomplishment Very convenient— for you!"

"Convenient on this occasion for you also, since my coming prevented the inhospitality of my servant from driving you away."

"No! You're wrong there. Gunnar's been our guardian angel for weeks past Given us a wonderful time."

"Nevertheless, I heard that he urged you to go— to go quickly from Solium."

Dale burst into laughter; long, low gurgles that relieved tension all around. "I'm one of those fools that'd rather lose a pot of gold than alter my plans. One of the camel-drivers has made off with a few bits of loot. You heard the thrifty Gunnar imploring me to follow him,"

Merle backed up the tale with quick wit. "Nothing of vast importance. My silver toilet things, a leather bag, and a camera. Annoying, but hardly worth wasting hours to retrieve."

She came forward, all anxiety to give Gunnar time to pull himself together.

El Shabur made her a second low obeisance and stared down into her upturned vivid face. "Such youth and beauty must be served. Shall I send Gunnar after the thief?"

The idea of separation gave her a shock. Intuition warned her to keep the Icelander at her side for his sake, and for her own. Together there seemed less danger.

Danger! From what? Why did the word drum through her brain like an S.O.S. signal? She glanced at Gunnar. His face was downbent.

"No." She met the Arab's eyes with effort and gave a valiant little smile. "No. Indeed not. We can't spare him. He's promised to come with us, to be our guide to the Siwa Oasis."

"Hope this won't clash with your plans for him. We've got so dependent on his help now." Dale's cherubic face registered anxiety.

"So." The Arab put a hand on Gunnar's shoulder. "It is good. You have done well."

The young man shivered. His eyes met Merle's in warning.

El Shabur turned to reassure her and Dale.

"Now all goes well. I, too, will join your caravan. It is necessary for my— my work— that I should visit Siwa very soon. I go also."

Dale took the outstretched hand. "Fine! Fine! We'll make a record trip now."

In his tent, Dale slept after many hours of hard, concentrated thought and intellectual work— very pink, very tired, younger-looking than ever in his profound repose.

In her tent, Merle lay quiet too. Native servants snored, shapeless cocoons in their blankets. Even the camels had stopped moaning and complaining, and couched peacefully, barracked in a semicircle. Great mounds of baggage within its wide curve lay ready for loading.

Moonlight silvered long miles of grass and rushes. Leagues of shining water swung in almost tideless rhythm half a mile from camp.

Gunnar looked out on the scene from his tent. What had roused him from sleep? Why was his heart thumping, and the blood drumming in his ears? He peered out into the hushed world.

Tents, men, camels and baggage showed still as things on a painted canvas. He left his tent, made a noiseless detour about the sleeping camp, then frowned and stared about in all directions.

A bird, rising on startled wing, made him look sharply at an old Turkish fort. It stood, grim and battered sentinel, on a near-by promontory of Solium Bay. Through its gaping ruined walls he caught a glint of fire— green, livid, wicked flames that stained the night most evilly.

"El Shabur! Already! The Pentacle of Fire!"

His whisper was harsh as the faint drag of pebbles on the shore. For several minutes he stood as if chained. Fear and anger warred with dawning resolution and a wild anxiety. Then he stumbled over to Merle's tent and tore open its flap. Flashlight in hand, he went in and stared down at the sleeping girl. She lay white and rigid as if in a trance. Gunnar touched her forehead, took up a limp hand in his own. She gave no sign of life.

He stood looking down at the still, waxen features. The rather square, resolute little face was uniformly white, even to the curved, just-parted lips. The hair seemed wrought in metal, so blade and heavy and lifeless did it wave above the broad, intelligent brow. Gunnar looked in awe. The girl's animated, sparkling face was changed to something remote and strange and exquisite. Half child, half priestess.

"And in a few short weeks or months," he muttered, "El Shabur will initiate her. This is the first step. She will rot— perish— as I am doing!"

He bent, in passionate horror, over the still face.

"No! No! Not for you! Dear lovely child!"

He clenched his hands. "But if I disturb him now!"

For minutes he stood irresolute. Fear took him by the throat. He could not— he could not interfere! At last his will steadied. He mastered the sick terror that made him tremble and shiver like a beaten dog. As he left the tent, he glanced back once more.

"Good-bye! I'll do all I can," he promised softly. "I'd give my soul to save you— if I still had one."

He ran to the headland where the old fort stood. If El Shabur's occupation was what he feared, he would neither hear nor see. Intensely concentrating on his rites, nothing in the visible world would reach him.

Gunnar's calculations were justified. He went boldly in through the arched entrance to an inner court where green fires burned in a great ring, five points of two interlacing triangles which showed black upon the gray dust of the floor. In the center of this cabalistic symbol stood El Shabur, clothed in black. The rod he held was of black ebony.

Gunnar drew breath. He listened to the toneless continuous muttering of the sheykh. What point had El Shabur reached in his conjurations? How long since he had drawn Merle's soul from the lovely quiet body lying in her tent? It was of vital importance to know. If the devilish business was only begun, he might free her. If El Shabur had reached die last stage, closed the door behind the soul he was luring from its habitation, then it was fatally late.

He listened, head thrust forward, trying to distinguish the rapidly muttered words.

"Shekinah! Aralim! Ophanim! Assist me in the name of Melek Taos, Ruler of wind and stars and sea, who commands the four elements in the might of Adonai and the Ancient Ones!"

"A-h-h-h!" Gunnar gave a deep gasping sigh of relief. He was not too late. Sheykh El Shabur called on his allies. Merle's spirit was not yet cut off from its home. Her will resisted the Arab's compulsion.

He leaped forward, oversetting all five braziers. Their fire spilled and died out instantly. In the cold clear moonlight, El Shabur loomed tall, menacing. He stood glaring across the courtyard at the intruder. His black-clad figure overshadowed the Icelander's by many inches, like a cloud, like a bird of prey. Malignant, implacable he towered.

Gunnar's golden head sank. His strong, straight body seemed to shrink and crumple. Inch by inch he retreated, until he reached the wall. He tried to meet the Arab's unblinking stare and failed. Again his bright head sank. His eyes sought the dusty earth. But his whole frame trembled with a wild, fanatical excitement. He had succeeded so far— had brought El Shabur back from that void where Merle's spirit had so perilously wandered. She was free. Free to go back to that still white body lying in her tent.

"So! You love this girl. You would save her from me. You— who cannot save yourself!"

"You're right." The young man's voice shook. "Right as far as I'm concerned. But Miss Anthony's on a different plane. You're not going to play your filthy tricks on her."

"So! It would seem that, in spite of my teaching, you are not yet well disciplined. Have you forgotten your vow? Have you forgotten that a cabalist may never retreat one inch of the road he treads? Have you forgotten the punishment that overtakes the renegade? "

"I would die to save her from you."

The other showed white teeth in a mirthless sardonic grin.

"Die!" echoed his deep, mocking voice. "Death is not for us. Are you not initiated and under protection? What can bring death to such as you?"

"There must be a way of escape for me— and for her. I will defeat you yet, El Shabur!"

The Icelander's voice rose. His eyes were blazing. He stepped forward. Moonlight touched his shining hair, his passion-contorted features, his angry, bloodshot eyes. Control slipped from him. He strove in vain to recapture it, to use his reason. He knew that anger was delivering him bound and helpless into his enemy's hands. It had been so from their first encounter. Emotion versus reason. He knew his fatal weakness, and strove against it now— in vain. Long habit ruled. Anger made his will a thing of straw.

"You would defy me— the Power I serve— the Power that serves me?"

Gunnar felt the blood rushing to his head. His ears sang. Red mist obscured his sight.

"You are a devil! And you serve devils!" he shouted. "But you won't always win the game! Curse you, El Shabur! Curse you! Curse you!"

The Arab looked long into his angry eyes, and came closer. With an incredibly swift movement he clasped the shaking, furious figure.

Gunnar felt dry lips touch his ears and mouth and brow, heard a low quick mutter. Then El Shabur released him suddenly, and stood back.

"Ignorant and beast-like! Be what you are— slave to your own passion! You, yourself, create the devil that haunts you. Therefore are you mine— for all devils are subject to me. Be what you are! Out, beast! Howl and snarl with your own kind until the dawn."

For a moment something dark scuffled in the dust at El Shabur s feet. The courtyard rang with a long, desolate howl. A shadow, lean and swift, fled from the camp, far, far out across the empty wasteland.

AT SUNSET, the next day, Dale Fleming and his caravan readied Bir Augerin, the first well on their march. They had delayed their start some hours. Merle had insisted in waiting for Gunnar, but he had not turned up.

"He will join us en route," the sheykh had assured her. "He is well used to desert travel, Mademoiselle!"

"But his camel?"

"We will take it. He can easily hire another."

"Have you no idea why he went off and left us without warning? It's so unlike him."

El Shabur gave his dark unmirthful smile.

"He is young. Young and careless and— undisciplined. He has— friends. Oh, he is popular! That golden hair of his— it has a fascination...."

Merle's face crimsoned and grew pale. Dale's round face concealed his thoughts. He glanced at the Arab's lean hands that twisted a stiff length of wire rope with such slow and vicious strength. He had learned how betraying hands may be.

Merle made no more objections, and at 3:30 p. m. the caravan set out. The natives were superstitious about a journey's start. Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays were fortunate; and Saturday the luckiest of the week.

At Bir Augerin, camp was quickly made. The servants drew up water from the large rectangular tank in leather buckets. Merle sat disconsolate to watch, and smoke, and think of Gunnar. Dale joined her, leaving the sheykh to direct the men.

"I don't believe it!" Merle burst out.

"About our absent friend?"

"Gunnar's not that sort. I think they've had a quarrel. Dale!" She put a beseeching hand on his arm. "You don't think— he wouldn't kill Gunnar!"

"My prophetic bones tell me not." He patted the hand in brisk, business-like fashion. "He'll turn up and explain himself. Don't worry. This Sheykh of the Mist's a queer old josser. About as trustworthy as a black panther, but the boy's too useful to be killed off in a hurry. All the same — look here, Merle: keep this handy at night."

He put a small snub-nosed automatic in her hand.

"It's loaded. And I've taught you to use it. Listen! There are wolves on this trail. Heard 'em last night about the camp."

"Wolves? In the desert? Jackals, you mean."

"Don't speak out of turn. Wolves. You know— things that go on like this."

He threw back his head and gave a blood-curdling howl that electrified the camp. El Shabur spun on his heel, long knife drawn. The servants groveled, then ran to pluck brands from the fire.

Dale gave a rich, infectious gurgle. "Splendid! Must have done that jolly well. Now perhaps you'll recognize a wolf when you hear it. If you do— shoot!"

SOON after four a. m. the caravan set out again in the chill clear moonlight. In spite of grilling days, the nights remained cool and made travel easy. They reached their next halt, Bir Hamed, about eight o'clock. This cistern was the last before real desert began. They decided to give the camels a good day's grazing and watering and push off again in the small hours before dawn.

Cooking-pots were slung over crackling fires. Fragrance of wood smoke mingled with odor of frying sausages and onions. Dale went over and implored the cook to refrain from using last night's dish-water to brew coffee. El Shabur approached Merle and pointed to the east. "He comes."

She dropped a camera and roll of films and jumped to her feet.

"Who? Gunnar? I see no one."

"He comes riding from over there."

Low rolling dunes to the east showed bare and smooth and empty of life. She stared, and frowned at the speaker. "I see nothing. Dale! " she called out. "The sheykh says Gunnar's coming from over there. Can you see him?"

Dale scrutinized the empty eastern horizon, then turned to El Shabur with a bland wide smile. "Ah, you wonderful Arabs! Putting one over on us, aren't you? You people have extra valve sets. Pick up things from the ether. It's enough to give mean inferiority complex."

He thrust an arm through Merle's. "If he says so, it is so! I'll tell cook to fry a few more sausages.

"Servants are all in a state of jim-jams this morning," he said as he returned from his hospitable errand. "Ilbrahaim's been handing out samples from the Thousand and One Nights' Entertainments. What d'you suppose he's started now?"

"They talk much," the sheykh's deep scornful voice replied. "And they say nothing."

"Ilbrahaim is a chatty little fellow. Be invaluable at a funeral, wouldn't he? Distract the mourners and all that! Unless he got on to vampires and ghouls. He's keen on cabalistic beliefs."

"Such things are childish; they have no interest for a cabalist."

"No— really! Well, you probably know. Is there a place called Bilad El Kelab?'

El Shabur's eyes glinted. His chin went up in a gesture of assent.

"There is? Ah, then Ilbrahaim tells the truth now and then. His brother went to this place. Country of the Dogs— suggestive name! The yarn is that all the men there turn to dogs at sunset. Like werewolves, you know."

"Bilad El Kelab is far away. South— far south in the Sudan. Ilbrahaim has no brother, moreover."

"No?"

"No. There are many foolish legends from the Sudan."

"Not so foolish. I'm interested in folklore and legend and primitive beliefs. That's why I'm going to Siwa, apart from looking after my little cousin here."

El Shabur's eyes smoldered. "It is unwise to be too curious about such things. That which feeds an eagle is no meat for a fish."

"Quite! Quite! Good that, isn't it, Merle? Meaning we Westerners are fish! Oh, definitely good! This Ilbrahaim, though — he swears our camp's being haunted. He thinks a weredog, or werewolf, has attached itself to us. Says he woke and saw it prowling about last night."

"A long trail from the Wad El Kelab!"

"You're right, El Shabur. Still, what's a few hundred miles to a werewolf? And I suppose it travels on camel-back by day, if it's got its man's body in good repair. Have to be a new camel each morning— eh? Not likely a self-respecting mehari would trot hoof in paw with a wolf each night."

"Dale! Is it the same wolf you said was—"

A cousinly kick on the ankle, as Dale moved to replace a blazing branch on the fire, warned her.

"Is it the wolf-tale they talked about in Alexandria?" she switched off quickly.

"Dear child!" Dale beamed approval. "How your little wits do work! No! That wolf was a jackal that haunted the Valley of the Kings in Egypt."

El Shabur turned his head sharply. "The lost one arrives," he remarked.

In the distance, magnified and distorted by the hot desert air, a vast camel and rider loomed. Merle lighted a cigarette with slow, unsteady hands.

"It may be anyone. Impossible to tell yet."

The sheykh spread his hands. "Mademoiselle will soon discover."

In half an hour, Gunnar rode into camp. A sorry figure, disheveled, unshaven, he looked as if he'd been across Africa with a minimum of food and sleep. Merle had meant to be unrelenting at first, to await explanation, but her heart betrayed her at sight of this desperately weary man. She ran to meet him as he dismounted, and tried to lead him over to where Dale and the Arab sat smoking.

He stood swaying on his feet. "No. Not now." His cracked, parched lips could scarcely frame the words. "I must sleep. I— I could not help it. I was prevented— I was prevented," he croaked.

"Gunnar— of course!" She beckoned to a servant. "Take care of him. I ll send Dale effendi to give him medicine. He is ill."

In the late afternoon the camp was in more or less of an uproar. The camels were driven in from pasturage to drink once again. They would have preferred to go on grazing, and, being camels, they expressed disapproval noisily, and gave much trouble to the cursing, sweating men.

Dale sauntered oft from their vicinity. The sun was casting shadows that lengthened steadily. He stopped in the shadow of a huge boulder and stared thoughtfully out across the barren desert.

"Got his goat all right about that legend and the cabalists. Now, just why did that strike home? The pattern's there, but all in little moving bits. I can't get the confounded mosaic right. Cabalists! Werewolves! Gunnar and the Sheykh of the Mist! Haunted camp and all the rest of it! A very, very pretty little mix-up. I wonder now... I wonder..."

His eyes, fixed in abstracted non-seeing gaze, suddenly became wary. His big body grew taut. Then, with the lightness of movement for which fat men are often remarkable, he vanished into a cleft of the great rock. His hearing was acute and voices carried far in the desert stillness.

"...until we reach Siwa. From sunrise to sunset I will be with her." Gunnar's bitterness was apparent. "If you interfere I will tell her what you are!"

"In return I will explain what you are— after sunset!" El Shabur's voice mocked. "Will the knowledge make her turn to you for protection?"

"You devil!"

"You fool! Do not meddle with power you cannot control. Until Siwa, then."

They passed out of earshot. Dale watched them return to camp.

"More bits of mosaic, nice lurid color, too. Looks as though Siwa's going to be even more promising than I imagined. Evil old city, enough to make one write another Book of Revelations?"

The sun cast long shadows, stretching grotesquely over pink-stained leagues of sand. Dale was anxious to watch Gunnar when the sun actually did set; he felt that phrase of the young Icelander's had been significant: From sunrise to sunset I will be with her. Rather an odd poetic reference to time! Taken in conjunction with his unexplained disappearance last night, it was specially odd.

Dale ambled slowly in the direction of camp, empty pipe between his teeth. He had stayed a long hour. From his rocky crevice, he had watched Gunnar and the Arab return, seen Gunnar start off again with Merle into the desert. The two were returning now— dark against the reddening sky.

He was curious to see how the young man was going to behave; what explanation, if any, he had given to Merle. He was overwhelmingly anxious to discover just how far she returned the love that burned so stedfastly in Gunnar's eyes. If it was serious— really serious— with her, the whole queer dangerous situation was going to be deadly.

She would go her own way. If her heart was given, it was given, for good or evil. It seemed entirely evil, in his judgment, if she had decided to link her fate with this Icelander.

And El Shabur! How dangerous was this notorious Arab magician? Men of his practises fairly haunted desert cities and oases. Mostly they were harmless, sometimes genuinely gifted in the matter of prophecy. Rarely, they were men of inexplicable and very terrible power; who were dedicated, brain and body, to the cause of evil— evil quite beyond the comprehension of normal people.

Dale's eyes were cold and implacable as he recollected one or two such men he had known: his pleasant face looked unbelievably austere and grim.

One way or another, Merle stood in imminent and pressing danger; from Gunnar, no less than from El Shabur; from Gunnar, not because he was of himself evil, but because he was a channel through which the Arab could reach her. She was vulnerable in proportion to her love. There were infinite sources of danger ahead. El Shabur had a definite plan regarding her, something that would mature at Siwa. Three days remained to discover the nature of that plan.

Three days! Perhaps not even that. Gunnar's relations with the Arab seemed dangerously explosive; a crisis might work up at any moment. Merle would then be implicated, for she would defend Gunnar with blind partisanship. All the odds were on El Shabur. It was his country; he could queer the expedition easily without any supernatural agency. And, if he were the deadly poisonous creature Dale began to suspect, then the lonely desert made a superb background for murder... he called it murder to himself, unwilling to give a far more terrible name to what he suspected El Shabur might do.

The lovers, walking slowly, reluctantly back to camp, were completely absorbed in each other.

"If only I'd known you earlier!" The man's sunken eyes looked down on the erect, slim, lovely girl beside him with immense regret.

"The only thing we can do about it is to make up for lost time, darling."

He stopped, faced her, took both firm, rather square hands in his own. "Merle, you're being a miracle. But it's impossible. I oughtn't to have told you how much I cared."

"Poor dear! You hadn't any choice, really. I did the leap year stunt before you could stop me; and, being a little gent, you simply had to say you loved me, too!"

She rattled away, hardly knowing what she said. "I've got to alter that look in his eyes," she told herself. "I thought it was because of me, conceited little beast that I am. But it isn't— it isn't!

"Gunnar," she tackled him with characteristic impetuosity. "Is your fear of El Shabur the biggest thing in your life? Is it bigger than— than your love for me?"

The grip of his hands tightened. His face bent to hers. His haunted red-rimmed eyes looked into her candid gray ones, that shone with love and kindness and a stedfast unwavering trust that made him want to kiss her dusty shoes. Instead, he dropped her hands, pulled his hat down over his face, walked on with quickened stride toward the distant encampment.

"It's no use... I can't go on with it. I'm in a tangle that no one on earth can straighten out. It's revolting to think of you being caught up in such a beastly mess. I went into this thing because I was a young inquisitive fool! I'd no idea what it involved, no idea at all that there was something behind it stronger... stronger than death! I was blind, I was credulous, I was utterly ignorant; I walked into EI Shabur' s trap— and the door shut behind me!"

"Gunnar, darling, can't you explain? People don't have to go on serving masters they hate unless— unless—"

"Exactly! Unless they're slaves. Well, I am his slave."

"I don't understand you."

"Thank heaven for it, and don't try! It's because you must never, never understand such things that I wanted you and Dale to go away that night at Solium."

"If you owe the sheykh your time, can't you buy him off? Surely any contract can be broken."

"Not the one that binds me to him. Listen, Merle, my own! I can't— I daren't say more than this. Think of him as a poison— as something that blackens and burns like vitriol. Will you do what may seem a very childish thing, will you do it to please me?"

"What is it?"

"Tie this across the entrance of your sleeping-tent at night." He held out a little colored plait, four threads of green, white, red, and black, from which a seal depended. "Once more, I daren't explain, but use it. Promise me!"

Taken aback by his tone and manner, she promised. What, she thought, had a bit of colored string to do with all this mystery about him and the sheykh? A fleeting doubt as to his sanity came to her.

"No," he answered the look. "I was never more sane than now— when it's too late. Too late for myself, at least. You— nothing shall happen to you!"

"Won't you talk to Dale? He's such a queer wise old thing, I'm sure he could help if only you'd explain things to him."

"No. Not yet, at any rate. Not until we get to Siwa. I'll explain everything then. Silence is the price I've paid to be with you on this trip."

"But, really Dale is—"

"If you don't want him to die suddenly, say nothing to him. Anyone that interferes with El Shabur gets rubbed out like this!"

Gunnar stamped a small pebble deep into the sand.

"All right," she promised with a shiver. That quick vicious little movement had given her a sudden horrid fear of the sheykh— more than all Gunnar's words. "I'll say nothing. But Dale is pretty hard to deceive. There never seems any need to tell him things; he just knows them. I expect he's burrowing away underground about El Shabur already, just like an old ferret! I happen to know he loathes him."

"Nobody'd think so to see them chin-wagging."

"He behaves like a garrulous moron when he's putting salt on anyone's tail, and I've seldom seen him wallowing quite so idiotically as now."

"Much more likely the sheykh's putting salt on his tail by pretending to believe Dale's a fool."

"You don't know Dale."

"You don't know El Shabur." Gunnar had the last word — it proved to be accurate.

They found the two in camp and deep in talk.

"Arguing about our pet werewolf." Dale was bland. "Will you sit up with me and try a pot shot at the beast, Gunnar?"

The tall Icelander stood in silence. His face was a gray mask, his sunken eyes stared hard and long into the other's blank smooth face. He turned to the sheykh at length.

"You suggested this?"

Merle shivered at his voice.

The Arab shrugged. "On the contrary. It would be wisdom to sleep before tomorrow's march. If the effendi desires to hunt it would be well to wait until we reach the hills of Siwa."

"Well," Dale seemed determined to prolong the discussion, "what do you vote for, old man? The werewolf tonight, or the Siwa hills later?"

"The hills— definitely, the hills," the young man's voice cracked on a laugh. "According to legend, you can't kill a werewolf. No use wasting our shots and a night's sleep too."

"Thwarted!" moaned Dale. "The hills of Siwa, then. You can promise good hunting there, Sheykh?"

"By my sacred wasm."

"Wasm?" Dale lighted a cigarette with casual air.

"My mark, my insignia, my tribal sign. It is like heraldry in your land."

"Heavens above! I must remember to call my little label a wasm in future. Intriguing word, that! And what is your mark?"

El Shabur leaned forward and traced it in the sand. Dale regarded it with a smile that masked deep uneasiness. He recognized the ghastly little sign; he was one of the very few who had the peculiar knowledge to do so. A smoke-screen from his eternal pipe shielded his face from the watchful Arab. Was El Shabur trying to trick him into exposing his very special and intimate knowledge of the occult; or did he make that deadly mark feeling sure that only an initiate would recognize it?

El Shabur was a Yezidee, a Satanist, and worshipped Melek Taos. The symbol was unmistakably the outspread tail of the Angel-Peacock. Dale recoiled inwardly at having his darkest fears confirmed; he knew of no tribe on earth more vicious and powerful than the Yezidees. Their name and their fame went back into mists of time. Seldom did one of them leave his hills and rock-dwelling up beyond Damascus. Once in a century or so, throughout the ages, a priest of the Yezidees would stalk the earth like a black destroying god to acquaint himself with the world and its conditions. He would return to teach his tribe. So they remained, a nucleus of evil power that never seemed to die out.

"Nice little design; looks like half a ray-fish," he commented. Impossible to fathom what was going on behind the sheykh's carven, immobile features. "Wasm— did you say? Wait, I must write that down."

The whites of the Arab's eyes glinted as he glanced at Merle. "Are you like your cousin in this— do you also suffer from loss of memory?"

"I— we— what do you mean?"

"You have a saying in your Book of Wisdom, 'Thy much learning doth turn thee to madness.' The effendi is like to that man, Paul. For who, after years and years of study, could forget so simple a thing as a wasm?"

Dale didn't move a muscle. His bluff was called. All right! On with the next dance! Too late he realized why the Arab had started the absorbing wasm topic. It had been intended to shock and distract his own thoughts from Gunnar— to prevent his keeping an eye on him.

The Icelander had got up and gone over to his tent a minute ago with a murmur about tobacco. He had not returned. Dale was on his feet and peering into Gunnar's tent in a flash. No one there.

He looked at the western horizon— the sun had dipped beyond it. He scanned the desert. It offered no shelter for Gunnar's six feet of height. He looked into every tent; saw that only the servants crouched before their fires, that only baggage lay heaped upon the ground.

Shadows were melting into dusk. But one long shadow seemed to move over there among the dunes not far away! Were his own dark thoughts inventing the thing that fled across the desert?

The darkest thought of all came as he went back to Merle and the silent watchful Arab. Was he a match for this man?

"YOU needn't worry about Gunnar. The Arab's at the back of these nightly disappearances, I'm quite certain, although the reasons he gave were of his own invention."

"Then you think he'll come back?" Merle looked tired and anxious in the light of her small lamp.

"He'll come back," asserted the man. "Good night, old lady. If you feel nervous or want anything, just give a yelp. I'll be awake— got to finish a bit of research work."

She caught a look that belied his cheerful voice. "Why d'you look round my tent like that? Is there any special danger— that wolf?"

"Well, I don't mind telling you there is a spot of danger. You're not the sort that goes off like a repeating-rifle at being warned. But— have you got your doodah handy?"

She showed the automatic underneath her pillow. "Perhaps I ought to tell you that Gunnar warned me too. No. Not about the wolf, but El Shabur."

'Worse than a whole pack of wolves," he agreed. "Know where you are with those noisy brutes, but the sheykh's another cup of tea, entirely."

"He gave me this. Told me to tie up my tent with it. Queer, don't you think?"

He examined the plait of colored string with profound interest.

"Jerusalem the Golden! If we ever reach dry land again, this will be an heirloom for you to hand on. That is, unless you're hard up and want to sell it to some Croesus for a sack of diamonds. This, my dear Black-eyed Susan, is a relic dating back thousands of years. The seal, of course, not the threads. It's an emerald. And that's the Eye of Horus cut in it."

"Emerald! It must be fearfully valuable. How on earth d'you think Gunnar got it?"

"From his master the sheykh. It's the sort of thing he'd need, poor fellow! It's a safeguard— oh, quite infallible."

"I never know when you're serious or when you're just being idiotic. Protection from what? What does it mean?"

"It means that El Shabur's a cabalist. And that Gunnar is an initiate and pretty far advanced too, to be in possession of this very significant thing. He's gone a long, long way on the road— poor lad!"

"He's in danger?"

"Extreme and imminent danger; there's scarcely a chance to cut him free now. Better face the thing, dear. Gunnar 's not in a position to love or marry any woman; he's tied body and soul to El Shabur. It's a hideous, deplorable, ghastly mess, the whole affair." He sat down beside her on the little truckle bed and took her hand. "This is my fault. I knew well enough even at Solium that there was something abnormal about Gunnar."

"I love him," she answered very quietly, "and nothing can ever alter that. Whatever he's done, or is— I love him."

He stared at her a long minute. "And that's the damndest part of the whole show," he remarked with immense gravity.

He turned back at the tent opening. "About that thing Gunnar gave you. Fasten the tent-flap with it if you value your soul; wear it under your dress by day, never let the sheykh catch a glimpse of it. We reach Siwa the day after tomorrow. Try not to let El Shabur know we suspect anything, meantime. Sure you're all right— not afraid?"

"Not for myself. I don't understand what it's all about. But I'm afraid for my poor Gunnar. He's the sort that can't stand alone. Not like you and me, we're too hard-headed old things!"

"You're a wonder. Any other girl stranded here with a half-mad native sorcerer would go right up the pole. Tie up your tent, though, d'you hear?"

"The moment you've gone. Cross my heart!"

Night wore swiftly on. Dale sat smoking in his own tent, fully dressed, alert and expectant. He felt convinced that something was in the wind tonight. The sound of shots far off across the desert took him outside, rifle in hand.

Sleep held the camp; not a man had stirred. The black Bedouin tent in which the sheykh slept was closed. No one seemed to have been disturbed except himself. Again came that queer little tug of his senses — a warning of danger near.

His grip tightened on his weapon. He went on more slowly. A shadow seemed to move round the great mass of rock which had sheltered him a few hours ago. He halted half-way between rock and camp. Should he go back and rouse the men? Or should he go closer and inspect for himself? He walked on.

A high, piping wind blew clouds across the sky. A black mass obscured the moon. He halted once more, turned back to camp in a sudden certainty of peril. Too late. A rush. A scuffle. An arm of steel clasped him from behind, a hand like a vise was clamped across his lips before he could call out. His big body was enormously muscular and he fought like a tiger, threw off his assailant, shouted loudly. The strong wind shouted louder, tore his voice to shreds. It swept the black cloud from the moon too, and he saw a small band of natives, their faces veiled, knives glinting, burnooses bellying out like sails as they shouted and ran at him.

They were too close to take aim. He made for the rock. Unencumbered, and a good sprinter, he reached it safely, stood with his back to it and coolly picked out one after another of his enemies. It was only a momentary advantage; they were too many for him, and ran in again with savage yells.

To his amazement, a dark long swift body flung itself upon his attackers. A great wolf, huge, shaggy, thin and sudden as a torpedo. In vain the men plunged their knives into its rough pelt. Again and again Dale saw the wicked twisted blades drop as the brute caught the wrists of the raiders in its teeth.

The fight was short. Not a man was killed, but none escaped a wound. Some had faces slashed so that blood ran down and blinded them; some dragged a maimed foot; some a mangled arm. In terror of the swift, silent punishing creature that stood between them and their victim, the raiders turned and fled.

The wolf itself had been damaged in the savage encounter; an ear was torn, and it limped as it ran at the heels of the raiders, chasing them to their camels behind the huge rock pile.

The great panting beast looked full at Dale as it passed by. The man felt his heart beat, beat, beat in slow painful thuds against his chest. The creature's yellow, bloodshot eyes turned on him with a glance that cut deeper than any raider's knife. He leaned back. He felt very sick. The vast desert seemed to heave.

Slowly, soberly he made his way back to camp. He did not so much as glance back at the wolf. He knew now. He knew!

Siwa! Actually Siwa at last! The strange fort-like city loomed before the thin line of camels and their dusty weary riders. Like a vast house of cards Siwa had risen up and up from the plain. On its foundation of rock, one generation after another had built; father for son, father for son again; one story on another, the sun-baked mud and salt of its walls almost indistinguishable from the rock itself.

Tiny windows flecked the massive precipitous piles. Vast hives of life, these buildings. Layer upon layer, narrowing from their rocky base into turrets and towers and minarets.

Dale's eyes were for Merle, however. She rode beside him, her face so white and strained, her eyes so anxious that he was torn with doubt. Ought he to have told her Gunnar's secret? He had not turned up since the desert fight. Merle was sick with anxiety. Sheykh El Shabur smiled in his beard as he saw her quivering underlip, her glance that looked about with ever increasing fear.

"Where is he? Where is he?" She turned upon the sheykh. "You said he would be here at Siwa, waiting for us. Where is he?" she demanded.

Dale could have laughed had the situation been less grave and horrible. She loved as she hated, with her whole strong vigorous soul and body. She tackled the sinister, haughty Arab, demanding of him the man she loved, with the fearlessness of untried youth.

She was worth dying for, his little Merle! And it looked as though he, and she too, would make a finish here in this old barbaric city. If he had to go, he would see to it that she was not left behind, to be a sacrifice on some blood-stained ancient altar hewn in the rock beneath the city, to die slowly and horribly that the lust of Melek Taos should be appeased, to die in body— to live on in soul, slave to Sheykh Zura El Shabur.

And Gunnar? It was unnerving to think what might be happening to him. Dale knew that Gunnar had saved his life as surely as that El Shabur had plotted to kill him two nights ago. It was not nice to consider how the cabalist might punish this second interference of his young disciple.

They rode on through an endless warren of twisting dark lanes. Dale dropped behind Merle and the Arab when only two could ride abreast; he liked to have El Shabur before his eyes when possible. He could see Merle talking earnestly. Her companion seemed interested, his hands moved in quick eloquent gesture, he seemed reassuring her on some point. Gunnar, surely! No other subject in common could exist between those two.

Past the date-markets, under the shadow of the square white tomb of Sidi Suliman, past palm-shaded gardens, until they reached a hill shaped like a sugar-loaf and honeycombed with tombs.

"The Hill of the Dead!" El Shabur waved a lean dark hand.

"Quite," replied Dale. "It looks like it."

The Arab pointed to the white Rest-House built on a level terrace cut in the hillside. "It is there that travelers stay— such as come to Siwa."

"Very appropriate. One does associate rest with tombs, after all."

Merle looked up at the remarkable hill with blank, uninterested gaze.

"Ilbrahaim will take your camels. If you will dismount here! The jonduk is on the other side of the city."

The sheykh dismounted as he spoke. He sent the servant off with the weary beasts, and left the cousins with a salaam to Dale and a deep mocking obeisance to the girl. They watched him out of sight. The hood of his black burnoose obscured head and face; its wide folds, dark and ominous as the sable wings of a bird of prey, swung to his proud free walk. They sighed with relief as the tall figure vanished in Siwa's gloomy narrow streets.

"What were you two chinning about on the way here?" Dale steered the exhausted girl up the steep rocky path. "You seemed to goad our friend to unusual eloquence."

"I was asking about Gunnar. What else is there to say to him? Oh, do look at that!"

Below stretched rolling sandy dunes, palm groves, distant ranges of ragged peaks, the silver glint of a salt lake, and a far-off village on the crest of a rocky summit in the east.

He looked, not at the extraordinary beauty of desert, hill and lake, but at Merle. She had switched the conversation abruptly. Also, she was gazing out over the desert with eyes that saw nothing before them. He was certain of that. She was keyed up— thinking, planning, anticipating something. What? He knew she'd made up her mind to action, and guessed it was concerned with Gunnar. Long experience had taught him the futility of questioning her.

They found the Rest-House surprizingly clean and cool. Ilbrahaim presently returned to look after them. No other guests were there.

It was getting on toward evening when Dale was summoned to appear before the Egyptian authorities and report on his visit. He knew the easily offended, touchy character of local rulers and authorities, and that it was wise to obey the summons. But about Merle!

He glanced at her over the top of a map he was pretending to study.

"Would you care to come along with me across the city? Or will you stay here with Ilbrahaim and watch the sunset? Famous here, I've read."

"Yes," she replied, her eyes on a pencil sketch she was making of the huddled roofs seen from an open window where she sat.

"My fault, I'll start again! A— Will you come with me? B — Will you stay with Ilbrahaim?"

"B." She looked up for a moment, then returned to her sketch.

He got the impression of peculiar and sudden relief in her eyes, as if the problem had solved itself.

"Wants to get me off the scene!" he told himself.

She stopped further uneasy speculation on his part by bringing her sketch across and plunging into technical details about it. He was a sound critic and was beguiled into an enthusiastic discourse on architecture. She listened and argued and discussed points with flattering deference, until the sun was low and vast and crimson in the west.

Then she casually remarked, "You needn't go now, surely?"

He started up. "I'd completely forgotten my little call. Sorry, dear, to leave you even for an hour. Etiquette's extremely stiff on these small formalities; better go, I think. 'Bye, old lady, don't go wandering about."

"Thank heaven, he's gone!" Merle thrust her drawings into a portfolio, put on a hat, scrutinized her pale face in her compact-mirror, applied lipstick and rouge with an artist's hand, and walked down the hill path.

At its junction with the dusty road, a tall black-clad figure joined her.

"You are punctual, Mademoiselle! That is well, for we must be there before sunset."

It seemed an interminable walk to her as they dived and twisted through a labyrinth of courtyards, nights of steps, and overshadowed narrow streets. She followed her silent guide closely. It would be unpleasant to lose even such a grim protector as EI Shabur. She shrank from the filthy whining beggars with their rags and sores, from the bold evil faces of the young men who stood to stare at her. Even the children revolted her— pale unhealthy abnormal little creatures that they were.

The sheykh hurried on through the old town with its towering fort-like houses to newer Siwa. Here the dwellings were only of two or three stories with open roofs that looked like great stone boxes shoved hastily together in irregular blocks.

El Shabur looked at the sun, then turned to his companion with such malice in his black eyes that she shrank from him.

"He is here."

She looked up at the house-front with its tiny windows and fought back the premonition of horror that made her throat dry and her heart beat heavily. She despised her weakness. Inside this sinister house, behind one of those dark slits of windows, Gunnar was waiting for her.

Why he'd not come to her, why she must visit him secretly with El Shabur, she refused to ask herself. She loved him. She was going to be with him. The rest did not count at all.

She followed her guide through a low entrance door, stumbled up a narrow dark stairway, caught glimpses of bare, untenanted, low-ceilinged rooms. El Shabur opened a door at the top of the house, drew back with a flash of white teeth. She stooped to enter the low doorway.

"Gunnar!"

There was no answer in words, but from the shadows a figure limped, his face and head cut and bleeding, so gaunt, so shadow-like too, that she cried out again.

"Oh! Oh, my dear!"

He took her in his arms. She clasped him, drew his head down to hers, kissed the gray tortured face with passionate love and pity.

"Gunnar, I am here with you! Look at me! What is it?— tell me, darling, let me help you!"

His eyes met hers in such bitter despair and longing that she clutched him to her again, pressing her face against his shoulder. With gentle touch he put her from him.

"Listen to me, Merle, my darling. My beloved! Listen carefully. This is the last time I shall see you— touch you— for ever. I am lost— lost and damned. In a moment you will see for yourself. That is why he brought you here. Remember that I love you more than the soul I have lost— always— always, Merle!"

He pushed her from him, retreated to the shadows, stood there with head flung up and back pressed to the gray mud wall. Even as she would have gone to him, he changed, swiftly, dreadfully! Down— down in the dust— torn rough head and yellow wolf's eyes at her feet.

Merle sat up on the broad divan. Dale had returned to find her walking up and down, up and down the long main room of the Rest-House. For long he had been unable to distract her mind from the terrible inner picture that tormented her. She would answer his anxious questions with an impatient glance of wild distracted eyes, then begin her endless restless pacing again.

She had drunk the strong sedative he gave her as if her body were acting independently of her mind, but the drug had acted. She had slept. Now she was awake and turned to the man who watched beside her — large, protecting, compassionate. She tried to tell him, but her voice refused to put the thing into words.

"My dear child, don't! Don't! I know what you saw."

"You know! You've seen him when— when—" She covered her face, then slipped from the divan and stood erect before him.

"Dale! I'm all right now. It was so inhuman, such a monstrous unbelievable thing! But he has to bear it— live through it. And we must talk about it. We have to help him. Dale! Dale! Surely there is a way to free him?"

He took her hands in his, swallowed hard before he could command his voice.

"My chi—" He broke off abruptly.

There was nothing left of the child! It was a very resolute woman whose white face and anguished eyes confronted him. She looked, she was in effect, ten years older. He could not insult her by anything but the whole unvarnished truth now. She must make the final decision herself. He must not, he dare not withhold his knowledge. It would be a betrayal. Of her. Of Gunnar. Of himself.

"Merle!"

At the tightening of his clasp, the new note in his voice, she looked up with a passion of renewed hope.

"There is— there is a way?"

He nodded, and drew her down beside him on the divan. He looked ill and shaken all at once. His tongue felt stiff, as if it would not frame words. It was like pushing her over a precipice, or into a blazing fire. How cruel love was! Hers for Gunnar. His for Merle. Love that counted— it was always a sharp sword in the heart.

"There is a way," his hoarse voice made effort. "It's a way that depends on your love and courage. Those two things alone— love and courage! It's a test of both, a most devilish test, so dangerous that the chances are you will not survive it. And if you don't—"

For a moment he bowed his head, put a hand up to shield his face from her wide eager gaze.

"Dear! It's a test, a trial of your will against that fiend, El Shabur. There are ancient records. It has been done. Only one or two survived the ordeal. The others perished— damned— lost as Gunnar is!"

"No." The low, softly breathed word was more impressive than a defiant blare of trumpets. "He is not lost, for I shall save him. Tell me what to do."

EL Shabur listened in silence, looked from Merle's white worn face to Dale's maddening smile. He had not expected resistance. He had not thought this lovesick girl would try to win back her lover. The man was at the back of it, of course. Had taught her the formula, no doubt. Should he stoop to take up the gage to battle— with a woman?

"First time your bluff's ever been called, eh, Sheykh of the Mist? Are you meditating one of your famous disappearances? Am I trying you a peg too high? It is, of course, a perilous experiment— this trial of will between you and my little cousin!"

The Arab's white teeth gleamed in a mocking, mirthless smile. His eyes showed two dark flames that flared up hotly at the taunt.

"You cannot save him. He is mine, my creature, my slave."

"Not for long, Sheykh El Shabur," the girl spoke softly.

"For ever," he suavely corrected her. "And you also put yourself in my hands by this foolish test— which is no test!"

Dale stood watching near the door of the Rest-House. Could this be the child he had known so well, this resolute stern little figure, whose stedfast look never wavered from the Arab's face?— who spoke to him with authority on which his evil sneering contempt broke like waves on a rock?

"You think that you— a woman, can withstand me? A vain trifling woman, and one, moreover, who is overburdened by lust for my servant as a frail craft by heavy cargo. I will destroy you with your lover."

"I don't take your gloomy view of the situation," Dale interrupted. He watched the other intently from under drooped eyelids, saw that Merle's fearlessness and his own refusal to be serious were piercing the man's colossal selfesteem, goading him to accept the challenge to his power. El Shabur felt himself a god on earth. In so far as he was master of himself, he was a god! Dale had never met so disciplined and powerful a will. Few could boast so controlled and obedient an intellect. But he was proud, as the fallen Lucifer was proud.

It was the ultimate weakness of all who dabbled in occult powers. They were forced to take themselves with such profound seriousness that in the end the fine balance of sanity was lost.

Dale continued as if they were discussing a trifling matter that began to bore him. His mouth was so dry that he found difficulty in speaking at all. It was like stroking an asp.

"The point is that I have never seen our young friend take this extraordinary semblance of a— a werewolf. My cousin is, as you remark so emphatically, a woman. Not her fault, and all that, of course! But no doubt she was over-sensitive, imaginative, conjured up that peculiar vision of our absent Gunnar by reason of excessive anxiety."

"She saw my disobedient servant," the sheykh's deep voice rang like steel on an anvil, "undergoing punishment. It was no delusion of the senses."

"Ah! Good! Excellent! You mean she was not so weak, after all. That's one up to her, don't you think? I mean, seeing him as he really was. Rather penetrating, if you take me!"

"She saw what she saw, because it was my design that she should. She is no more than a woman because of it."

"Ah, I can't quite agree there." Dale was persuasive, anxious to prove his point politely. "I'll bet she didn't scream or faint. Just trotted home a bit wobbly at the knees, perhaps?"

"She is obstinate, as all women are obstinate." The sheykh's lean hands were hidden by flowing sleeves, to Dale's disgust; but a muscle twitched above the high cheek-bone, and the dark fire of his eyes glowed red.

"Since you desire to sacrifice yourself," the Arab turned to Merle, "Ilbrahaim shall bring you just before sundown to the house."

"Any objections to my coming along?" Dale spoke as if a supper-party were under discussion. "My interest in magic— ceremonial—"

El Shabur cut in. "You think to save her from me? Ah, do I not know of your learning, your researches, your study of occult mysteries! It will avail you nothing. No other cabalist has dared what I have dared. I— the High Priest of Melek Taos! Power is mine. No man clothed in flesh can stand against me."

He seemed, in the dim low-ceilinged room, to fill the place with wind and darkness and the sound of beating wings.

Suddenly he was gone. Like a black cloud he was gone.

Dale looked after him for long tense minutes. "No man clothed in flesh," he quoted reflectively. "And there's quite a lot of clothing in my case, too."

Once more the grim stone house in the outskirts of the city. The cousins stood before it. Ilbrahaim, who had guided them, put a hand before his face in terror.

"Effendi, I go! This is an evil place." The whites of his eyes glinted between outspread fingers. "An abode of the shaitans!"

He turned, scuttled under a low archway. They heard the agitated clap-clap of his heelless slippers on hard-baked earth. Then silence closed round about them. They stood in the warm glow of approaching sunset.

Merle looked at the western sky and the great globe that was remorselessly bringing day to a close. Dale studied her grave, set face. He hoped against hope that she might even now turn back. Her eyes were on the round red sun as it sank.

He too stared as if hypnotized. If he could hold it— stop its slow fatal moving on... on... It was drawing Merle's life with it. It was vanishing into darkness and night. Merle too would vanish into darkness... into awful night...

She turned and smiled at him. The glory of the sky touched her pale face with fire. Her eyes shone solemn and clear as altar lamps. He gave one last glance at the lovely earth and sky and glorious indifferent sun, then opened the low door for Merle to pass.

Gunnar, in the upper room, stood by the narrow slit of his solitary window, more gaunt, more shadowy than yesterday. He saw Merle, rushed across to her, pushed her violently back across the threshold.

"I will not have it! This monstrous sacrifice! Take her away— at once. Go! I refuse it. Take her away!"

He thrust her back into Dale's arms, tried to close the door in their faces. Once more a faint hope of rescuing Merle at the eleventh hour rose in Dale's mind. But the door was flung wide. El Shabur confronted them, led them into the room, imperiously motioned Gunnar aside.

"Ya! Now is it too late to turn back. My hour is come. My power is upon me. Let Melek Taos claim his own!"

Merle went over to Gunnar, took his hand in hers, looked up into his gray face with the same look of shining inner exaltation Dale had seen as they lingered at the outer door.

"Yes, it is too late now to turn back," she affirmed. "For this last time you must endure your agony. The last time, Gunnar— my beloved. It shall swiftly pass to me. Can I not bear for a brief moment what you have borne so long? Through my soul and body this devil that possesses you shall pass to El Shabur, who created it. Endure for my sake, as I for yours."

"No! No! You cannot guess the agony— the torture "

Dale sprang forward at her gesture, and drew about them a circle with oil poured from a long-necked phial. Instantly the two were shut within a barrier of fire, blue as wood-hyacinths, that rose in curving, swaying, lovely pillars to the ceiling, transforming the gray salt mud to a night-sky lit with stars.

"Ya gomany! O mine enemy!" El Shabur's deep voice held sudden anguish. "Is it thou? Through all the years thy coming has been known to me, yet till now I knew thee not. Who taught thee such power as this?"

He strode to the fiery circle, put out a hand, drew it back scorched and blackened to the bone. He turned in savage menace. Dale's hand flashed, poured oil in a swift practised fling about El Shabur's feet and touched it to leaping flame.

Within this second ring the Arab stood upright. His voice boomed out like a great metal gong.

"Melek Taos! Melek Taos! Have I not served thee truly? Give aid — give aid! Ruler of Wind and Stars and Fire! I am held in chains!"

Dale breathed in suffocating gasps. He was cold to the marrow of his bones. He lost all sense of time— of space. He was hanging somewhere in the vast gulf of eternity. Hell battled for dominion in earth and sea and sky.

"To me, Abeor! Aberer! Chavajoth! Aid — give aid!" Again the great voice called upon his demon-gods.

A sudden shock made the room quiver. Dale saw that the fires grew pale. "Was I too soon? Too soon?" he asked himself in agony. "If the oil burns out before sundown "

There was a crash. On every hand the solid ancient walls were riven. Up— up leaped the blue fiery pillars.

A shout of awful appeal. "Melek Taos! Master! Give aid!"

With almost blinded eyes, Dale saw Gunnar drop at Merle's feet, saw in his stead a wolf-shape crouching, saw her stoop to it, kneel, kiss the great beast between the eyes, heard her clear, steady voice repeat the words of power, saw the flames sink and leap again.

The issue was joined. Now! Now! God or Demon! The Arab, devil-possessed, calling on his gods. Merle, fearless before the onrush of his malice. Hate, cruel as the grave. Love, stronger than death.

Dale's breath tore him. Cold! Cold! Cold to the blood in his veins! God! it was upon her!

Gunnar stood in his own body, staring with wild eyes at the beast which brushed against his knee. He collapsed beside it, blind and deaf to further agony.

And still EI Shabur's will was undefeated. Still beside the unconscious Gunnar stood a wolf, its head flung up, its yellow lambent eyes fixed, remote, suffering.

Again Dale felt himself a tiny point of conscious life swung in the womb of time. Again the forces that bear up the earth, sun, moon, and stars were caught in chaos and destruction. Again he heard the roar of fire and flood and winds that drive the seas before them. Through all the tumult there rang a voice, rallying hell's legions, waking old dark gods, calling from planet to planet, from star to star, calling for aid!

Dale knew himself on earth again. Stillness was about him. In a dim and dusty room he saw Merle and Gunnar, handfast, looking into each other's eyes. About their feet a little trail of fire ran— blue as a border of gentian.

Another circle showed, its fires dead, black ash upon the dusty ground. Across it sprawled a body, its burnoose charred and smoldering. Servant of Melek Taos. Victim of his own dark spells. El Shabur destroyed by the demon that had tormented Gunnar. Driven forth, homeless, it returned to him who had created it.

_______________________

15: The Altar of Melek Taos

Weird Tales, Sep 1932

1. A Dinner in Bagdad

SIR HUGH WILLETT caught sight of his wife's gold-crowned head at the far end of the table, and his lips twitched in a smile as he noted the rapt expression of the gray eyes under their unexpectedly dark brows and lashes. Evidently she was carrying out his instructions to "keep Prince Dena amused" with whole-hearted zeal. The constant steady flame of his adoration for Evadne — so young, and lovely, and gifted— gave a sudden leap in his breast. She was adorable.

"I've never seen Evadne look better, Hugh."

The voice of the Honorable Mrs. Richard Gaunt echoed his own thoughts, and he turned to the well-known writer and autocrat of London society with an almost fatuous beam.

"This climate suits her, suits us both, in fact."

"D'you let her run round with her paint-box here in Bagdad, as she did in Cairo? It's not very safe!"

"Do I let her!" Sir Hugh's face was a study in mock despair. "My dear Mildred, you know Evadne pretty well. Why revert to the obsolete and empty mockery of a husband's authority in connection with Evadne?"

"You're right," laughed his dinner partner. "But, really, I must acknowledge she can be trusted. I've never met a girl with her head screwed on more firmly. The only danger is that it is such an exceptionally charming head. Just look at the minx now, beguiling that poor man out of his senses. Who exactly is this Prince? I didn't get his name."

"Prince Dena ibn Zodh! That is his usual title. The whole thing is Ca'id Dena al Ilbrahim ibn Azzad ibn Kadr el Amastan ibn Zodh!"

Mrs. Gaunt patted his arm soothingly.

"There, there! I didn't mean to upset you like that, Hughie dear. This is not the time or place for blank verse, you know. What have you been drinking?"

"Fact!" replied Sir Hugh. "I wrote it down, and learned it while I was having my bath before dinner."

"It's a marvel you weren't drowned. But tell me seriously, Hugh, what does the creature do, besides looking so excessively haughty, and mysterious, and utterly fascinating? I feel like an ingénue at her first party whenever I look at him."

"I'll tell you later," he answered hastily. "My left-hand neighbor seems to be getting restive. She's been a victim to old Doctor Hamdi long enough to know that adventure of his in Damascus off by heart. I must rescue her."

The Honorable Mrs. Gaunt nibbled a few salted almonds thoughtfully, before turning to Sir Hugh's secretary, Hadur. He was an Arab of excellent birth and most scholarly attainments, having been educated at the famous medersa at Kairwan. As a young man he had been kidnapped by Touareggs in the Sahara Desert, sold to slave-traders, shipped to Mecca, and been bought in the slave-market there by Sir Hugh Willett, who recognized his birth and breeding. Passionately grateful, Hadur had refused to return to his Algerian home, and had attached himself to Sir Hugh as his secretary.

A great friendship had sprung up between the two, which Sir Hugh's recent marriage had not altered. Hadur had merely extended the cloak of his grave protection and friendship to include the wife as well as the husband. The twenty-five years that lay between her and himself (for Hadur was some ten years older than Sir Hugh) made this easy, and Evadne accepted the former's unfailing loyalty as a matter of course. She did not dream of the quite unplatonic devotion that lay beneath the Arab's solemn courtesy, nor did he desire that she ever should know of it. Hadur was a profound philosopher; his dreams were one thing, his actual life another. He saw to it that they never impinged on one another.

"I AM going to ask you what I've been asking Sir Hugh." Mrs. Gaunt turned to Hadur at last with an abstracted air. "Who and what is this Prince?"

Hadur presented a sphinx-like face to her questioning gaze.

"I regret, Madam, I can tell you nothing."

"Can't, or won't?"

"He is here for the first time as guest," Hadur countered smoothly. "Sir Hugh met him last week, while superintending the excavation of the Daarb Temple."

"Yes?"

"But, that is all, Madam!"

"Nonsense, Hadur." The downright lady was not to be so easily turned aside. "You can't bear the man, and you've been looking like the wrath of Allah ever since the soup. Do please explain."

"I wish I could." Hadur abandoned his tone of light pretense. ''I can only say that there is evil in that man beyond comprehension. I see the Sitt Evadne by his side, as if she slept within the coils of a rock python. He is entirely devilish."

His companion looked impressed; she was an intimate friend of the house, and trusted Hadur completely.

"What are you going to do?" she demanded, always eminently practical.

Hadur's eyes, under the folds of his ruby-silk turban, lost a little of their melancholy at her manner.

"The Prince is the guest of Sir Hugh," he reminded her.

"Guest! Sir Hugh!" Mrs. Gaunt's snorts of disdain were fortunately drowned by the lively chatter around them. "You know perfectly well that he would make friends with a Bengal tiger if the beast knew anything about the Assyrian empire! I suppose that is the bond that brought them together?"

"The Prince is surprisingly well informed," conceded Hadur.

"Oh, we were just discussing the fall of Babylon," she told Sir Hugh, as the latter relinquished his other neighbor to Doctor Hamdi once more.

"What?" Her host's deep chuckling laugh brought all eyes upon him. 'What do you suppose old Hadur and Mildred were talking about?" he asked.

A roar of laughter greeted his reply, and Mrs. Gaunt defended herself ably from the volley of satire that followed.

"Are you getting foundations for your next novel?" one lady demanded. "Babylon will be a nice little change from modern London, dear."

"Very little change, in reality," retorted the novelist. "Mere superficialities of food and clothing. The morals and manners of the two cities seem singularly alike. What do you say, Prince Dena?"

She appealed across the table as the latter's darkly brilliant face turned in her direction.

"I must confess that my visits to London have not suggested an analogy," he replied in a deferential manner, "probably because I've not had your unique opportunities of studying it. Babylon was different from every other city the world has known, because it drew its power direct from the supreme Source of power."

A puzzled silence greeted this remark. Mrs. Gaunt stole a glance at Hadur's stern, set face, and experienced a quiver of apprehension, reflecting on the violent and sudden nature of Oriental reactions.

"You are going too deep for some of us," Sir Hugh voiced the general opinion. "The philosophy and mysticism of the East are rather too subtle for me, I confess."

Prince Dena ibn Zodh smiled faintly and turned his dark face, with its chiselled features and inscrutable eyes, toward his hostess.

"I perceive that you, as a mystic, are not out of your depth."

Evadne flushed. The poetry she wrote was very much of the mystic order, but she hated talking about it, never published it, and was startled by the Prince's divination of her abiding interest.

"You refer to the perverted use to which the Magi of the Assyrian empire put their gifts!" Hadur gravely interposed, successfully distracting interest from Lady Willett's slight confusion.

"Perverted use!" The Prince's level gaze clashed with Hadur's intent look.

"Surely!'' asserted the latter, in the flat gentle voice that heralded his rare anger. "Since these same Magi forgot, or ignored, the mysterious laws of equilibrium which subjugated the universe to their control. Forsaking the law, they played with magic for the delight of king and courtiers, intoxicating them with every sensual joy. They forsook Ormuzd for Ahriman, and brought the Assyrians to the dust."

"So!" Prince Dena paused, a dark flame in his eyes. "You recollect, however, that from ashes sprang the Phenix!"

"And from the dust of Babylon sprang?" Hadur also paused.

The guests sat in tense silence, as if aware that some tremendous question had been asked. The atmosphere was electric with the antagonism between the two men.

"From the dust of Babylon sprang the Angel Peacock— Melek Taos!''

The Prince raised his hand as he spoke. The candles— burning steadily in their crystal holders down the long table— flared up into high tendrils of flame. 'The hanging lamps overhead and in the wall niches blazed with a sudden blue-white radiance. A golden flower-scented mist filled the spacious room; the sound of a reed-pipe, thin and piercingly sweet, drew the listeners' souls from their bodies. There was a perfume of musk and ambergris and roses, the gleam of night-dark eyes, of polished limbs and half-veiled bosoms.

And in Prince Dena's place a young monarch sat, ablaze with jewels and rainbow-tinted silks, who waved a languid hand to tall veiled figures that hovered behind his throne. Even as he waved, the radiant mist dispelled, the candles and lamps burned slow and steadily again, and the bewildered company sat staring foolishly at one another's familiar faces.

"Who— who are you?" Evadne's slender hand was at her throat, as she turned to Prince Dena. Then, with an uncertain little laugh, she snatched at the conventions.

"Why, you perfectly marvelous man! That's the most wonderful illusion I've ever seen out here! You're a real sorcerer, I believe."'

"The devil he is!" muttered old Doctor Hamdi, annoyed at being so completely tricked. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Fairleigh," he apologized. 'But, did you see it all, too, those delightful… er-r-r… houris?"'

"I certainly did," answered the scandalized Mrs. Fairleigh. "You might have warned us we were to be treated to conjuring, Sir Hugh! I strongly disapprove of this sort of thing. It's quite against my principles to allow myself to be hypnotized."

"Don't blame our host," the Prince's amused voice cut in. "It was entirely unpremeditated. Merely an answer to our learned friend here." And he nodded to Hadur.

The secretary did not reply. He had begun to peel a mandarin orange, and his eyes were on his plate.

"Certainly more spectacular than the Indian rope trick," pronounced the Honorable Mrs. Gaunt, endeavoring to recapture her skepticism. "I suppose you wouldn't condescend to explain the mystery, Prince?"

"Not a question of condescension, Madam," he assured her. "It was based on rules whose existence you Westerners deny. The results of magic are obvious to your senses, but the history and derivation of magic you would class with heathen mythology and folk-lore."

The touch of fear on Lady Willett's face, the bewildered look in her eyes, gave her loveliness a lost unearthly air that made Sir Hugh long to rush to her side. Mrs. Gaunt, seeing her dazed condition, did not wait for a signal to rise, but got to her feet, commanded the rest of the women with an imperious gesture, and put her arm through that of her hostess, as they went from the room.

"Dear child, you've got fever! Better take some quinine at once."

"No, Millicent, not fever."' Evadne's voice was low and shaken. "I think— I feel there was something quite awful behind that illusion we saw! I simply hated it."

"Darling! You're much too easily impressed by these Orientals. Wait until you've been mixed up with them ten years or so, as I have. You'll learn to take them less seriously. It was clever, very, but not really devastating."

"It was quite awful!" repeated Evadne.

"Certainly it was," Mrs. Fairleigh chimed in as they sank into low chairs in the wide stone gallery that ran round the house. "A most improper thing; these natives have no sense of decency at all."

"WELL, it was a good show tonight, thanks to the Prince. I thought they'd all stay on to breakfast talking about magic, and djinnees, and suspended animation, and all the rest of it. Even little Mrs. Fairleigh got wound up."

Evadne nodded, her clear eyes still shadowed by a faint fear.

"But you were as silent as an oyster, old fellow! What got your goat tonight?"

"There must be listeners for those who talk," Hadur answered dryly.

"You weren't listening, you were sulking, you old reprobate! What was it? Did Mrs. Gaunt ride her hobby-horse about the Meccan pilgrimage? Or does the Prince belong to a tribe of your hereditary enemies?"

"As to that, he is not more my enemy than yours."

Evadne looked vaguely about her for a cigarette, and Hadur was quick to see her need. She stretched out a firm, delicately modeled little hand, and turned it palm upward to look idly at the gold lettering on the cigarette.

"By the hundredth name of Allah!" exclaimed Hadur. "What mark is that?"

He took her hand in his own lean dark fingers, and bent over the soft rosy palm. A faint curious mark was printed there, silver-gray as wood ash.

"Aie!" The exclamation burst from Hadur, as if a mortal agony seized him. "Allah's mercy on us! When was this done to you?"

"Why— how very curious!" Lady Willett stared at the mark with puzzled brows.

"Did the Prince touch you? Think— remember— was it when he worked his magic at the dinner table?"

"Yes. I remember now, I felt a little tingle on my hand when the candies flared up. It was a peculiar pain, and went right through me. I looked at my hand afterward but there was no mark there. I can't feel anything now, but it won't come off— it won't come off!"

She scrubbed at her palm with a shudder of distaste, and showed the mark to Hugh, standing by her side.

"I don't know quite why you and Hadur are making such a fuss." He was tenderly scornful. "You've scraped the skin a little. Come along, I'll put plaster, and ointment, and a large bandage on it, darling, then you'll be happy."

"It is the sign of Melek Taos— the Mark of Power!"" Hadur's voice was low and hoarse. 'You can do nothing, Sir Hugh, for the Sitt Evadne has been chosen by the Prince to be— Wa hyat Ullah, these lips will not utter the words!"

"What do you mean, Hadur?" Sir Hugh was suddenly stern and angry. "Don't you see that you are alarming Evadne? Explain— don't stand there muttering Arabic to yourself!"

"My lord!" It was seldom, indeed, that Hadur used his native speech, and a chill of fear touched the other's heart at the profound solemnity of Hadur's voice and manner. "My lord! It is wiser to tell thee at the outset what great evil hath befallen the Sitt Evadne. It is so grave and overwhelming a disaster, that ignorance would be the last extremity of unwisdom. That mark is the mark of Melek Taos— the Angel Peacock— the symbol of that bright Prince of evil, whose rule ended, temporarily, at the fall of Babylon."

"If I didn't know you for a strict Mohammedan, I'd say you'd been drinking," Sir Hugh interrupted, frowning. "What has Evadne to do with the fall of Babylon? What in hell— excuse me, darling — what on earth is an Angel Peacock?"

"You were right in saying hell," replied Hadur. "The Angel Peacock is the symbol for the devil, a shaitan, the ageless evil which men have worshiped from the beginning of time."

Evadne looked with fascinated horror at her hand.

"It is getting plainer all the time," she gasped. "Look, there are wings, a head! It is a bird! More like an eagle, or a vulture, than a peacock."

Both men bent over her hand. The silvery-gray mark was deepening to a dull black, and, as Evadne turned her hand this way and that, it shimmered with gleaming opalescent hues.

"It is very beautiful— very!"

Hadur turned on her with a desperate terror.

"Beautiful! Accursed, you mean! You must not be fascinated by it. Cover it up; you must not let that mark work on you as the Prince intends."

Sir Hugh drew her to sit beside him on a divan close by, putting his own hand over the strange mark, and holding Evadne within the shelter of his arm. His instinct and training prompted him to make light of the whole thing; he did not want his wife to be frightened, and he had always made a habit of resolutely turning his back on the numerous occult phenomena which he encountered in the East. Not that he blundered by showing the natives his complete disbelief in their many superstitions, with the exception of Hadur, but he cherished the belief that nothing supernatural could, or did, exist.

Something deeper than either instinct or training stirred in him now. With a quite inexplicable hatred he hated to see that glittering mark on Evadne's hand. Some fear, ancient and primeval as the foundation of the world, began to trouble him. Over dim unsuspected pools of memory, an old and terrible wisdom moved with portentous shadow.

"Tell us all you know, or think, or suspect," he asked Hadur.

The Arab bent his head gravely, and sat down opposite the pair.

2. The Very Voice of Fire

"I WILL give you the facts, as I know them," began Hadur. "Hear me out, however incredulous and repellent you find them."

His audience nodded agreement, Sir Hugh with a sinking heart.

"Prince Dena ibn Zodh is High Priest of the tribe known as the Yezidees. These people are devil-worshipers, and have been for many centuries, In the time of Shaikh Adi, their chief exponent, the Yezidees bulked largely as a terrible and dangerous sect. They have a sacred Black Book called Al Yalvah, and in the Thirteenth Century reached their zenith as a ruling, influential power of evil. Since that time their power steadily declined, but the old reputation clung to them, and Jews and Moslems and Christians alike despised and hated them.

"In reality, until quite recently, they had become a perfectly harmless peasant tribe, whose communities lie scattered in the hills northeast of Bagdad, and in other countries such as Kurdistan, Armenia, and Persia. They practiced a few rites and ceremonies grown harmless and unmeaning during the passage of time. They adhered to a few superstitions, such as never wearing the color blue, and never speaking of the devil by that name. The Shaitan they worship is symbolized for them in the form of a peacock. A marvelously wrought bejeweled bird represents their god to the tribe, and is kept in some secret sanctuary. When referring to their devil ruler, they call him Melek Taos, or Angel Peacock."

Evadne looked down at her hand, but her husband closed it almost fiercely within his own, and drew her closer to him.

"Melek Taos is something akin to Lucifer, only that the Yezidees think he will return in time to his celestial sphere, and that he rules this earth, meantime, by the direct command of Allah. Until recently, in spite of these strange beliefs, the Yezidees lived normally honest, decent lives. Their religion was a mere shell of the old faith, Melek Taos a focus for their instinct to worship. The old unspeakable sacrifices and horrible perversions of human attributes were completely forgotten."

"And the Prince, what has he to do with all this?" asked Sir Hugh.

"Everything! He has revived the old infamous worship in its entirety, every custom and sacrifice and obscenity of the devil-worship of the dark ages. Melek Taos, from being more angel than devil, is now utterly and wholly devilish. His worshipers indulge in every form of beast-like lust, and unnameable orgy. Torture, sacrifice, the bridal rights of the High Priest and other abominations have been fully re-established."

Hadur looked hesitatingly at the young couple, his eyes haunted and tragic.

"There is worse, much worse to come," he went on. "These things are the mere trappings and superficialities of the devil-worshipers under the new regime of Prince Dena."

"Good God, man!" exclaimed Sir Hugh. "No human being could do worse than this, surely!"

"Human being? Well, yes, as far as his body of flesh and blood is concerned, he is human." Hadur spoke slowly and heavily. "But the Prince has learned a power and a control that set him as far apart from human life, thought, and experience, as a great scientist is removed from the organic life beneath his microscope, or on his dissecting-table.

"You are angry, alarmed, bewildered. It is natural; yet I beg you to remain calm while I try to make clear what will bewilder you still more. These Yezidees were disciples of the false Zoroaster in the past; their ancestors treasured remnants of knowledge and power from the days' of long-forgotten kingdoms— lost in the mists of time even when the Assyrians ruled. But these remnants of power perished and were buried beneath the stones of Babylon. The last secrets of Zoroaster vanished in the general holocaust.

"The true Zoroaster, born six thousand years before Plato, according to many savants, learned the great principles that control the universe. He, and his Magi, held the elements in the hollow of their hands. Above all things, they learned the secret and occult force that governs fire. Electricity was subject to them, and answered to their control as a horse answers to bit and bridle.

"They learned, through long discipline and terrible ordeals of purification, to liberate the will entirely from the senses, until they could hear the Very Voice of Fire, until they could focus the universal fire— the Astral Fluid that radiates from every sphere in the universe— and direct it as a weapon or a defense when they pleased.

"The Voice of Fire taught them to become seers and prophets, to impose any thought or feeling upon the multitude, to make themselves visible or invisible at will, to communicate with other Magi at the far ends of the earth."

"How?" Sir Hugh questioned harshly.

"By means of huge power-houses where the electric fluid was stored— seven great towers which stretched across the continent of Asia from Arabia to Tibet. These towers have long since crumbled into dust, but Prince Dena has erected a new one here in the hills somewhere north of this city. And I have information from those who work for me in this matter, that other towers are being built in Persia, Afghanistan, and Mongolia.

"Here, not twenty miles from Bagdad, the Prince rules with all the absolute sovereignty of the Magi of the Assyrian Empire. He has protected his Temple and Palace with the fire-mist and thunder clouds of the priests of Babylon. He has diverted the rivers which flooded and destroyed the old Yezidee altars. He has built his tower over these same altars, and there the living flame burns night and day."

"How have you learned all this? You've been with me for years, and I've never heard a word of Prince Dena. I knew the Yezidees existed, but that was all. Have you seen the tower, the altar, and all the rest of it?"

"When you journeyed to Europe with the Sitt, and left me here in Bagdad, I met a man whose daughter had been sacrificed to Melek Taos by the Prince himself. I may not betray her name— it was a great one and very honored here in Bagdad. Her father has great learning and greater courage. By an accident I stumbled on his secret purpose to avenge his daughter, and since then he and I have worked together. In disguise this man has visited the Temple, joined in the worship, and never rests now in his plans to destroy the Yezidees root and branch. But so far—"

He made an eloquent gesture of despair.

"I am not quite clear about the true and the false Zoroastrians." Evadne's face was pale, but her eyes were intent and steady, her mind absorbed by Hadur's words. "And the Prince himself, is he a true Magus?"

"He was," replied Hadur. "It is that which makes him so unassailable now. He passed through all the sternest tests and ordeals. He became an Adept. He learned all the occult mysteries that control the elements. He heard the Very Voice of Fire, and only death can rob him of his power now, although he has turned it to base and unworthy uses. The Fire he controls will destroy him utterly at last, as it destroyed Sardanapalus on his throne in Babylon. Meantime— he rules!

"I have told you all, Sitt!" Hadur met the girl's steadfast eyes. "I have told you because ignorance would expose you to greater risk. You must understand completely the kind of danger that threatens you,"

"I know, I understand, Hadur,"

Evadne felt her husband's hand tremble on her own, and turned to him quickly. His angry puzzled look touched her profoundly.

"Darling, don't worry! This is the Twentieth Century, and we are in Bagdad, not Babylon. I think Prince Dena is a terrible man, I felt it from the first moment we met. But he'll have a hard time to get me into his temple, with all his magic and mysteries! Don't look at me as if I were sitting in a tumbril on the way to the guillotine. Remember, we're in the East, where one expects all sorts of things to happen."

Sir Hugh's gloom visibly lightened.

"You're an absolute wonder, really you are!" And Hadur's flashing glance confirmed her husband's admiration. "We'll tackle this thing together, and bring Prince Dena lower than the walls of Babylon itself."

Hadur fingered a cigarette, his eyes lowered. He had failed to convince Sir Hugh, but he felt assured that Evadne's attitude was more or less assumed for her husband's benefit. She was the more intellectual of the two, more inclined to the mysticism of the East, understanding much that lay outside the range of Sir Hugh's strong practical mind, more imaginative and receptive of the older philosophies, and, if more credulous, at the same time more subtle and flexible in her thought.

Meantime he saw her glance down at her hand, and the question he dreaded followed promptly: "And the mark, Hadur?"

"It is the mark that the High Priest sets upon his chosen. You are the woman whom he has destined to be offered to Melek Taos on the night of sacrifice, at the rising of the next new moon."

Sit Hugh rose abruptly, his anger suddenly breaking bounds.

"Don't couple Evadne's name with that beastly conjurer's! It's an insult in itself, if only a quarter of what you say is true. It is my fault that she has been exposed to his presumption. I was a fool to have been taken in by him in the first place. I shall see that he never comes near her again, confound him! That mark can be removed by caustic, or electricity. I'll take her to a doctor tomorrow."

Hadur watched the couple go. Evadne's smile to him, over her shoulder, was particularly gentle and affectionate, and the Arab's eyes were dim as he watched her golden head and cloudy draperies disappear down the long corridor without.

"Allah have her in his keeping! To save her I would burn in Gehenna for a thousand years. To save her!…"

3. Vau Ruach Addonai!

FOR a few days, Sir Hugh, anxious to prevent any chance that might bring Evadne into contact with Prince Dena again, refused to go away from the city, or even to stay more than an hour or two away from his wife. But as the days passed uneventfully, the thought of his workmen in the Euphrates valley began to worry him. They had reached a critical point in a most important job, when the Tomb of Queen Bal-el-Zouka was to be uncovered. It was essential that he should superintend the opening of the inner stone chamber. Only he possessed such experience and expert knowledge as was necessary for such a delicate operation. Hadur was on the spot, overlooking the workmen, and no doubt could carry out the final diggings as well as he could himself, unless some unexpected difficulty turned up. It was the chance of this last occurrence that worried Sir Hugh.

His strong common sense and cheerful optimism had quickly thrown off the vague alarm and suspicion he had first entertained with regard to the Prince. As the days quietly succeeded one another the Tomb of Queen Bal-el-Zouka loomed larger, as the Prince faded on his mental horizon.

"I really ought to ride up the valley, and see how things are going," he remarked at breakfast one morning.

"OF course! Why don't you go today? I shall be busy all morning. The consul and his wife are calling to take me to an exhibition of rugs at the Hotel el Kadr."

Sir Hugh's face cleared completely.

"Splendid! You'll be careful though, won't you, darling? That fellow, Prince Dena, may be hanging about on the chance of seeing you. I've given strict orders that he is not to be admitted on any pretext whatever. If those two are with you today—"

"Exactly," laughed Evadne. "I hardly think even Prince Dena would tackle so formidable a team! Mrs. Lamont would die rather than acknowledge the strain of Arab blood in her, and snubs all natives impartially. And he— well, he sees people and things as she wants him to see them."

"Poor fellow, I can sympathize with him. I know exactly what he feels like!" Sit Hugh looked as dismal as his jolly face would allow. "We must get together, he and I, and talk over this wife business. Can't call my soul my own now."

"Poor old thing!"

She had accompanied him to the entrance hall as they talked, and they stood looking down at the sunlit streets. In the shadow of the deep Moorish arch she suddenly clasped him with the quick warmth that made her so adorable to him.

"You are so dear and silly, Hugh. I simply couldn't live without you now— the sillier you get, the more I like you."

"That's lucky, as I'm heading in the same direction about you. Now, listen to the parting injunction of a fond but jealous spouse. If you see the Prince, cut him dead. By the way, you've still got the bandage over that mark. The doctor said you might remove it today, didn't he?"

"I think I ought to give it until tonight. It was a rather painful process having it pricked out. It may heal better if I wait a few hours longer."

In the deep shadow her sudden flush was not noticeable. She had already uncovered her hand, and seen the mark as clear and strong as ever, but meant to consult Hadur before showing it to her husband. The latter had been hanging about so miserably restless for the last week, that she wished him to go off without anxiety today.

"Poor child!" He patted the injured hand tenderly. "Well, if I'm going, I'll ride out now before the sun gets any higher. You may expect Hadur and me back tonight, without fail. He'll be surprised to see me turn up."

A last kiss, and he set off down the street to the stables, his white-clad figure very square and uncompromising amidst the flowing burnooses and rainbow hues of the native population.

HADUR was not only surprised, but passionately angry with Sir Hugh, filled with an almost murderous fury as he watched him approach the camp. "Blind worm! Is he made of wood, or stone, that he can leave her to the mercy of that devil? Oh, by Allah, I could bind him on a wild horse and flog him into the desert for this treachery to her! He has left her, lost her for ever, the blind dull-witted fool!"

Then in a moment his rare anger passed. He saw Sit Hugh, not as the traitor, but as the betrayed, and immense pity and sorrow filled him.

"El mektoub, mektoub!" he quoted beneath his breath. "If he must lose her, then she is already lost. Of what use to strive against one's fate? Is it not hung about our neck from the hour of our birth? We do but tread a path already ordained for our feet."

Sir Hugh looked slightly abashed as he rode up to Hadur, and busied himself with his mount for a minute, with averted eyes. "Evadne's splendid," he presently remarked, rather jerkily. "Going off with the Lamont griffin and her husband today. I've given strict orders not to have the Prince admitted to the house. You and I will be back at sundown."

"It is well, Arfi!" Hadur led the way to the tomb without more words, and Sir Hugh followed meekly, knowing that he was in disgrace. But the feeling of guilt was swallowed up in excitement very soon, and for the remaining hours of the day he was too much absorbed to remember that such a man as Prince Dena existed at all.

THE domes and minarets of Bagdad glowed redly in the setting sun as Sir Hugh, with his secretary, dismounted at the stables, and walked toward his spacious white house in the avenue of the Califs. A servant usually sat within the entrance, to question all who climbed the broad steps, and to receive messages if his master and mistress were not at home. This evening, the great arched doorway was deserted. The heavily studded door was closed.

Sir Hugh was about to give a loud rat-tat-tat with the stock of his riding whip, when Hadur put a hand on his arm. "Something has gone wrong. Let us enter quietly, and make our own discoveries. There are other entrances."

There were several of them, and the two men found the glass door leading into the palm garden was unlatched. They walked in quietly through a conservatory of heavily scented plants, and thence into Sir Hugh's private study. A strange pall of silence seemed to fill the house almost visibly.

In the wide tiled hall they saw a figure sprawled against the marble wall. It was Ali, the doorkeeper. He was sleeping, and so soundly that nothing would rouse him. Hadur examined him swiftly, lifting an eyelid, feeling his pulse.

"Not drugged! He is hypnotized!" he pronounced.

"Prince Dena!"

Sir Hugh's face was suddenly haggard with anxiety. Hadur's did not change from the settled melancholy it had worn all day. With one accord they turned, letting the servant slip back against the wall. They mounted the great curved central stairway, and reached the western wing, through a labyrinthine maze of corridors and passages.

They paused in the small anteroom which led to a lovely domed chamber, where silken rugs made glowing pools of color on the marble floors, and cushions and divans and rich hangings formed a background worthy of the great Haroun ar Rashid himself.

The anteroom was shut off only by curtains of damask silk, and between them the two men saw something that made them stiffen and freeze like game dogs, still and motionless as statues.

On a divan opposite, across a wide space of floor, Evadne lay relaxed against a pile of gorgeous cushions. Her head shone like a golden torch in the last rays of the setting sun, her delicately cut features touched to an almost unearthly beauty.

Beside her sat Prince Dena ibn Zodh, his face in profile, like a classic bronze against the window, through which a crimson afterglow blazed. He leaned toward his companion, and the low murmur of a strange rhythmic chant reached the two behind the curtain.

Like a flower turning to the sun, the girl's face turned toward the Prince, her gray eyes wide and shining, her lips parted in delight. She swayed, smiling, closer, closer to the dark intent singer. His two hands went out to her, held the golden head cupped between them as he crooned, with a wild soft wail at the close of each verse:

O ye Red Mist! O ye swift Flame.

Melek Taos! By that bright name,

I serve thee with beauty.

Ahyahaiee! Ahyahaiee!

Dancing red Fire! Dancing white Fire!

Leap nearer! Leap higher!

Baptize this, thy bond-slave.

Ahyahaiee! Ahyahaiee!

Sir Hugh made an agonizing effort to move, to speak, to rush in and snatch Evadne to him. He could not stir a muscle. At his side, Hadur might have been carved from wood; not a tremble or a breath shook him, as he, also, stood rooted to the floor.

Prince Dena bent down to the lovely face between his two hands, and his chant sank to a low mutter breathed against her parted lips:

To thy altar, Melek Taos! To thy altar, O King!

As the rising of the new moon, Melek Taos, I bring

These white limbs, this gold head in thy bright arms to lie.

Vau Jotchavah!

Vau Opharim!

Vau Ruach Addonai!

Evadne's lips touched those of the Prince, clung there, while Sir Hugh was forced to watch with bursting heart. His will, his spirit, his whole being rose up in an agony of effort. Like a great force of water breaking down a dam, with a flashing of stars in his head, and a dreadful jolt of leaping pulses, he came to life.

He gave a queer moan of fury, and leaped forward, dragging down the curtain to his feet. His hands were at Prince Dena's throat, his muscles tensed, his whole intent to batter the life out of that smiling dark face. To his bewilderment he grasped only empty, air. Prince Dena stood at the window, looking out calmly; Evadne lay back among the gorgeously hued cushions, her eyes wide and vacant as a sleep-walker's.

"It is useless." Hadur's hand restrained him, his whisper was in his ear: "He is protected. You will injure yourself, but him you can not touch!"

Sir Hugh brushed off the warning hand like an insect.

"Let me alone! Let me alone! This is my job!"

Once more he hurled himself at Prince Dena, who stood with his back now to the window, his black eyes gleaming with fire. Sir Hugh felt a tingling shock that left him numb from head to foot, and he leaned heavily against the window-casing to steady his trembling limbs.

Again he flung himself upon that sleek, smiling enemy. There was a cry, a crash of broken glass, and Sir Hugh hung perilously from the window-frame, caught by a jagged edge of glass, and Hadur's strong hand about his ankle. It was an ignominious struggle to get back to safety. He stood within the room finally, panting, torn, bleeding, and with a fury that made his ears sing, and a mist clouded his eyes.

Prince Dena bowed with ironic gravity.

"I have the honor to bid you farewell, Sir Hugh Willett."

He turned to Evadne.

"To our next meeting, white flower of Paradise!"

He took her hand and carried it to his lips, and in a moment had crossed the threshold of the room and vanished more swiftly than a passing breeze.

"Evadne!" cried Sir Hugh, desperately, as she rose with a sudden energy to look down from the window to the street below.

But the girl appeared completely insensitive to his cry, and to the pain and anger in his face. She stood with face pressed eagerly to an unbroken pane, and, returning finally to her seat, she sank down and gazed vacantly before her.

"Evadne!" Her husband sat down beside her, his voice rough with amazed anger. "What are you thinking of? Are you mad to let this beast kiss you, turn you into a thing of wax? Evadne, look at me! Listen, listen, Evadne!"

But the face he turned toward him, with shaking hand beneath her chin, was calm and still, the eyes brilliant, but their expression fixed and far away— the look of a traveler who gazes with deep longing on some distant land of desire, blind and deaf to all other objects in the way.

Hadur stood back in the shadow against the wall, watching Evadne closely. He looked years older than before he entered the room, a dreadful grayness about his mouth. His wise deep-set eyes were pools of brooding horror.

"Sir Hugh!" He came forward at last, and stood looking down at the young man as a father might look at a stricken child. "We came too late to save her, alas! The evil is past remedy. She will not hear your voice again. She will not see your face again. In her ears the voice of the High Priest drowns every other sound in the universe, and in her vision she sees only the bright evil spirit that has bound her to him. It has been decreed that this fate should come upon us all. It is the will of Allah!"

"Nonsense, Hadur!'' The Arab fatalism had the effect, at least, of rousing the other to battle. "Why should Allah decree a thing of such awful horror? It is the result of my own carelessness. I left her— I left her! Evadne!"'

His voice was softly pleading now; he took her hand between his own, stroking it, talking softly to her as if she were a wayward child. Then he and Hadur noticed the mark on her hand simultaneously, and both their faces paled.

"God!"' whispered Sir Hugh.

The mark shone red as fire, brilliant, opalescent, baneful, a dark star in the dusk of that gorgeous room. And as the mark burned deeper and brighter, so did Evadne's beauty catch fire, and glow with a new unearthly radiance.

Again and again Sir Hugh tried to rouse her, only to find her in the mist of dreams where she walked alone. It was useless. The gulf between them yawned as wide as death itself.

4. Flight

"I'VE ordered the car round for seven-thirty this evening. Lady Willett's maid can follow when she has finished packing the trunks. We'll take the light luggage with us. It's rather awkward about leaving the excavation work, but if you return here after seeing us off at Port Said, it will make very little difference. You'll have all those letters and contracts ready for me to sign before I go, Hadur!"

"Since your mind is made up, I will have all in readiness," replied the secretary gravely. "Won't you reconsider this decision, Sir Hugh? You are making a grave mistake, and playing into the enemy's hands by this hasty move. To travel in haste, by night, and without preparation or defense against attack, is to give the Sitt Evadne into his hands."

"What defense have we, if half you suspect is true? Not that I can credit your beliefs in his magic! All I know is that she has been hypnotized by this infernal scoundrel, and that I'm going to take her where she'll be safe from the sight and sound of him."

"My dear!" Hadur reverted to his native Arabic and mode of address, when profoundly moved. ''Anger and sorrow blind thee to the truth. There are means of protection if thou wert willing to submit. The width of the wide earth between the Sitt Evadne and this Magus will avail nothing. She bears the mark of the Angel Peacock on her hand, the visible sign of her inner subjugation. Until that mark fades, she belongs to the High Priest who set it upon her."

"Good Heavens, man, what more can I do to have the mark removed? If the electric needle can't touch it, what can?"

"One thing alone!" Hadur answered solemnly. "The High Priest must die. Until he does, it is useless to take refuge in flight, and it will but bring a heavier weight of evil upon us all."

The other's face clouded.

"I wish I could stay and settle him myself." He patted a pocket significantly. "But when you return, I give you carte blanche to use my name, and draw on me for any money you need to get rid of him. If you could get the authorities on his track, let them discover this beastly sacrifice business you say he practices, it ought to be easy to get him hanged as a common murderer."

"No, no!" Hadur's eyes held despair. "Have I not said he was protected? No human weapon, no human force can harm a Magus of his standing. He has mastered the deepest secrets of Zoroaster, and it would be child's play for him to avoid the clumsy traps that the law would set for him."

"Well, what remains?"

"Fire! The Universal Agent! The Prince trod the bitter path of knowledge, passing from stage to stage until control of his senses was absolute. He has heard the Very Voice of Fire! Like the false Magi of old, he no longer practices the tests and ordeals of discipline. He is using the occult forces of nature for his own ends, not for the purpose of giving light and wisdom to the world. Only utter negation of self is his safeguard; therefore he is bound to—"

"Yes, yes! You explained that the other night. Meantime, the Prince holds all the winning cards."

"It is true. He is master as long as he controls the Universal Agent. But you have a saying, 'The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small.' And so it is in this matter. The Law is always the same, call it God, or Nature, or Magic— all are the same!"

"Everything you say persuades me that to protect my wife, I must act, and act at once. I can't wait for the Prince to be caught in his own toils."

"And I repeat that you have not the strength or knowledge to protect her. Prince Dena must be tricked into exposing himself to the full force of the untamable element he uses so dangerously. Fire protects him. Fire must destroy him."

"Hadur!" Sir Hugh got up, and putting his hand on the other's shoulders, looked him squarely in the face. "I trust you beyond any man I know. You have been friend and adviser to me through bad times and good, for more years than I can remember. Now, for the first time, I can not rely on your judgment, I did not realize clearly before that I am a Westerner, and that you are of the East. I can not follow your arguments. I must take my own way of dealing with a problem so peculiarly my own. My mind is made up. I am taking Evadne away, out of the country tonight."

With a sinking heart the secretary watched the other go off to his study.

"Allah hath permitted his eyes to be blinded, that he may not see the truth," he told himself wearily. "'All haste is of the devil, and of this sudden ill-considered journey much evil will come."

THE moon had a red, angry look as it climbed up that night, to peer, over the shoulder of the Mosque el Harib, at the big touring-car standing before Sir Hugh Willett's doorway. The air was heavy, the stars dim, and a breathless heat hung like a pall over the city.

Evadne stood for a moment on the topmost step, looking up at the red disk of the moon, her lifted face so tranquil and exquisite, that a passing beggar drew back with a startled "Ya salam! Of a truth, the Unbeliever hath surely drunk of the seven streams of Isfadan! By Allah, it is a beauty not of this earth!"

"Come, darling," Sir Hugh gently urged her. "I think a storm is coming up." " She did not appear to know he was speaking, but continued to watch the angry sky. A low, long mutter of thunder rolled, and she smiled faintly:

"In the voice of the thunder I will speak to you, in the flash of the lightning you shall see my wrath against those who would hide you from me."

She spoke as if quoting remembered words, and Sir Hugh exchanged uneasy glances with Hadur.

Not until the three had left Bagdad a mile or so behind them, and were speeding up the long valley road, did Sir Hugh begin to feel easy in his mind. Hadur, in the back of the car with the luggage, sat anxiously watching the threatening sky.

As the road narrowed to a mere rough track between the towering hills, a sudden fury of wind tore shrieking down. the defile to meet them. A curtain of utter darkness fell. The road was unfamiliar, a short cut to their destination, which friends in Bagdad had recommended. It forked to right and left at more than one point, and in spite of instructions which he endeavored to follow precisely, Sir Hugh became convinced that somewhere in the darkness he had taken the wrong turn. He determined to drive on in the chance of reaching some village, or at least of finding some protected place where they might shelter until the approaching storm had spent itself.

Hadur voiced his own misgivings:

"We seem to have missed the road. I believe we are on the way to the hills where the Yezidees have their stronghold. Can you turn, Sir Hugh? It is madness to court disaster!'

"I can not turn in this narrow place. We must go on now."

"It is madness!" repeated Hadur. "'It is the power of the High Priest that draws us on this path."

A clap of thunder, echoing and prolonged, filled the narrow valley with deafening tumult. Hadur's watchfulness increased, and he sat like a dog straining at the leash, his eyes fixed on the skyline above the hills. Sir Hugh gave his whole attention to the wheel, with a darting glance every once in a while at his wife, who sat beside him with a strange look of expectancy and hope in her eyes.

The coppery glow above the dark hills grew stronger, and lightning began to. flick in long tongues of fire from peak to peak. The car bumped and rocked over the uneven track; the occupants one moment dazzled by the dancing incandescent blaze, the next, plunged into a black sulfurous gloom.

The storm seemed to be following the line of the valley, with the car the center and focus of its fury. Hadur looked through the rear window to see a clear sky behind. Overhead the rattle and roar of thunder threatened to shake the solid hills down upon the travelers.

Sir Hugh's face was white and set, as he clung to the wheel, steering more or less by instinct in the darkness and infernal uproar. The road began to climb steeply, the hills drawing in until their jagged peaks almost touched overhead. At a heart-breaking double twist in the road, the car plunged into a shallow fissure that stretched across the way. The engine coughed, gurgled sullenly, and went dead.

The two men got out, opened the hood, and poked about anxiously to discover the damage, Hadur holding an electric torch. Nothing seemed wrong. Puzzled, Sir Hugh turned to enter the car again and examine the switchboard more carefully.

The car was empty. Evadne had vanished.

"Evadne! Evadne! Evadne!"

Sir Hugh's voice rang through the hollow-sounding place with a startled terror that the rocky walls threw back in a hundred echoes. Hadur sent the ray of his powerful torch up and down the path, but only the desolate track itself was visible. Sir Hugh ran forward, stumbling to his knees in haste, calling, running, falling, and blindly running on again.

Then a mighty burst of thunder, accompanied by a violent shaking of the earth, flung both men to the ground, and a second later the sky was split by a monstrous sheet of white fire that threatened to wipe the very earth from its appointed place and scatter its ashes amidst the stardust in the void.

FOR long the two lay stunned and blind and deaf, the earth rocking under them. At last Hadur crawled on hands and knees to the other's side.

"Look!"

He pointed an unsteady hand to the craggy summit almost directly overhead. A great arc of light burned steadily, a rainbow of gleaming fire, and beneath it the black massive walls of a building stood humped against the sky. Near by, a taller building loomed, whose metal domes and towers reflected the red light of the fiery arc above. A single straight gleaming tower shot up into the sky, its slender shaft quivering from base to head, with constantly moving light waves, like dancing water beneath a brilliant moon.

"The Palace of the Yezidees, and the Temple of Melek Taos! And there— there is the Sitt Evadne!"

Still on their hands and knees, the two turned their faces toward that fiery rainbow, and on the very summit of the crags a man and woman stood plainly visible in the brilliant light.

It was Prince Dena, and with him Evadne in her white-furred wrap. Still partly stunned, Sir Hugh got to his feet, wavering and unsteady, and tried to shout. His voice died in his throat and his numbed arm fell heavily to his side as he strove to signal to that small white-clad figure, poised like a bird on the dark heights above the valley.

With a roar, a cataract of rain fell like a black curtain, beating the two men to their knees again, blotting out the fiery arc, and the castle and temple, swallowing up the slender figure and the tall High Priest by her side.

In a very few minutes the path turned to an icy foaming torrent beneath the feet of the dazed watchers. It was impossible to see an inch before them, impossible to do anything. save cling to some spur of rock and fight to keep their footing in that swirling rush of water.

5. The Trap Opens— and Shuts

DAWN found them flattened up against the overhanging precipice, soaked, chilled to the bone, and aching in every muscle, Underfoot the water was abating, though running swiftly as a river in spate down the precipitous way.

The car stood axle-deep in the yellowish flood, the fissure holding it firmly in position. Thankfully the two men splashed to its shelter, and were soon dry clad and enjoying hot coffee and cognac from their traveling-flasks, as well as the contents of a well-stocked food basket.

The sun rose over the edge of the valley walls as they ate, and in a very short time its rays beat down in full strength into the winding defile, illuminating every crack and cranny in it.

"There it is!" exclaimed Sir Hugh, as they once more stepped out into the now rapidly diminishing water, and were examining the cliff face to find the track by which Evadne and the Prince had climbed on the previous night. "There, behind that outstanding boulder!"

They squeezed in behind a great mass of stone and found a firm, clearly defined track, which wound in wide-flung loops across the face of the rock. Barely visible from the road level, once discovered it was an obvious and easy ascent.

Halting at the top, they surveyed the desolate wind-swept heights, and the massive walls of the Yezidee stronghold. In the brilliant sun the light was reflected from every dome and roof, but chiefly focused on the tall slender shaft of the Shining Tower, which rose like a pillar of fire from amidst the temple domes. Its light was not steady, but flashed and winked like that of a lighthouse signal, with a radiance that made it impossible to watch it continuously.

"It's a sort of super-heliograph," asserted Sir Hugh. "They are signaling to their brother Yezidees, no doubt. Nothing of a miraculous nature about it. The material they've used in the Tower is exceptional, I admit; I never saw anything attract the sun's rays so powerfully. On the other hand, the sun itself is a miracle out here."

Hadur made no attempt to rob his companion of the comfort of this logical explanation of the wonder before them. He knew that the light-rays from that infernal Tower drew their power from every shining star and planet in the universe, and that they sent out a force that touched people and events as far removed as the poles. The Universal Agent was concentrated and focused here, gathered up by means of the Tower into a vast storehouse, in the identical manner in which the true disciples of Zoroaster had learned to gather and store it thousands of years ago.

For good or evil, a blind terrific force was harnessed here to earth, and the thought of it in the hands of Prince Dena made Hadur shudder to the soul.

"Those fellows by the gate are watching us. We'd better try to gain admittance there."

Sit Hugh walked resolutely forward as he spoke, and for the hundredth time his secretary admired the courage and resolution which were such marked characteristics of this unimaginative man.

"We seek an audience with the Prince ibn Zodh," Sir Hugh addressed one of the wooden-faced guards. The latter looked rather like two figures from a child's Noah's Ark, as they stood in their long straight black tunics and tightly bound red turbans. Both guards shook their heads solemnly and gazed past the two visitors to the parched heights beyond.

"We would speak with the High Priest. In the name of Melek Taos, we crave admittance." Hadur's tone was commanding.

The faces of the two guards instantly altered to alert wariness.

"The password," they said in unison.

"Phlagus, Schiekron, and Aclahayr, genii of the fourth Hour," replied Hadur.

The two guards saluted humbly, and stood aside.

"Enter, Masters of the Hour! The way lies open."

Silencing Sir Hugh with a warning look, Hadur led the way into a great courtyard, murmuring as they left the guards behind:

"Leave it to me now. I have learned enough to get us inside the palace. After that—"

THE courtyard was a rectangular enclosure, its towering walls shutting out every gleam of sun. A single low squat doorway broke the dark polished surfaces that closed them in, over which a figure stood out in bas-relief — the figure of a bird, from whose head bright darting flames shot upward. It was a replica of the winged bird which Evadne bore on her hand, and Sir Hugh recognized it with a shudder of disgust. Two more guards stood here, and challenged Hadur promptly. "The Black Sword of Gaffarel, Watcher in the House of Mercury," he replied.

"Pass, Magi, diviners of the Great Mystery."

Sir Hugh followed his secretary with a rising anger. He loathed all this mummery, the darkness, the half-seen kabalistic lettering on the walls, the exchange of meaningless words at every entrance door, the air of mystery that the unusual surroundings provoked. He realized that his mind was succumbing, despite his will, to a sense of fear and foreboding, and his sturdy common sense rebelled at such impositions on it.

Hadur turned to see the impatient anger in his eyes.

"Remember," he warned in a whisper, "the Sitt Evadne is helpless here; we are all she has to help her now. Do not let your anger betray you."

From one vaulted chamber to another they passed; at each came the challenge and Hadur's quietly assured answer to it. The winged bird met their eyes on every hand, in some form or another— on the robes of the sphinx-like guards; in flaming iridescent colors on the dull smooth blackness of the walls; in the form of hanging lamps in which dancing flames moved ceaselessly in the gloom; or poised over altars on which long tongues of fire writhed like serpents in the shadow of deep-cut archways.

"It's getting infernally hot," muttered Sir Hugh, as they penetrated still further into the interior of the great palace. "And is it my imagination, or do you hear that strange hissing sound? It's been getting steadily louder and louder."

"We are close to the audience chamber, from what my friend told me. This is the hour for the Ritual Dance, and you'll understand the heat and the sound in a few minutes."

The noise increased to a humming roar as they passed another entrance. Hadur, under pretense of stooping to admire an immense glittering presentment of Melek Taos wrought in crystal and holding a great ball of fire in its beak, spoke rapidly to his companion.

"The Prince will bait us. Be prepared to hear and see anything— anything! But keep silent, watch closely, and do not be betrayed into passion."

At the last doorway no guards stood, but across the threshold hung a moving curtain of fire and cloud. Hadur walked straight forward, and Sir Hugh, wrought up to a pitch when he would have taken pleasure in engaging a grizzly bear to single combat, flung himself across the fire-mist without a pause.

A loud purring hum of fire greeted them, and in the first moment they thought the vaulted room in which they stood was going up in flames. As their eyes grew accustomed to the glare, they saw that the tall branching pillars of fire that swept across the length and breadth of the vast room did not touch the gleaming inlaid floor, but played in the air in a sort of fantastic weaving dance.

As they saw the meaning and purpose of the fire, they drew back in sick incredulous horror.

Between the tall flames, like moths blown by a sirocco, a nude capering crowd ran frantically to and fro, striving with unearthly yells to escape the torture of the licking flames; gaunt, deformed, inhuman objects, scarred and withered to the bone. They were the ceremonial dancers, preserved from death by the magic of the very power which tormented them.

"She is there— the Sitt Evadne!"

Hadur, more prepared for the unparalleled horrors of the Prince's stronghold, pointed to a massive platform against the wall to their right.

Sir Hugh turned to see her seated beside the High Priest, her eyes fixed in a blank stare on the capering figures below her. Vainly he looked for some means of reaching her, but the platform was high and smoothly polished to its base, and no steps led to it from the floor:

"Evadne!" he called, standing directly beneath her. 'Evadne!"

The love and despair in his voice would have summoned her from the last dim portals of death itself. It summoned her now. She stood up, her eyes grave and intent.

"Who calls me?" Her words came softly perplexed. 'Oh— who calls?"

Sir Hugh's very soul stood in his eyes as he looked up into her bewildered face.

"Evadne, darling! It is Hugh! Hugh, .your husband! Come back to me, Evadne, come back to me!"

The frozen bewilderment broke up, her , eyes met his with a sudden tragic awareness.

"Hugh! Hugh, save me! Something holds me! Hugh … my darling!"

Prince Dena rose and put a hand on her arm. Instantly all the quick color faded from her face, and she turned with the old dreaming adoration to the Prince.

"We welcome you to our palace, Sir Hugh Willett!' The High Priest bowed mockingly, Evadne's hand clasped in his own. "Tonight we hold the Feast of Sacrifice. Tonight we celebrate my union with this woman whom Melek Taos has seen fit to bestow on me, his devoted servant. Never has it been my lot to hold such golden loveliness in my arms before."

SIR HUGH strove to speak, to move, to curse that smiling, wonderfully chiseled face that looked down upon him. The roaring increased in his ears, the bright flames seemed to dance toward him. Then, at a sign from their master, they receded suddenly like a tide ebbing, and the taunting voice of his enemy came clear through the mist and confusion.

"Not yet, not yet, my servants! He shall join in our Feast tonight. He shall watch me woo this golden loveliness from his embrace. He shall witness the sacrifice at the rising of the new moon, and stand helpless, O Melek Taos, when thou dost stoop from thy heaven to the Altar! Stoop to thy victim— the perfect sacrifice which I will give thee at the rising of the moon!"

The tide of fire rolled back, sweeping with it those agonized shrieking figures — back— back, with an ever-diminishing hum and crackle, until the vast hall stood empty. The two on the platform vanished also, leaving Sir Hugh shaking in every limb, leaning on Hadur with eyes staring wildly at the deserted thrones of ebony above him.

"Gone! With him— with him!"

Suddenly he made a dash to the arched doorway by which he had entered, but as he neared the fire-mist, a flame shot out and curled about him like a serpent, scorching and blackening his face and hands.

Staggering back, he looked around the great empty hall and discovered other archways set in every wall between broad pillars, on which the signs of the zodiac gleamed in red and gold. No doors barred these open arches, no guards stood before them, no curtain of fire and cloud hung over them.

Yet Sir Hugh could not pass them.

Blind with grief and rage, reckless as a wounded jungle beast, he assaulted each empty threshold in turn, From each he was hurled back by some violent force that sent him reeling and spinning across the floor, only to rise and dash blindly at another entrance.

Hadur watched him with tears, At last, his brief madness of despair over, and convinced that he was indeed a prisoner, he turned to the faithful Arab and sat down beside him with his head between his hands.

"Arfi! All is not yet lost. Do not give way to utter despair while the Sitt Evadne is still safe. Allah is merciful, and may even yet restore her to thee."

"Evadne safe? With him?"

"Safe until the rising of the moon," declared Hadur. "That much I have learned from the father whose daughter was a Bride of Melek Taos."

"Safe?— with that hell-fiend all the long hours of this day?"

"Arfi, I swear by Allah, and by the life of this body, that the High Priest will not touch her until tonight. He dares not! There are laws even a false Magus may not break, unless he desires instant annihilation. For many days before the sacrifice the High Priest must prepare himself, and abstain from many things. The lips of the destined Bride are one of these things taboo. Until tonight she is safe."

The other merely groaned.

"It is the truth," repeated Hadur. '"The High Priest may not drink of his cup of love until the destined hour. It is a ceremony of mystic union in which the Angel Peacock shares. Even Prince Dena dare not insult his god!"

Sir Hugh bowed his head to his hands again, and Hadur's eyes mirrored his own agony, as he stared bleakly before him.

"Ya babiby!" he murmured under his breath. "Ah, my beloved! Cursed be he who hath set this darkness in thy path! May the devils he serves rend his soul from his body, and send it shrieking down to hell. Wa hyat rukbaty, I will follow him to the deepest pit of Gehenna, if he brings that youth and beauty to the dust. Allah be my witness! Allah hear me! Give strength to thy servant! Hear me, hear me, thou just and compassionate One!"

He sat very still, striving to master the tide of love and agony that overwhelmed him, striving to find a gleam of hope in the darkness.

6. The Altar of Melek Taos

AS SARDANAPALUS, King of Babylon, had feasted with his Magi, and women, and favorites, and all the sycophants of a fabulously wealthy court, so did the Prince Dena ibn Zodh, in his black and scarlet robes of ceremony, sit with Evadne at his side on the night of sacrifice.

Wild beasts, controlled by the magnetic power of the Magi, rolled in luxurious ease on silken rugs; the great tables gleamed with jeweled goblets and golden dishes; a thousand instruments mingled with the clamor of a thousand tongues; waves of intoxicating perfumes were wafted up from vaults beneath the palace; myriads. of lamps winked and blazed from roof and walls and pillars. At intervals a dancer would float out on to the great white marble circle of floor, round which the tables were grouped, veiled only in her cloud of hair, and moving like a blown leaf before the wind would draw an outburst of applause that set the great beasts roaring until the domed hall rang.

Vast, sinister, marvelous as the dreams of a hashish-eater, the long orgy at last drew to an end. The revelers lay back amidst their cushions, while Prince Dena rose from his place and led Evadne to the center of the enclosed circle.

He held up a hand, and silence fell over the entire multitude of feasters; not even a beast but seemed suddenly turned to a lifeless statue.

Sir Hugh Willett and Hadur, who had sat watchful and silent during the long revel, eating only enough to give them strength, and drinking no wine, looked up with tightening nerves as the destined Bride stood facing the vast assembly.

A single garment of marvelously wrought gold tissue outlined her lovely slenderness. Her shining head was bound with a richly jeweled circlet of gold, and over her eyes its clasp glittered bright and evil in the myriads of lamps. So brilliant were the gems that formed this clasp that it had all the effect of a living flame, and Sir Hugh shuddered as he saw the hateful familiar symbol of Melek Taos flash, and flash again above Evadne's dreaming misted eyes.

"The Hour is at hand!" The High Priest's ringing tones pierced even the wine-sodden senses of the revelers. "This is my Hour, my Hour of love, my Hour of fulfillment, the Hour of mystic communion with Melek Taos, when he in me, and I in him, rejoice in the Bride!

"Follow!" he continued, turning his burning gaze around the entire circle. "Follow, that you may worship at the great altar of Melek Taos; that you may see the Angel Peacock descend in living Fire— awful, transcendent, inexplicable! Follow! The Hour is come!"

"Not yet, not yet!" whispered Hadur in anguished appeal, as his companion gathered himself up for attack. "You: may destroy her body and soul if you strike too soon. It must be done before the altar."

But, crazed with the torture of long imaginings, Sir Hugh was deaf to Hadur's pleading. He snatched up a long curved knife from a table and rushed across the marble floor with a swift silent ferocity that came within an ace of success. A black panther, however, lolling at ease within that circle, saw the flying figure and sprang like an arrow from a mighty bow. Man and beast together rolled at the feet of the High Priest, gleaming fang and gleaming knife matched in a death struggle.

The High Priest smiled. Evadne stared with a heart-breaking blankness in her eyes. The revelers stood up, cheering and laughing. The other beasts drew neat, their heads flattened, their tails switching slowly. There was a fierce prolonged snarl, a choking cough, and the panther suddenly lay very still, a pool of blood spreading over the white marble floor.

Sir Hugh staggered to his feet, and advanced, with his dripping knife still clasped in one shaking hand, his eyes on his dreaming, spellbound wife. The High Priest smiled again, stretching out one jeweled forefinger toward the disheveled figure.

Instantly the lamp-flames, from end to end of that vast room, flared up to the very roof; a peal of thunder shook the crystal goblets and golden dishes from the tables; the beasts cowered in abject terror; and Sir Hugh, as if struck by some terrible force, was sent hurtling and crashing across the floor to Hadur's side, where he lay limp as a half-emptied sack of meal.

With loud drunken laughter, the feasters turned to follow Prince Dena, in his black and scarlet robes, with a five-pointed star— the Seal of Solomon— fastened in the silken folds of his turban, and the symbol of Melek Taos in rubies on his breast.

Hadur half carried, half dragged the semi-conscious Sir Hugh after the laughing, intoxicated crowd. Down endless corridors and flights of steps they went, until they reached the great vaulted chambers beneath the palace; and thence a subterranean passage cut from the solid rock led to the immense vaults beneath the temple. From one cave-like chamber to another the High Priest led the silent, lovely Bride.

The cooler air revived Sir Hugh. He leaned less heavily on Hadur, and breathed more easily.

"Where is she? Where is she?' he asked hoarsely.

"There, walking ahead of us!"

The Prince was leading Evadne up a long flight of steps, the crowd at their heels. Hadur and Sir Hugh, now almost himself again, began to push through the drunken, indifferent mob. They were not far from the leaders of it, when a brilliant light broke up the vaulted darkness, and Hadur whispered:

"The Red Altar of Melek Taos!"

They had arrived at the top of the steps, where a row of huge squat pillars stood outlined against a crimson glare from within. The two passed between the pillars and found themselves in a colossal underground chapel, whose walls and floor and roof gleamed in brilliant fiery scarlet. After the long dark passages, with their few lamps, it was some minutes before they could get a clear impression of their surroundings.

Pillars ran along three sides of the chapel, with torches fastened to them. In the fourth wall an immense shrine was hollowed out, running deeply back, and sunk in a semi-circular basin below the level of the floor. In the center of the shrine stood a figure of some insoluble glittering metal, half man, half bird, its head crowned, its wings outspread and curved before its body; its hands and arms were human, its legs scaled and ending in monstrous claws.

From the hollowed base, on every side of the figure, rose luminous, blue-tipped Fire. With the roar of many waters, the incandescent sheets of flame stretched up to lick the lofty roof. It burned with the hum and fierce song of ageless strength and mystery— unapproachable, irresistible, unconquerable Fire!

THE Prince looked at the Bride he had brought to the sacrifice— the proud, shining head, the marvelous tender beauty of eyes and molded lips, the slender matchless symmetry of limbs and body, but above all the spark in her of that divine fire that did not fail or die before the source of its inspiration. Never before had the High Priest brought a Bride to the Altar of Melek Taos without seeing her beauty dwindle and become as insignificant as that of a mere painted doll.

His breath quickened. He watched her, fascinated, unbelieving, incredulous that any woman could stand in the terrible brilliance of that borrowed Fire from heaven and draw from it an added glory to herself. He stepped back to watch her, to engrave on his memory the image of this perfect Bride, before he broke the lovely mold and offered it here on the great Altar.

The roistering mob was awed by the sublime spectacle before them. They drew back toward the walls, back from that unleashed quivering force, the naked pure element from which all life sprang, and to which all life must finally return. They blinked afraid, ashamed, knowing themselves for beasts, and less than beasts, before that clean and living flame.

Evadne stood silent and enthralled by the edge of the fountain of Fire. By her side Prince Dena waited, enthralled also by the unexpected sublimity of this Hour of Love, the radiant figure of the golden Bride appearing as the very spirit of the Fire itself. A passion of desire rose in him, as swift, as fierce, as all-devouring as the lightnings that he gathered in the hollow of his hand.

For the first time he regretted the exigencies of his office as High Priest, and the necessity of yielding up that fair and lovely body to the fiery embrace of Melek Taos after his one brief Hour of love.

He made an impatient gesture to his Magi, as a sign that they should perform their usual duties. They made the seven-fold obeisance, and moved about the chapel to extinguish the torches and spread a thick carpet of crimson rose petals before the Altar. The Prince stood with eyes on Evadne, oblivious to the rest.

Sir Hugh and Hadur edged nearer and nearer to the Altar. No one prevented them, or noticed them at all, and they bided their time watchfully. Hadur whispered low and earnestly to his companion, under cover of the deep humming song of the Fire, and the latter listened with a faint gleam of hope in his eyes. He did not understand the full extent of the plan suggested, he did not realize what Hadur's role was to be. Nor did Hadur mean him to understand.

To save Evadne was the one thought that dominated them both. Sir Hugh was in no state of mind to worry about details. There seemed a last chance— he would take it!

"El mektoub, mektoub!" murmured Hadur to himself, and watched Evadne with eyes that took a long farewell.

PRINCE DENA advanced to the Altar, leading Evadne by the hand, and standing before the fire-encircled image of Melek Taos, he cried:

"O Master, behold the Bride!"

The Fire sank down to the floor at his clarion call, seeming to abase itself at the feet of the great Magus who could command it.

"O mighty One! O Melek Taos! O Ruler of Earth!

Bend from thy throne to accept this sacrifice.

In mystic communion do thou live in me, as I in thee!

The Hour is mine! The Hour is thine!

The Joy is mine! The Joy is thine!

Be that which thou art, and thou shalt be!

Cover me with the splendor of Eloim and Ischim!

By the very Voice of Fire, I hail 'thee, Bright Spirit!

Melek Taos! Melek Taos! Melek 'Taos! El Vay!'

At the last word the Fire sprang fiercer and brighter than before. The hum of the flames became a triumphant song.

The High Priest turned his back to the Altar and faced the people.

"Open the doors, O Magi! And ye, worshipers the shrine, depart and leave me to my Hour! When that is passed''— the voice of Prince Dena sank to its deepest note, his burning eyes veiled for a moment by their heavy lids— "then ye shall return to witness the sacrifice. In the name of Melek Taos, I bid thee go."

Hadur and Sir Hugh were now very close to the Altar. They stood tensed in every muscle, while the crowd about them streamed toward the open doors.

The High Priest stood with eyes on Evadne, enchanted, utterly oblivious to all else. He took one step toward her. It was his last.

He never knew who seized him in arms of steel, hurling him back to that sea of living flame, over the edge of the sunken Altar, into the heart of the singing incandescent Fire!

A long shivering moan rose from the people, as Hadur, with Prince Dena in his arms, rolled over into the triumphant leaping flames. For a brief moment a blinding glare filled the cavernous chapel to its farthermost corner as the Fire curled and roared over its two victims, turning them to mere blackened shells in a few awful moments. Total darkness followed. Not a flicker, not a vestige of the Altar Fire lit the gloom.

Stumbling forward with a great cry, Sit Hugh found Evadne clinging to him, crying, trembling, broken, helpless as a child. Taking her in his arms, he staggered on blindly. Cries and groans sounded on every hand.

How he found the entrance he never knew, but he reached it at last, and followed the subterranean' passages, where not one single lamp gleamed now, until a draft of fresher air guided him to a door opening on the courtyard of the Palace.

The place was desolate and silent. The guards, on this night of feasting, lay in drunken sleep across the threshold of the gates.

Down the cliff path the fugitives stumbled, and found the car still standing in the valley. To his intense relief and surprise, Sir Hugh found it answered to his touch, and they reached Port Said safely a few days later.

They never returned to the East. Evadne's vague memories, and Sir Hugh's vivid ones, as well as their sorrow for Hadur's death, robbed the Orient of all its color and romance for both of them, for ever.

___________________

16: The Secret Trail

Oriental Stories February/March 1931

"WE ARE LOST, then. I've often wondered what it would be like to be lost in the desert— now I know!"

Paul Graham looked down at the small figure trudging by his side, and his heart sank to his cracked, dusty boots. Bad enough for his partner and himself and the handful of men and camels that made up their small garfla; but to have a girl, and, moreover, this particular girl with them in such a crisis made the situation a nightmare to the man.

He and Joseph Southey had been engaged in superintending excavation work in the Ashaggar region of the Sahara for the past six months. His partner was an elderly man with a first-class brain and a quite uncanny intuition and knowledge of where and how to dig for treasures of ancient civilizations. Valuable qualities in a partner for Paul Graham, who possessed no very remarkable mental gifts, but whose humanity and understanding of his men had saved the situation numberless times when Southey's irritable impatience threatened to break up things entirely. The senior partner was a crabbed, dyspeptic, mean little man with just one ruling passion in his life— the collector's passion, an insatiable desire for more— always more!

His daughter, Joan, motherless since she was a baby, had been brought up on her uncle's ranch. Travel and adventure were irresistible lures to her, and, when she had heard from her father in Tunis eight months ago that he was arranging an expedition to the interior, she decided to join him. Taking things in her own capable hands, she had landed at Algiers, established herself at the Mustapha Hotel, interviewed consuls of all kinds and colors, made lasting friends of a very highly-placed and corpulent government official, a well-known diplomat, several officers in a famous Spanish regiment, and a host of minor celebrities.

Her well-defined ideas were translated into solid facts in the course of a few weeks, in spite of the inertia, red tape, and prejudice that heaped up obstacles in her way. She joined her father and Graham at Ghadames one blazing autumn day with her camel, her little retinue, her baggage, and a disarming, cheerful assurance that a welcome awaited her.

Even her father grudgingly admitted that she could ride and shoot better than most men he knew, and that he didn't mind having her as long as she didn't interfere with his work. Graham, after his first sight of Joan scrambling off her big mount, sunburned, dusty, and very happy, felt that not only could he overlook her mistake in choosing so disagreeable a father, but that it was his plain duty to prevent her making further mistakes in her life— in the matter of a husband, for instance!

Their excavation completed, the garfla was working south toward El Musa when disaster overtook them in the form of the dreaded gibli, plus a guide who proved at fault in the crisis. They were lost, and the prospect of finding water grew hourly fainter. Paul groaned inwardly at the thought of what the desert might yet hold in store for the dauntless little companion at his side.

"Well, Mr. Owl, don't blink at me in that solemn way! I feel as though I'd been caught stealing my uncle's cherished grapes. Oh, why did you remind me of grapes? I feel ten times thirstier now!"

"Try sucking a dried date." Paul pulled one out of his pocket and offered it. "It's a sort of Arab-chewing-gum— specific for many ills!"

"Do you think the guide will recover soon?" she asked presently, after a long interval of silent, difficult progress, their feet sinking to the ankles in the fine, recently blown sand. They were traveling in the wake of the gibli— that nightmare of the Sahara— which rushes in howling mad destruction from the south, leveling great dunes to a flat tableland, piling vast mountains of sand to a thousand feet above the plain, lifting the crests from the sand-waves in great whirling pillars of dust— sand-devils, the Bedouins call them— burying man and camel, village and oasis, caravan and lonely traveler beneath its dusty pall.

"It's an even chance," replied Paul. "The gibli has destroyed all the landmarks on this trail, and at the best it was not a well-marked route. It is rarely used by caravans, there are so few wells. Only a small garfla such as ours, which can travel light and fast, risks the lesser known routes."

"H-m-m-m!" Joan sucked her date industriously. "It's a great pity father used our last compass to try out the thickness of Hassan's skull. He might have known which would win."

"I doubt if a compass would help much in this uncharted country. One is obliged to trust to what is called 'Bedouin instinct.' A few yards to right or left makes all the difference in finding a well, or... not finding it!"

"El mektub— mektub!" quoted Joan. "That's what Yahia, the guide, told father this morning. What is written— is written! I think it's rather comforting. You feel it's no use worrying, so you just stop doing it! Now, if father would only develop a little Arab philosophy, it would be so good for his digestion. Not that he's had much to digest these last few days, poor lamb!"

"In wolf's clothing!" murmured Paul.

"What the devil's that cursed guide doing now?" The "lamb's" voice was harsher than ever, for thirst does not tend to soften the vocal chords.

A dried-up, deeply lined face poked out from the folds of a blanket on the camel that had just overtaken the couple.

"You'd better shoot that fool! He's changed his course every half-hour since we started at sunrise. What did you want to pick Yahia for, anyway? Look at him now! And there you two are strolling along as if this were Broadway!"

"Why, Dad, it was you who chose the guide! You said—"

Mr. Southey retired under the comparative shelter of his blanket, like a cuckoo vanishing behind his dock-door. He alone of the garfla rode; not one of the rest of them would have added a pound to the loads the poor exhausted beasts carried.

It was true that Yahia was behaving more and more erratically. As the Arabs say, he had "lost his head," which is reckoned a definite disease amongst them. It was five days since a curious vagueness had descended on the guide. His eyes had become clouded, and he walked with bowed shoulders and jerd trailing in the dust. Later he began to wander, changing his course every now and then, taking no notice of any of the more salient features of the desert, deaf to the complaints and threats of the angry, frightened retinue. Helpless, they were obliged to follow him, hoping that he would recover his instinct, hoping that some rock or line of dunes would recall his wandering wits.

The Arabs were at one with Mr. Southey in wanting to shoot him. They looked at the trailing figure with murder in their eyes, and agreed that if they were going to their death, then Yahia should certainly go on ahead to lead the way.

They began to discuss their probable end with the fatalism of their race. They exchanged grisly stories of disasters that had occurred on these little-known southern routes: stories of men dropping within a few spear-lengths of a well; of men gone mad and sun-blind, traveling in circles within sight of an oasis; of bands of prowling desert-dogs waiting until a tortured traveler dropped in his tracks, then rending him to pieces; of djinnees, and shaitans, and all the fabulous terrors with which the lonely untrodden wastes are peopled.

The men forgot their weariness in vying with one another; even their increasing hate for Yahia was submerged in the flood of anecdote and fable.

"Look!" Joan's voice was hoarse with fatigue. "Is that only another mirage, or do you see dunes over there?"

"I have been watching it for the last few minutes," replied Paul. "I was hoping Yahia would make some sign, but he seems totally uninterested."

Excitement rose to fever pitch amongst the rest of the Arabs. The sun was setting, and all struggled along as fast as their stiff and weary limbs would let them, to get a sight of the land beyond those dunes before darkness fell.

Hassan scrambled to the top of a long, high ridge, and for a moment was outlined against the vivid green and violet of the sky; then he dropped in a pathetic heap, a mere bag of dusty clothing on the ridge.

"But there are bushes... it is green everywhere!" Joan was bewildered as she too panted to the summit and stood blinking at the country beyond.

But the Arabs stood dejectedly, and the camels, after their first wild rush to the feathery green bushes, stopped short and made no attempt to graze.

"I know this place!" Hassan's voice broke the silence of despair. "It is called the Place of Thirst. There is water— but it is salt! I have heard my people speak of this place... it is death... we are lost! Allahu Akbar!"

The fact that Hassan spoke in his native tongue, instead of airing the French and broken English of which he was inordinately vain, was a sign that he was utterly vanquished.

THE HOURS of the following day never seemed quite real to any of them. It was a long, hazy blur of suffering, an interminable journeying on and on and on toward a horizon that remained utterly blank and featureless as the hours wore on.

Suddenly Yahia, who was stumbling and wavering uncertainly in a southerly direction, gave a queer squeaky cry.

"Land! Land!" he croaked, pointing with one lean, shaking hand to a flat bluish blur on their extreme left; for on march, the Arabs refer to any striking feature as "land."

They reached it late in the afternoon— an oasis with date-palms and a well, and good grazing for the camels.

Yahia regained his lost poise as if he had never "lost his head" at all, never led them to within an inch of death out there in the cruel wilderness.

"This is one of many oases," he informed them. "They are scattered over this region as beads from a chain. They belong to the Zawa tribe. That largest one over there must be the one called Zug."

Hassan, restored by this time to his habitual eloquence, turned to Paul.

"Arfi, the Zawas are indeed of a great evilness. Is it not written on a cucumber leaf that they are dogs, and sons of dogs? To go to Zug— that is to go also to death! They are as the biting worms that creep quick on their stomachs— and behold, one dies with a great swiftliness."

"We must have a guide to El Musa. We must have food. There is no choice: it is Zug— or nothing!"

"Better nothing... much, much better!" Hassan assured him.

"Yahia can go ahead and do the scouting for us. This is his program, anyhow. We're going to Zug, Hassan, for the excellent reason that we can't go anywhere else. Turn on another record, old fellow, and make a fire."

ii

WITHIN the sun-baked walls of Zug, the inhabitants stirred like rats from their holes to watch the coming of a solitary rider. They were an unattractive crowd, with none of the characteristics of the bold warrior tribes of the desert. Greed, cunning, and suspicion were written large on their cruel faces, and in their restless eyes.

They swarmed to the gates as Yahia approached, their dirty rags hardly covering their unwashed limbs. Ill-formed, naked children pushed and crawled their way among their elders, in company with the mangy dogs that skulked in the narrow streets. Refuse and dirt were strewn on the flat roofs of the dwellings, to rot and dry in the sun. The ways were darker and more tortuous than was usual even in a desert stronghold; many streets were merely walled-in passages, with corners and recesses where a man might hide to slit the throat of an enemy as he passed.

The place was rotten to its core— a sweltering, fly-ridden huddle of dark, cave-like dwellings, where long oppression had turned the people into weak and vicious brutes.

In the center of the walled city, however, the miserable streets and hovels fell back abruptly from a vast square, where a spacious palace, with pillars, arches, minarets and towers stood proudly aloof from the indescribable squalor of its surroundings.

Here the Sheikh Timgharba lived in barbaric splendor with his hareem, his warriors, his musicians and dancing-girls, his innumerable slaves— wealthy and secure behind his double rampart of walls in the heart of an almost inaccessible desert.

And to Timgharba, Yahia demanded to be taken when he halted at the gates to parley with the pock-marked, vicious guard.

With sublime assurance, Yahia passed under the carved arches of Timgharba's palace, where those not of the household entered with a great uncertainty in their minds as to whether their feet would ever tread that threshold again!

But Yahia strode in past the evilly grinning guards and vanished with an assured swing of his dusty burnoose behind the gold-embroidered purple velvet hanging which shut off the audience room. He emerged an hour later with even greater assurance in his bearing, and after a leisurely and sumptuous meal he was led back to the gates of Zug. A fresh camel awaited him there, and mounting, he rode away in a direction quite contrary from that in which lay the small oasis where the garfla awaited his return.

THE SUN was sinking, sending long spears of light across the desert when the anxious watchers saw a cloud of dust approaching. The cloud developed into a group of horsemen which swooped down on them, yelling and waving long spears, with burnooses flying like sails behind.

They were Sudanese blacks, gigantic fellows, and they certainly made an imposing array in their richly striped cloaks, their glittering weapons and jewels, mounted on Arab horses which chafed to be off and away. They had reined in their steeds with superb control almost under the noses of the startled little group by the well.

One of the riders saluted with upraised arm:

"The Sheikh Timgharba sends thee greeting! We will lead thee to his palace at Zug!"

"Where is Yahia, our servant?" demanded Paul.

"Effendi, he awaits thy coming at the palace. Thou wilt follow him."

It was a command, and Paul turned to Joan and her father.

"Seems to be no choice about it," he remarked.

"None," the girl decided promptly. "No use arguing with outsizes like these! And will you look at dad!"

Mr. Southey was entirely fascinated with the barbaric splendor of the warriors. His acquisitive instincts were alive and bristling in spite of his thirst and aching body. He looked with positive awe at the weapons, jewels, and accouterments of the escort.

"Look— only look at them!" His voice was as hoarse with emotion as with genuine fatigue. "Those jeweled clasps and belts— the scabbards of their daggers! Why— why, they're priceless! Things like that were bartered and sold in Alexandria and Carthage when Rome was only a village. In the time of Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius— and long, long before that even...!"

He positively snarled at Joan as she gazed doubtfully at the fierce faces of the waiting blacks.

"Well, what more do you want? Do you expect them to lay red carpet for us to walk on from here to Zug?"

He turned to his camel and kicked and swore at the exhausted animal until it got to its feet, gurgling and complaining loudly. When at last the little garfla set out, stumbling along on swollen blistered feet after the pacing horsemen, Mr. Southey followed closely on his camel, his eyes fixed covetously on the escort, appraising each jewel that flashed in the setting sun, recalling the history and period of each weapon and curious piece of armor the warriors carried.

"Ugurrah! My feet burn as one who treads the thrice-heated halls of Jehannum!" said one of the camel-men.

"May Allah guard us," answered another. "There is Zug even now before our eyes. Gibani! Its walls spread like the dark wings of a djinnee!"

Hassan voiced the same opinion as the drivers.

"Master, who but a shaitan can be wishful to rule inside of such an awfulness?"

Joan gave a hoarse little chuckle.

"Your father is enjoying himself, at any rate!" Paul remarked to her.

"Poor daddy! He'd follow those circus-riders into Zug now if the Zawas had horns and hoofs."

Hassan pricked up his ears, always eager to extend his vocabulary.

"Hawnsanoof! But of a certainty there is no Zawa without such an hawnsanoof, if it is but evil!"

"Hassan, you're priceless!" Joan's face crinkled into laughter. "I wish I could always have you with me when I'm afraid."

"Are you afraid?" Paul was genuinely surprised. It was absolutely the first time she had ever voiced such a confession in his hearing.

"I am," she admitted. "I'm not very impressionable, but I can't help thinking that the nearer we get, the more Zug looks like some black, horrible toad squatting in the dust."

"Fever," was Paul's comment. "Quinine and a good sleep is what you need."

But in spite of his casual words, he was full of apprehension himself, and he pulled himself up sharply for a morbid fool as the thought occurred to him that, after all, death out there in the freedom of the wilderness might have been preferable to the hospitality of Zug!

iii

IT WAS on the sixth day that Stephen Arpad turned up.

In the winding intricacies of Timgharba's palace, Mr. Southey, Paul, and Joan, together with Hassan, had been entertained lavishly for six days. They had been told that Yahia had gone on to El Musa to present the credentials of his party to the great sheikh of that city, and that he would return to guide them if the sheikh thought favorably of the white men's intentions and the introductions they carried.

"It is a trap!" declared Hassan. "May I never stroke my beard again if Yahia is not a lump of black mud! Arfi, is it not that Yahia 'lost his head' out there?" Hassan flung out an impassioned arm. "When it is spoken in the souk that Yahia has done this, no more will any hire him to lead the garflas over the wilderness. No! Therefore I tell you, Arfi, Yahia would have us always never come again from Zug! Yahia return? Ugurrah!... never here... never again here!"

The others were inclined to agree by the end of the sixth day. Timgharba had been undoubtedly impressed by the letters shown to him— letters of safe conduct from Tripoli, Tuat, El Atasch, and Zidoura. The Sheikh of Zug had read, and placed the letters to his brow and lips, had sworn that he lived merely to further the interests of his distinguished guests. But, as the days passed, and no word came back from El Musa, his distrust became obvious, and he was definitely hostile at any mention of their leaving Zug.

Matters looked so serious that Paul returned from interviewing Timgharba on that sixth day with a definite resolve to escape at all costs. Mr. Southey, however, was all against it. He was blind and deaf to any possibility of danger. Danger? In a city where such treasures of antiquity were to be had for a few mejedies? He found the days all too short for his discoveries within these ancient walls; and, attended by two slaves from the palace, he peered and poked about the filthy streets and alleys, bargaining with the astonished inhabitants from dawn till eve. Danger— from whom?

Mr. Southey put the question with great bitterness. Not from the Zawas, poor dirty brutes— who would sell him an armlet worth a kingdom for a handful of miserable coins. Not from Timgharba— who lavished every luxury and attention upon them. What did they fear, then?

The prisoners were discussing the question after their evening meal on that fatal sixth day. Black slaves had brought in the usual banquet on immense brass trays. Dishes of lamb cooked in a dozen different sauces. Great bowls of cous-cous. Mounds of rice with hard-boiled eggs and sausages. Sour curdled milk, and huge stoneless dates.

After pouring scented water over the hands of the diners, and bringing to them a second serving of peppered coffee, the slaves were preparing to depart on noiseless feet when a sudden noise in the labyrinth of corridors made them hesitate. They exchanged fearful looks— the whites of their eyes glinting— then with one accord swiftly melted from the room.

A curtain was drawn back from a carved archway of the room, and on the threshold a man stood and stared silently and long at the occupants.

Hassan stood transfixed, with a cup in his hand, and muttered in his beard: "Maleish! Now is come also a great white devil to torment us! Truly Allah hath forsaken us!"

Paul, who overheard, thought this a fair statement of fact. The intruder was a huge man, well over six feet, with a breadth of chest and length of limb that made him resemble some great ape. His attitude deepened the impression, for his legs bent outward at the knees, his long arms and hairy hands hung limp and clumsily from heavy stooping shoulders.

But what roused Paul to fury was the keen, appraising look the man bent on Joan. At both Mr. Southey and himself he glanced with slow contempt, but on Joan's face and figure his small eyes dwelt so long and so unpleasantly that the girl flushed to the roots of her hair and, involuntarily, her hand went out toward Paul.

At her nervous touch, he was on his feet instantly, interposing himself between her and this insolent intruder, who came forward with a high squeal of laughter.

In spite of his clumsy bulk, he was impressive— or perhaps because of it. His simian shape, ill-formed skull and repulsive features obviously expressed a nature so low and cunning, a mind so impervious to any kindly human impulse, that ordinary reactions of aversion or even hatred were swallowed up in a sort of amazement. He was paralyzing— quite beyond the ordinary rules of human psychology!

"Well, well, well! This is very wonderful! My friend, Timgharba, told me he had guests, and I hastened to present myself as a fellow-traveler— a fellow countryman perhaps!"

The high, thin, squeaky voice issuing from his great bulk was so unexpected and unnatural that an element of fear crept into the repulsion that his appearance inspired. He bowed low to Joan and she shivered perceptibly as her eyes met his look. She stirred her coffee, apparently oblivious of his outstretched hand. The man's eyelids narrowed wickedly and a light like the gleam of a storm on a far horizon showed for a second in the depths of his slightly oblique eyes. He turned to Paul and Mr. Southey, smiling and very much at his ease,

"So you are going to El Musa, Timgharba tells me! Lucky for you that you struck these oases; you are considerably off your trail— as I suppose you realize now?"

He squatted down amongst the pile of cushions heaped on the priceless carpets and turned to Mr. Southey again.

"You, sir, have certainly made your name famous throughout the Sahara. The Touareg tribes— Hoggars, Asgars, and Kelowis— regard you as a kind of magician, who can see right through the sand and rock to what has lain buried for centuries."

"The Touaregs!" Mr. Southey exclaimed in surprise. "I never had those bandits and rascals near my camps, that I know of... a lot of murdering thieves!"

"True! But no one crosses the desert near their territory without their knowledge. Every place you have camped, every man in your pay, every treasure you have unearthed is known among these tribes from Tuat to Sokoto, and from Adrar to Tibesti."

"Then you certainly have the advantage of us," interpolated Paul very quietly. "We know nothing of your activities in this part of the world."

His voice intimated very pointedly that he had no wish to do so, but the barb glanced from the behemoth's thick skin.

"That's so. I forgot that you did not realize who I am. My name is Arpad— Stephen Arpad."

No gleam of recognition showed in the faces of the three white members of his audience; but Hassan, busy with the coffee-cups, stood as if turned to stone, and his face went a dirty ashen-gray, as if he had received some terrible shock.

Like a huge, wary beast of prey, Arpad's small eyes traveled from face to face, and, apparently, what he saw— or did not see— satisfied him, and he relaxed and turned to Hassan.

"Why don't you pour my coffee, you lazy nigger!"

All the startled blood rushed back to Hassan's face as he presented a cup to Arpad with a hand shaking, not with fear, but a deadly, primitive rage at the insult.

Paul was very much on guard in the hour that followed, though it was the hardest task he ever set himself, that of sitting quietly and watching Arpad with Joan. To see her shrinking repulsion and the other's bold, coarse advances was torture to the man who loved her. It had hardly required Hassan's revealing glance, however, to tell Paul that Stephen Arpad was going to complicate their dangerous situation very seriously.

Listening attentively, Paul realized that Arpad was no passing traveler like themselves, but one who knew the southern desert and its unruly tribes as one knows the palm of one's own hand. He was evidently hand in glove with Timgharba, and, more than that, he had the freedom of the city, and the sheikh's authority to him was no more than a puff of thistledow

Hassan, no doubt, could give some information later, but meantime it behooved him to sit tight and discover what clues he could that might help him to match wits and strength against this new enemy.

iv

"MAY ALL the shaitans of the wilderness baffle his footsteps!... may they drag him down to Jehannum! An hound is he... his face accurst by Allah! Inhadden beytich! Nigger... nigger was his thrice accurst word!" Hassan was beside himself with fury. "He hath blackened the face of my father! By Allah, and by Allah, I will—"

"You will stop wagging that infernal tongue of yours and listen to me!" Paul's voice was very stem.

"Arfi!" The distracted Arab salaamed, collapsing like a pricked bubble under his master's steady eyes. "My ears are open to thy words as the mouth to the wine-skin! Thou art my father and my mother, and—"

"Dry up, Hassan! Never mind what the great ape said to you. Tell me where you heard his name before. You know something about him— tell me all you know, and tell me quickly."

Hassan put his master's hand to brow and lip with a dog-like devotion in his dark eyes.

"Thou hast but to command." Hassan dropped into his native speech. "Truly his name is whispered in the souk and on the caravan trails, Arfi! The people cover their faces when that name is spoken, and fear it as they fear the death-bringing gibli. Ahhpahd!" Hassan's voice sank to the merest thread of a whisper. "That son of Eblis! Canst thou not guess wherefore he has gold, wherefore Timgharba the sheikh bows before this white devil, wherefore Timgharba also has so great wealth in this city of dogs and devils? Slaves!"

Hassan spoke the last word in a hiss that made Paul glance round apprehensively. They were in the circular domed alcove which was the latter's sleeping apartment, opening off the vast pillared hall where they had dined.

"Are you sure of this?" Paul's words dropped like pellets of ice, his tanned features and pleasant kindly eyes had hardened incredibly.

"By the sacred palm-tree, Arfi, I am more sure of this than that I am Hassan, son of Hassan! Were not my father and my mother taken by the servants of this white devil as they worked in the open, cutting fodder for camels? Were they not branded as slaves and sold in the marketplace at Kano?

"Also my brother," he continued. "He, and his wife, and his four sons, and all his servants, were they not enslaved also by this white devil as they journeyed on the trail to Ghadames? Their camels and goods were seized while they were bound, hidden deep among the white devil's baggage, and taken to Tripoli, from thence to Constantinople! One youngest nephew escaped to tell me all! The rest I never saw again! Had I not been ill at the house of my uncle in Timbuktu at that time, I, too, should be a slave! And there are others... I can tell you—"

"Not so loud, Hassan!" Paul put a steadying hand on the Arab's shoulder. "But tell me more— all you know, or have heard of this man."

"Timgharba, they say, is his dog. There are dungeons beneath this palace where the unfortunates are kept until the white devil has enough to send to the slave markets. Listen, Arfi!" Hassan approached his dark face to Paul's ear. "There is a secret route, a slave-trail which the white devil's victims have worn deep between Abyssinia and Sokoto. For ten years this path has been trodden in blood and tears by my people. For ten years the trail has been marked by the bones of those who died under his lash. Arfi, the cup of their sufferings is full, and brims over as the Great River rises and spills over the land! By the life of Allah, their ills are many as the sands of the desert!"

"I believe you," responded Paul, recalling the narrow receding brow, the heavy jowl, the purplish, thick lips and cold eyes of Stephen Arpad. He went on in a low tone. "Have you discovered anything yet about the men of our garfla?"

"Arfi, no man can tell me aught of them— they are swallowed up in this evil quicksand of Zug."

"Listen to me, then. We must get away at once. Yahia may or may not be a traitor to us, but we cannot wait to know that. You have been round with the slaves and the soldiers— is there any chance of help from them?"

"There is one, Arfi, whom we can trust. One only. They are all afraid... but very greatly afraid!"

"And this one— why is he not afraid, too?"

"He is Aman, a prince in his own land of Aïr. He is a lion of courage and fears not even the white devil. He would escape from Zug and return to his own people— he would rouse the tribes and lead many warriors against this evil city."

"But couldn't he rouse up Timgharba's men to come in with us? Organize a full-size rebellion?"

"Arfi, all are slaves here— not men! The soldiers, the servants, the councilors, the musicians! All... all who serve the sheikh are slaves... slaves whom the white devil hath sold to the sheikh!"

"Timgharba and Arpad! That's a fairly water-tight combination. Almost impossible to get anything on the white man, with a sheikh of Timgharba's standing to cover his tracks."

"They are as secret as the deep rivers that run beneath the desert," declared Hassan.

"And this Aman— what is his position here?"

"He is one of the guards."

"Go at once, then, and see if you can get hold of him. But don't forget that not only must we get out of the palace and through the gates of the city, but we must have camels to take us away from here."

"Arfi, I go!"

Left alone, Paul's thoughts reverted to the crux of the situation— Joan! It was she who made the whole adventure so full of horror for him. The danger that threatened them all was only dust in the balance compared with the unspeakable threat of Arpad's proximity to the girl's young beauty.

The dome above him was open to the sky, and through it presently blinked the first pale evening stars. Night followed swiftly— the blue darkness of an African night— and still Paul sat waiting... waiting alone, thinking, planning and hoping desperately.

v

"ARFI! Arfi!"

It was nearly midnight, and Paul did not see the distraught figure until it was at his side, plucking at his sleeve. Hassan had returned at last— and what a Hassan! His face was lined and terrified, his turban slipped awry, his burnoose soiled and torn, and the red leather slippers, of which he was so vain, were missing.

"What... what, man? Speak!"

"The Sitt! The Sitt... she is gone! He has taken her... the white devil has taken her!"

For a few seconds the moonlit room swung in circles before Paul's eyes, the sound of roaring water was in his ears.

"Tell me... at once, Hassan!" Paul's voice was unrecognizable.

The Arab gasped out his story. Aman had but now told him all. Arpad had come to Zug— leaving a great garfla of his slaves and camels and soldiers at an oasis not far from the city— to collect additional slaves whom Timgharba had obtained for him. Merchants, with their loads of skins, ivory, ostrich feathers, and guinea-corn, on their way from the Sudan to the markets of Kano. Some hundred or so of these unlucky traders, all imprisoned in the dungeons of the palace, awaited Arpad's arrival.

Arpad had come early in the day, many hours before he visited the white men. He had inspected Timgharba's haul, had the merchants shackled and sent on to await his pleasure with the rest of his victims, on the fringe of the oasis-belt.

"And the Sitt... speak, Hassan!" Paul urged the panting terrified man.

"She was drugged... as soon as she went to her room. Drugged... and bound on the big mehari which none but the white devil rides. He mounted and bore her off with him. They are gone many hours now. They go with the garfla on that hidden way... the secret slave-trail to Kano!"

"Why did you not return before?"

"They suspected me— those thrice accurst slaves! They found me in a forbidden part of the palace and bound me and put me in the dungeons. Thence, Aman rescued me.... I have come with all speed to thee, Arfi! But that is not all... wait... wait, Arfi! Aman hath also told me that Timgharba waits only until daybreak to put us to the torture... we are to meet him— Aman— in the dungeons! There is a way down that few know of here, save only the guards.... I will lead thee."

"Where is Southey effendi? Have you seen him tonight?"

"Yea— he sleeps, Arfi. He sleeps and mutters in his dreams of his many treasures."

"We will wake him," said Paul grimly.

They found the wizened little antiquarian tossing and muttering as Hassan had said, and at Paul's touch he sprang up, crying: "I will give thee thirty mejedies, thou rogue! It is worth only—"

He blinked as Paul shook him unceremoniously awake, and listened in the worst of humors to the news of his daughter's abduction and the need for instant action.

"Hassan is a scaremonger! You know these natives. He's been drinking palmwine and gossiping with the slaves. Probably there's not a word of truth in what he says."

"Believe it or not, as you like." Paul did not conceal his contempt for the little man. "We can't stop to argue. Decide quickly. Will you join Hassan and me in escaping... in going after Joan? Or do you prefer to stay here and be tortured by the slaves in a few hours?"

"Very well, very well, I'll come!"

He was soon ready, thanks to Hassan, and turned to sling a heavy knapsack over his shoulders.

"Leave that right there," Paul ordered in a voice that made Mr. Southey look at him with open mouth. "I'm not hiring baggage-camels for you this trip."

In a fury of impatience quite foreign to him, Paul seized the knapsack and flung it across the floor.

"You damned little scavenger!" he said. "Can't you behave like a man for a few hours?"

Overawed by this entirely new aspect of his quiet partner, Mr. Southey meekly followed him, and, with Hassan, they made their stealthy way through the intricate ways of the palace. Through vast courts where fountains splashed and great palms rose toward the vaulted roofs; along endless narrow corridors where the three played grim games of hide-and-seek, darting into the deep wall-recesses, crouching low behind gaily painted chests, slipping like shadows behind the friendly folds of rich hangings, they arrived at last at a smaller court whose three sides were open to the night.

Here, Hassan pulled aside a silken rug and tugged at a ring concealed beneath it. A trap-door lifted on oiled hinges and a flight of stone-steps was dimly revealed.

Hassan led the way, and Paul pulled the trap-door after them. They had no torch and Mr. Southey muttered and complained bitterly as he stumbled between the other two. Thoroughly awake now, and relieved of the influence of Paul's stern eye and Hassan's murderous looks, he was remembering what he had left behind: the fruits of his whole expedition, the result of months of toil and danger in the desert; and, in addition, the undreamed-of spoils of these last few days in Zug. If only he could have brought that knapsack with the jeweled armlets and the dagger... even that one precious dagger!

The air became more foul and stagnant as they descended, decay breathed from the dank walls they touched in their descent. The steps underfoot grew slippery, and Hassan led more slowly, with whispered cautions.

Down... down... down!

Hassan stopped abruptly before a massive door with a tiny barred aperture through which a grayish light beyond was visible. The Arab tapped— three light strokes and a heavy one. Twice he repeated this. A voice from the farther side called:

"The Well of Tiz!"

"And the Seven Streams of Amadgan!" was Hassan's instant response.

A key was inserted, turned, and the door opened silently. A tall burnoosed figure drew them inside, closed and locked the door carefully, and led them to a dismal cell where a primitive lamp— a scrap of wick burning in a bath of oil— glimmered faintly in the foul air.

"This is Aman the guard, Arfi! He will tell you of his plan." Hassan turned to Paul.

"Only if thou dost promise that thou wilt take me with thee, that I may help thee to slay the white devil— or be slain! At least out there I can die a man's death, not as a slave in this rat-trap of Zug!"

Paul looked with pity at the guard's branded face, his haunted, tragic eyes, and the grim lines of suffering about his mouth.

"You shall come, Aman."

"And after... if we slay him? Wilt thou speak for me to the governor at Sokoto, that I may return in peace to my tribe?"

"Yes, I promise that, too. But what is the plan? We are losing time... every minute they are getting farther on the trail!"

"All haste is of the devil!" quoted Aman. "We have time, effendi! It would not be well that they should see us in pursuit, and they cannot reach the secret trail until night."

"You are sure of the way?"

"As I am sure of death when Allah wills!" was Aman's reply. "As captive and as the guard of captives have I trodden that way, seen it grow wide and deep, watched the bones of men and camels pile up along the trail."

Paul shivered at the thought of Joan's young eyes seeing that via dolorosa— and in Arpad's company!

"Now I will show thee." Aman took up the lamp and led them on, through a maze of narrow, twisting passages, cut in the rock foundations of the great palace. Opening off the passages on either hand were small, roughly-squared dungeons where iron staples set in the walls, each with its length of chain and manacles attached, bore mute testimony to the name of the place.

Mr. Southey bent over one of the chains, examining it closely.

"Very primitive— very ancient type," he muttered as Paul laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Only ones I've seen of that type before were in a Tibetan prison. This supports the theory of Professor Ghrylls that—"

Aman stopped at last before a recess where no chains appeared, but only bundles of soiled native garments.

"For you," he told the white men.

Quickly Paul shed the linen suit he was wearing, pulled a tunic over his head, drew on the long white kortebbas over his legs, and wrapped a burnoose closely about him, drawing its hood well down over his face while Aman lashed on the ghatemin whose rawhide thongs passed between the toes and were fastened at the ankles.

Hassan performed the same office for Mr. Southey, who was much intrigued with this most primitive of foot-wear, and gazed at his feet and legs with child-like satisfaction.

"This is the 'Slaves' Gate.' " Aman indicated a narrow door set in the massive walls close by. "The prisoners enter and leave by this entrance only."

He unlocked it and they had now to toil up a similar flight of steps to the one they had previously ascended. It seemed an endless pilgrimage to Paul. In the thick, foul darkness he seemed to see Joan's face and slender, boyish figure always before him... pleading and entreating him to hurry... hurry... hurry! It was a fearful strain to walk so quietly after the deliberate Arabs, with Mr. Southey slipping and grumbling and muttering at his heels, and all this time Joan was out there in the great desert with Arpad... Arpad!

They reached the top at last, and this time no trap-door, but a heavy upright one of hammered bronze opened to let them out on the streets of Zug.

Like shadows, the four made good speed, Aman leading. Few of the inhabitants were astir, but now and then a ragged form would turn to scowl menacingly in their direction. Aman sought the darkest, narrowest ways, and the great walls of the city were only a stone's throw off when the thing happened.

In one of the deep recesses of a wall, a filthy Zawa lay asleep, his scant clothing leaving much of his body exposed. Around his waist a leather belt was fastened, and from it a dagger in its sheath depended, on which the native's claw-like hand lay, half relaxed in sleep.

With an exclamation, Mr. Southey bent over him, touching the sheath with eager, exploring fingers. Too late Hassan sprang forward, too late Aman and Paul turned to help. There was a snarling cry, "Ugurrah!" from the startled sleeper, a leap— a flash of bright steel, and Mr. Southey fell backward, the Zawa on him like a panther.

Hassan's attack was as swift as had been that of the Zawa, and his long knife ended the latter's life in one lightning stroke. They pulled him off his victim, but it was too late.

The collector had paid more than a few mejedies this time. But the dagger he had coveted was his... in his very heart!

Paul examined him very thoroughly, more so because of the relief he felt that the little miserable creature was gone. He would have been nothing but a danger and a burden to them. Now he could ride fast and far with only these two fighting men at his side. Satisfied that life was extinct, he rose to his feet.

"We can do nothing for him."

Hassan looked down at the white man huddled in his borrowed clothes, eyes widely opened in a curious expression of surprise.

"What is written— is written!" was his grave comment.

With an upward jerk of the chin, Aman assented to Southey effendi's brief epitaph and turned to lead them on to the gates of Zug.

vi

A FEW more steps and they were at the end of the passage, on the margin of a square some hundred yards across. The moon was high, and flooded the open space that the three fugitives were obliged to cross.

Around this square were the quarters of the guards, living like wary animals behind the narrow slits of windows in the otherwise blank white walls that formed the square. Day and night fierce eyes watched from these tiny windows; day and night dark brutal faces peered from behind those sinister peepholes that focused on the square before the gates of Zug.

"Pull thy hood close, effendi," urged Aman as they hesitated on the verge of that perilous last hundred yards of moonlight. "Walk thou at my heels, both thou and Hassan. Drag thy feet, and hang thy heads, and bow thy shoulders as those who walk in grief and affliction. Speak not a word, or by the Holy Kabbalah we are lost!"

Aman walked out boldly into the strong white light; at his heels Hassan and Paul shuffled and stumbled uncertainly in the dust.

A hoarse cry came from behind one of the narrow slits.

"Who seeks the gates of Zug, when naught save the lion and the jackal are abroad? Speak!"

"It is I— Aman the guard! I follow Arpad effendi with two of his slaves."

There was a long pause. Aman waited, standing in the strong moonlight with head erect, his spear in his hand, a pistol at his belt, and, slung crosswise across his back, a two-edged sword in its richly worked sheath. A brave picture of a warrior he made, but the two standing bowed and dejected a few paces behind him saw that the bright spear quivered in his grasp.

"Who are these two slaves, that they stand here unshackled in the streets of this city? Wherefore did they not leave with the other slaves at noon?"

"Behold, these two were brave and cunning beyond the rest. They made themselves invisible as the others passed through the 'Slave Gate' of the palace and hid themselves in one of the dungeons. There I found them when I went my rounds. I take them on at the command of Timgharba the Sheikh. His anger will fall like the lightning upon any who delay me on his errand."

The bluff succeeded. From other windows came cries and shrill calls.

"Yea, and not thou alone, Ali, but all of us will suffer for thy fault. Go thou in haste, Aman, and do the bidding of the sheikh!"

Aman stood very straight and defiant.

"Yea, and shall we run on foot to overtake the garfla? Ye lumps of swine's flesh! Hamdulillah, we must have camels— three of the strongest and swiftest mehari!"

Aman's anger and boldness called forth instant response. Terrified of hindering him and bringing down Timgharba's wrath on their heads, the black arched openings round the square began to spew forth excited gesticulating figures.

"Down!" whispered Aman. "I return with camels!"

Hassan and Paul collapsed and sat huddled on the ground as Aman strode to meet the agitated guards he had aroused. After a short dispute, he disappeared with them down one of the narrow streets. Long minutes came and went... an eternity of waiting to Paul and Hassan, who sat in the center of that moonlit square. Voices called from the window, insults, jeers, foul epithets were hurled at them from all sides, but they continued to sit cross-legged in the dust, a pair of helpless, hopeless captives, sunk in despairing misery!

After an interminable agony of suspense, a clamor of voices approached— Aman and his fellow guards returning at last, and, swinging proud, disdainful heads, three magnificent mehari towered above the rabble.

Aman strode across to the supposed slaves.

"Ugurrah! Spawn of the devil! Arise and mount these heaven-born beasts, unworthy though thou art to ride such jewels of the desert!"

The guards, all eager now to speed Aman on his way, ran to the gates and helped those on duty to let down the massive wooden bars and fling wide the heavy doors. The three camels were led through the opening and made to kneel in the soft sand that drifted up to the great walls of the city. The sentry outside was hardly allowed to question Aman, so thoroughly had he impressed on those inside the necessity of a speedy departure. The fugitives mounted, and with cries and blows from many helpers, the beasts were urged to their feet.

Another minute and the tall, majestic mehari swayed forward, settling down into their long easy stride, leaving behind the black, squat walls, the shouting guards, the luxurious palace set like a jewel in a rotting dung-heap... leaving Timgharba and his soft-footed slaves, the beast-like inhabitants, the dreadful travesties of childhood, the dogs and dirt and smells that made up the city of Zug.

Free! For a moment Paul's heart leapt with a fierce joy as the clean night air brushed him softly, and the wide horizon greeted his aching eyes. Then Joan's peril— her need of him— blotted out that momentary exultation, and with knee and voice he urged the mehari to its utmost speed.

vii

THE SUN was setting— a flaming ball in a gorgeous haze of green and violet— when the three fugitives reached the gorge that was their objective.

Seventeen hours in the saddle, with the briefest possible rests, had reduced them all to a pitiable state, but the sight of the gorge restored them like a powerful cordial. Aman had proved a wonderful guide across the uncharted country they had covered that day; and they hobbled their camels amid the shrubs and thorny growths at the western mouth of the gorge and stared down the narrow ravine with red-rimmed thankful eyes.

"We are in time!" Paul croaked, his tongue stiff and swollen between his blackened lips. "The trail beyond is untrodden."

"Effendi, the garfla is a very great one. The moon will be high before the white devil reaches this place; we have long to wait."

"They will not camp in the gorge?"

"No, effendi! It is narrower than the streets of Zug, and twists as doth a serpent. Let us eat and drink and rest here for a brief space, effendi, for it is evil to fight on an empty stomach."

"Arfi, that were indeed well!" pleaded Hassan as Paul continued to stare up the twisting gorge. "Thou wilt be even as one who hath drunk of the palm-wine, whose legs are soft as wool, and whose hand quivers as doth the long grass at the first hot breath of the gibli."

Paul's stiff lips relaxed into something approaching a smile at this vivid picture of his decrepitude, and he nodded to his anxious followers. They ate and drank and stretched themselves out on a carpet of rank yellow grass, easing their cramped, aching limbs, while they went over their plan of attack.

"And afterward— if we succeed and win clear with the Sitt— where do we go?"

"Effendi, that thought also has been in my mind. Now, there is a certain small ravine that leads north through the wall of rock in the greater gorge. The Zawas say that a great shaitan dwells there, and never enter it. But I have asked much concerning that small ravine— having always my escape before me— and it leads to the great plains where the Touaregs pasture their flocks at this time of year. They are a very powerful and fierce tribe whom even the white devil does not disturb. To me, whose mother was a Touareg, they will give help and shelter."

"Aman, we owe everything to you." Paul held out a hand that the other saluted with respect. "I only hope we'll live for me to prove my gratitude."

A little while they watched the crimson banners of cloud fade out overhead, while night stole down to blot out the scorching hours of that long terrible day,

Perforce on foot, they presently began to make their way along the gorge. On the rocky slopes it was no easy going, among the dense, thorny shrubs, patches of prickly pear, and poisonous milkplants that clung to the steep walls of the gloomy ravine. They dared not risk the trail proper, for a scout, acting as advance-guard, might at any moment turn a sudden rocky corner and meet them face to face.

When the moon at last lifted above the rim of the opposite rock wall, they made better speed, and had worked far down into the very heart of the gorge before the first far-distant sound of the approaching garfla reached their ears.

It was the high, agonized shriek of some wretched slave that preluded the white devil's grim caravan— a thin, inhuman wail that rose and fell and rose again to a note, made Paul clench his teeth and draw his breath sharply. Aman's face twisted in a grin of hate that made his good-looking, intelligent features almost unrecognizable; while Hassan's hand stole to the dagger at his belt.

"Follow closely, effendi!" urged Aman, pushing through the scrub. "We will await them there, on that small plateau of rock."

The plateau proved a most strategic position. Screened by high grass and bushes from those passing beneath, it commanded a view of the trail that was all the watchers could desire. The path was a mere ribbon at this part of the gorge, where the garfla must needs go single file, and ran straight for some fifty yards westward— the direction from which the three had come, and toward which the oncoming caravan was heading. The trail then took an acute angle behind a wall of rock, so that, once past that corner, the garfla would be cut off as though by a stone screen from the plateau where Paul and his two Arabs were ambushed.

Tense, silent, shivering with excitement and the cold wind that had risen and begun to whistle down the long gorge, the three waited. The moon climbed steadily, as if curious to watch the coming drama in this desolate place.

"By Allah, some djinnee hath surely swallowed the white devil and all his caravan!" grumbled Hassan in an undertone.

"Peace!" breathed Aman. "There are voices in this accurst place which will whisper thy smallest word in the ear of the white devil who comes!"

Hassan showed the whites of his eyes, and shivered.

"They come, effendi!" Aman's mouth was at Paul's ear, but, though the latter strained his aching eyes, he could see nothing on the trail, and in his ears there was only the throb-throb of his fast-beating pulses.

Several more minutes dragged by before the white man's less acute senses caught the gurgling protest of a camel. A moment later the bulk of a laden jemal loomed up on the moonlit trail, far away but unmistakably moving with steady, mincing gait toward the plateau.

Slowly the garfla advanced, led by that jemal and the guide who walked in its shadow. In half an hour the long terrible procession began to file past the three watchers. It was a nightmare to Paul, a hideous, inhuman sight that sickened him to the heart. Some little he had seen, some little he had heard of the slave traffic and the sufferings of its victims; but such inconceivable torment as this he was witnessing never had crossed his mind. Under the constant flail of the terrible whips carried by the guards, the victims, clad only in cotton tunics, stumbled bleeding along the stony path. They were fastened— fifteen or so together— by means of long wooden yokes, with holes cut for their heads. The weaker ones hung fainting from the terrible punishment, adding their weight to the unspeakable sufferings of the more enduring.

Once a thing so monstrous occurred that even Paul's iron nerves betrayed him, and he reeled against Aman with a cry fortunately lost in the groans of the slaves themselves. One man, at the end of his tether, had collapsed, and hung with trailing limbs in the yoke, and the rest, being utterly spent, could no longer drag him over the rough, uneven tracks. The nearest guard applied his lash in vain, and taking his curved sword, he swung it high. A flash of steel in the moonlight... and the head of the victim rolled in the dust— his body being kicked to one side to add its bones to the ever-growing heaps.

Slowly, very slowly, the long snake-like caravan wound its way along, until the whole world, to Paul, seemed nothing but blood and agony and tears. He felt he had watched it from the beginning of time. Everything else he had ever seen or heard or felt, save this spectacle of suffering, seemed unreal and belonged to a far-off world of fantasy and dreams.

The rock walls rang with groans and cries and shrieks. The slow minutes dragged, and still the captives crawled on... and on... and still others followed on the blood-stained trail. Yoke after yoke, yoke after yoke, they stumbled and fell, only to rise and stagger on again under the whistling, merciless lash.

But at last the draft-camels that formed the latter half of the garfla began to appear. The endless string of jemals seemed interminable, and tried the nerve and patience of the three on the plateau to the utmost

The long garfla thinned out gradually to a few slow, heavily laden beasts strung out at the tail-end of the rest, their husky drivers walking each man behind his own jemal. And a few spear-lengths beyond them, two white mehari paced with immense dignity along the narrow way, the only white camels in all the hundreds, ranging from biscuit to darkest brown and even black.

Under the immense silver moon, the mehari looked wraith-like— two phantom beasts following a haunted fearful trail!

But if the drooping, sad little figure on the leading camel did not destroy this illusion, the one who rode last of all that garfla certainly did.

Nothing less ghostly, or more gross, could have burdened the beautiful white mehari that brought up the tail of the endless procession than Arpad's vast bulk. More simian in outline than ever, he sat humped on his saddle, his ugly head sunk between bowed shoulders, his eyes glued to the small, dejected figure just ahead.

Joan, her face lined and drawn with fatigue and the nightmare terrors of the past day, was envying even the wretched slaves with all the energy left in her exhausted body. How gladly she would have exchanged her mehari for the yoke, and stumbled on foot in the dust, if by that she could have escaped Arpad and the unthinkable destiny to which he was taking her!

Suddenly, shots from the hillside on her left roused her abruptly. She turned to see Arpad sway in his saddle and draw a weapon that spat venomously toward the undergrowth. Like a cat, he sprang to the ground on the right of his camel, and the well-trained beast sank to its knees at his word of command. He crouched down in its lee, a blood-stain spreading rapidly on his shoulder.

Three drivers came running back, drawing wickedly curved daggers from their belts.

Arpad squatted behind his camel and raised a cautious head as he steadied his weapon on the pommel of his saddle. Instantly spurts of flame flicked out from the bushes above him, and he cursed foully as a bullet cut a furrow through his hair, grazing his scalp so that the blood trickled down over his face and eyes. He ripped out an order to the drivers and they made reluctantly for the spot whence the shots had come.

There were rustlings in the dry grass, the sharp rattle of pebbles dislodged, then a loud yell. Two Arabs— Hassan and a driver— rose to their knees locked in a tight embrace, each struggling to use his knife. A blade rose and fell... a faint choking cry... and silence.

Another shot echoed, and a wounded driver rose to make his way back to the path, swayed in the moonlight, and crashed like a falling tree. The grasses waved uneasily at a little distance from his body; there was a startled exclamation— a gasp— followed by a complete cessation of the rustlings.

More drivers came running back along the trail when, suddenly, Paul and Aman rose in the path directly opposite to Arpad.

He was lost— but cunning, swift, treacherous as any wild beast of the jungle, he turned his weapon not toward them, but covered the girl. He fired the fraction of a second before two bullets tore through his brain, and Joan, with that first cry of surprise on her lips, fell forward on her camel's neck.

Aman, with his knife in his left hand, slashed Arpad's face from brow to chin, then leaped to face the oncoming drivers.

Hassan was struggling to his knees, having accounted for his man, and ran to help. The drivers— slaves with little spirit left in them for a fight— lost two of their number and then turned tail and fled after the vanishing garfla, for the gorge echoed on all sides with the shots, as if the thick scrub hid a regiment.

Hassan and Aman waited until the last man had vanished round the rocky screen, then turned toward Arpad's body, sprawled grotesquely under the moon.

"May his soul be accurst forever!" pronounced Aman solemnly. "May a thousand shaitans hunt along this trail he hath made, until the stars drop from heaven!"

"Yea, by Allah!" agreed Hassan. "Did he not call me nigger? But the Sitt— is she also dead?"

"Even so! The white devil did this evil so that he might rob the effendi of his joy!"

"Aie! Aie!" wailed Hassan softly. "My master's heart will be empty as a dry well forever! Truly was she his flower and his delight! I, Hassan, say this, who knows! Aie! Aie! Aie!"

Both men turned aside that they might not witness Paul's first despair, and Hassan's wails drowned the voice that Paul never thought to hear again.

"He shot me... I am... I must be dead... is that you, Paul?... are you, too—"

"Very much alive— so are you, darling!" His voice shook as he met her wide blank gaze. "It's Arpad who's done all the dying in this little party. His bullet only grazed you, dear. D'you think you can ride if I hold you? We must get away from here."

The two white mehari were soon pacing swiftly toward that northern cut which led to safety, their double burdens carried easily, their heads high and proudly held, as if conscious of the good deed they were helping to complete.

And behind them, from the rocky solitudes of the ravine, crept the lean jackals, slinking amongst shadows and between thorn-bushes toward a huge sprawling carcass in the dust of the slave-trail.

_________________________

17: Thirty Pieces of Silver

1: An Explorer Disappears

"ARFI! SOMETHING MOVES there in the shadow of the high dune to the left."

Joseph Deland— the famous, intrepid little explorer, whose caravan was heading southward across the Sahara for the Ahaggar Plateau—peered sharply from under bushy white eyebrows at the spot indicated by his head camel-man.

"I see nothing yet, Muraiche," he replied quietly. "Let us go forward."

A pale moon had climbed the eastern horizon and the desert glimmered in a blue-green light that was balm to the travelers after long hours of intolerable sun.

Ali and Mohammed, the other two camel-men of the tiny garfla, hesitated, showing the whites of their eyes as they gazed in sudden fear at the heavy shadow which lay beneath the dune.

"It is the Abl-el-Trab!" muttered Ali. "Here is the very place and hour for this evil one to lie in wait. It is surely the demon that drags both men and beasts by their feet down to Gehenna, Arfi! Let us turn back before it is too late."

Ali's outspoken fears put the last touch to Mohammed's wavering courage. He turned in his tracks, and next moment both he and Ali were making off at a smart pace away from the fatal dune, their indignant beasts roaring in protest at such haste and swinging long necks in the endeavor to bite their agitated drivers.

Deland's bright dark eyes gleamed with amusement.

"Go after them, Muraiche! Bring them back while I investigate. All right, I'll be careful."

His beautiful white mehari knelt at his reiterated "Kh! Kh! Kh!" and he dismounted. Muraiche watched him for a moment, his gaze following the small, spare figure with dog-like devotion, before he turned to follow Ali and Mohammed.

"Inshallah!" he muttered angrily in his beard. "Is my master to be seized by a djinnee while they escape? Well indeed could they be spared—miserable ticks of an ass's tail!"

Deland tramped briskly toward the high-crested dune on his left. There was certainly something stirring at its base; a huddled figure became visible, and the sound of a deep groan reached Deland's ears.

"You are hurt?" he said a moment later, bending over a man's writhing form.

The Arab at his feet made a painful effort to raise himself, his face in the moonlight showed horribly contorted— gray and glistening with sweat.

"Poison!" he gasped as Deland knelt beside him. "The well... Touareg scum... ah-h-h-h!"

The sufferer bit his own finger almost to the bone as a fresh spasm twisted him.

Deland rose quickly and ran back to his kneeling camel. With hasty hands, he unstrapped the pack and extracted his precious medicine chest. He was a fully qualified doctor, but a private fortune and a passion for exploring kept him from settling down to the usual routine of a medical man. His knowledge, however, was invaluable to him on his travels, and he kept it up to date with the greatest keenness.

Back again by his patient, he put a few pertinent questions, made an examination, and opened his case, his hands moving deftly among the beautifully arranged contents. The Arab drank from the phial held to his lips, his brilliant, fevered eyes on the other's absorbed face.

"If it be Life... or Death, I give thanks in Allah's name!" he murmured with cracked, blackened lips.

For an hour Deland worked over him, assisted by Muraiche and the two whom he had retrieved. The latter officiously bustled about in the background, making a fire, heating water, putting up the tent, ostentatiously trying to make amends for their lapse. At last a faint smile touched the patient's lips, and he looked long and steadily into Deland's face.

"May Allah reward thee... a thousandfold! May thy life be long... and... thy—" His voice trailed off into exhausted silence, his head fell back against Deland's supporting arms as he plunged into a sudden, deep oblivion of sleep.

"H-M-M-M-M!" REMARKED Deland to himself a few days later, as he watched his patient ride off from the oasis where his garfla had rested, restocked its larder and waterskins, and where he had acquired the necessary baggage camels for the long trek south. "So that's the famous bandit, Ben Seghir! I suppose the government wouldn't thank me for saving his life and letting him go free. Fine man— very fine type! Bandit, eh? Well— well!"

His bright eyes twinkled at his own thoughts as he urged his camel on in the wake of his garfla; which was forging on ahead in the first and best hours of the very early morning to the cheerful singing of the Arabs. The caravan was about a mile away, the line of camels stretched like a frieze against the pale sky as they went in single file along a ridge of dunes.

Deland's mehari plunged down an incline, sinking to the knees at every step in the loose soft sand. With a grunt, the fine beast prepared to climb up the opposite slope when Deland was suddenly surrounded by a group of swarthy, savage men who seemed to have sprung up from the earth itself, so carefully had they concealed themselves behind grassy hummocks and the tufts of cacti that grew profusely in that neighborhood.

Deland's first and only shot sent one of the ruffians to the ground, but he was quickly overpowered.

"If you cry out, your body will lie here for the vultures to pick!" A pock-marked, villainous face was thrust up against his while the speaker bound his hands and attached a length of rope from Deland's mehari to his own camel.

Two ahead, two behind their prisoner, the little company rode hard and long almost due west, finally coming to a region quite unknown to the explorer. On and on and on they rode until the sea went down in a red-gold sea of light before them; on and on until the mysterious night received them, and Deland vanished utterly in that world of space and great silence— leaving no more trace of his going than a little pebble pushed over the rim of some fathomless sea.

2: Plans Are Made in El Kidja

BRADLEY GLEAVE woke from a prolonged doze and blinked, bewildered for a minute. He had come home in a vile temper from his office, tried to drown the memory of his latest unfortunate deal in several stiff pegs of brandy, and had finally forgotten his troubles in a half-drunken sleep.

From his broad veranda he could see the lights of El Kidja beginning to illumine the blue dusk of the Algerian evening. Glancing behind him, he saw the rosy glimmer of lamplight in the sitting-room, and heard a low murmur of voices.

His wife and that cousin of hers, Philip Mace!

Bradley scowled. Confounded young puppy, always on the doorstep, always interfering and tacitly encouraging Muriel to be independent! Curse the young fool! Muriel would have been wax in his hands if it had not been for this everlasting cousin!

He'd show her, though! Now that her father was dead and gone, he would have a freer hand. When proofs were finally established that Joseph Deland had made his last fool trip into the desert, the money would all come to Muriel. And he needed that money— only he himself knew how badly he needed it.

He'd have to hurry things up a bit. His servant, Hamid, was like all Arabs, slow and wary, and all for the subtleties of the game. But he couldn't stall off his creditors indefinitely— within the month some positively irrefutable proof of Deland's death must be produced. He'd promise Hamid another hundred pounds to produce the necessary proof and witnesses, and get the thing through without more delay. After all, it was no real crime! Deland certainly must be dead by now, and why wait for the law to come to this conclusion when all that was needed was a good, watertight proof? Hamid and he could attend to that little thing most competently.

He heaved his big over-pampered body from his chair and prepared to interrupt the tête-à-tête within doors when a few words startled him into immobility. He listened intently, his open mouth like a cod-fish, his bloodshot eyes intent and wary.

"Phil, I hate to have you go! It will be so long— so dangerous!"

"Not half as dangerous for me as for most men, Muriel. You know what a tough nut I am, and used to these expeditions. I know a good deal of native lingo, and quite a bit about medicine, thanks to your father. That helps tremendously in the desert."

"If anyone can find him, you will," the woman's voice vibrated softly. "I can't believe he's not still alive... I simply can't believe it. Oh, if you find him, Phil!"

"I agree with you in not having given up hope." The man hesitated. "It's always struck me as rather strange that all the reports have been so unvarying. As a rule, in a case like this, you get dozens of different tales from as many different sources. All we have heard has been so positively and uniformly bad news that I doubt its authenticity. It's unlike the natives to be so unanimous."

There was a queer little silence. The eavesdropper experienced a sudden shortness of breath as he waited.

"Yes, I know, Phil." Muriel's answering voice was tuned to a flat calm. "I've thought and thought about it, too! Someone wants the inquiries to stop, to prevent any big effort being made to find dad."

"It looks rather like it to me," was the reply.

Another pregnant pause. Bradley's open mouth closed, his nails dug into the palms of his hands.

"The very fact that efforts are being made to convince people he's dead makes me hopeful. Either the one who is at the back of this knows that he is still alive, or at least thinks he may be."

"Someone who wants him dead!" the woman's voice was suddenly bitter, and after a pause continued recklessly: "Oh, why pretend any longer? You know as well as I do, Phil, that there is only one person who could conceivably be at the back of this... this conspiracy against my father!"

There was no reply. Bradley edged along until he caught a glimpse of the two within the lamplit room. Philip was standing with hands thrust into the pockets of his white linen coat, his gray eyes frowning and troubled under an untidy thatch of rough fair hair as he stared into the white face of the woman who confronted him.

"I've stood everything up to now. But this— this!" She choked a little, then went on vehemently. "Dad of all people, who's done so much for Bradley! And Bradley wants him dead— dead!"

The next moment she was at Philip's side, his hand in both of hers as she clung, crying, "Phil, Phil, what shall I do? I can't bear it any longer— and now you're going to leave me too. If I could get away— hide somewhere from him!"

Philip's other hand went out, his arm curved to clasp her. Then he stiffened with a visible effort, and drew back.

"I've got the support of the government, and the Sennusis are more than favorable to my expedition. Uncle Joseph was well known amongst them, of course. But if I took you with me—"

"No! no! I never dreamed of that— it would make things infinitely more complicated—quite impossible! I know there's nothing to be done now until you come back. Bradley would never let me go away, and he can prevent it so easily in this isolated place that it's no use thinking of it."

Bradley's eyes narrowed viciously as he listened.

"It's all right, Phil!" Her voice steadied. "It was just the thought of losing you for so long."

For a moment the two looked at one another— a strange expression— as if they saw each other across an impassable chasm instead of a few feet of polished flooring.

"When do you start?"

"In a month's time. I only got the government permit today. I start for Algiers early tomorrow morning to get my personal kit, ammunition, and drugs. From there I shall be scouring in all directions to round up men and camels."

Bradley's face grew blacker as he listened to Philip outlining his plans, discussing alternative routes to the Ahaggar region that had been Deland's objective. His castles in the air began to totter. Once this expedition started, it was good-bye to his hopes. Public interest would flare up again and the hope of finding Deland be revived. Whether successful or not, months and months must pass before the return of this rescue force. He could not hope to tide over such an interval. Unless something stopped Philip, he was ruined, smashed, utterly down and out.

Unless something stopped Philip.

The words repeated themselves in Bradley's mind. His eyes grew cold and crafty as his thoughts traveled on a new road. Minutes passed, and still he stood there thinking... thinking! At last he crept away down the veranda steps to the shadowy garden.

Hamid! Where the deuce is Hamid? he asked himself as he went.

3: Philip Is Surprised

PHILIP MACE rode south with abstracted gaze, his thoughts intent on the many problems inseparable from his undertaking. Mentally he reviewed his preparations, trying to discover things forgotten, visualizing for the hundredth time all possible and probable eventualities for which he must make provision.

He was traveling for the moment with a couple of servants and the man he had yesterday selected as guide for his expedition. His main garfla was assembled, and waiting at a fonduk two days' journey from the village of Kebr, which he had left at sunrise that morning.

He had made a special journey to Kebr to secure the services of this guide, the man on whom the safety of his whole caravan must depend for months to come across the trackless desert. Unexpected obstacles had arisen in this matter of a guide. One after another of those whom he knew by experience, or repute, to be first-rate men were unwilling to be hired, or else they had just been engaged by some other garfla.

The man he had finally chosen had been recommended in El Kidja, and also at many of the towns and villages that he had visited in the course of his preparations. Harassed by repeated disappointments, he engaged Ali, although he would have preferred an older man; for age, and the vast experience of graybeards who had tracked across the desert all their lives, put youth and strength completely at a discount when a guide was in question.

The four men were not returning to the fonduk by the well-marked frequented route that Philip had taken to Kebr in the first place. This way was of Ali's choosing, and so abstracted was Philip that he scarcely noticed the wild desolation of the region, with its spiny cacti, withered camel thorn, and the boulder-strewn ground which made the camels' progress slow and difficult.

He did not see the furtive meaning looks exchanged by his two servants, nor the malice that gleamed under Ali's dark brows. When the midday halt was made, and the camels barracked, Philip chose a large boulder to support his back, lighted a cigarette, and drew out a notebook.

But his pen fell from his hand, the cigarette from his lips, as two sinewy brown hands closed round his neck from behind. In a few minutes, with Ali's murderous grip still at his throat, his two servants bound his arms and legs and he lay stretched out on the hot dusty earth, his gray eyes blazing into the dark face of Ali, the guide.

"So that's the sort of ruffian you are!" Philip's mind was working furiously as he spoke. He felt, in the first bewildered readjustment of his ideas, more astonishment than anger. He had neither gold nor merchandise with him; what reason had Ali for his assault?

"Lift me up so that I can talk properly," he ordered. "I suppose this is a question of ransom? Well, you win the first trick! Now, loosen these ropes and I'll hear what you've got to say."

"Billah! Rather is it I— Ben Seghir— that will listen to what thou wilt say when the Black Camel [death] approaches!"

Philip stiffened in his bonds— a sudden constriction at his throat— the blood singing in his ears. Ben Seghir! Ben Seghir, whose evil fame was a byword along the desert routes from Tripoli to the Sudan—the bandit who had led all the most daring and successful raids on the big trans-Saharan garflas during the last two years!

He twisted about to glance at his servants. No hope from them. Their eyes were fixed expectantly on Ben Seghir, their hands itching to obey his orders. No hope of rescue in this barren unfrequented region— all around, the gray monotony of the desert stretched to every horizon. The desert— ready to number him among the vast multitude of her dead; equally ready to let him go. Impassive, remote, giving welcome and farewell to none.

"But the effendi would talk?" Ben Seghir asked mockingly.

He turned to the waiting men and gave them an order. They grinned, and going to the bandit's camel-pack, took from it a couple of spades. With these they began to dig with most unusual vigor, jesting under their breach as they worked, showing the whites of their eyes as they glanced maliciously at Philip.

Deftly, Ben Seghir ran his hands over his captive, taking from the pockets all he found, including a wallet containing letters and snapshots. He examined everything leisurely, with the naive interest of a child.

"It is sad that these letters are in thy barbarous language. It would have been interesting to read them to thee when thou art in there." He nodded to the deepening hole. "I will leave thy head above ground, for thou wilt have need of eyes and ears on thy road to hell... the way is dark... and long!"

Painfully, Philip raised his head a few inches from the ground. His thick hair was rough and wild, a streak of dust and blood across his cheek where the stones had cut him as he struggled, but his clear steady eyes met those of his enemy unafraid.

"I have heard much of you, Ben Seghir," he said, "but not that you were a coward."

The bandit's teeth flashed in a scornful grin.

"Thou dost think to taunt me into giving thee a swift death. Maleish! Thou dost come to conquer my people— infidel dog! Thou dost make maps and pictures and books of my country and go away! Then dost thou return with soldiers and armies and many guns to make new laws, and taxes, and to put a yoke upon the chosen of Allah!" He turned aside. "Put him in— and may his accursed soul be tormented by every shaitan [devil] of this evil place when I have set it free at last!"

The two diggers dragged Philip over the rough ground to the hole they had made. They dropped him in feet first, and began to shovel the sand and stones in around him.

"Ugurrah! What is this?" Ben Seghir was looking earnestly at the contents of the wallet. He strode over to Philip, his burnoose swinging widely about him.

"Who is this... who is this man?" and he thrust one or two pictures before Philip's nose.

The latter's mouth tightened and he shook his head.

"Take me out of this and untie me, and I'll talk— not before!"

To his astonishment, Ben Seghir himself began to dig away the sand already packed about his body. The other two men also dug furiously, spurred on by the bandit's kicks and curses. In a few minutes, Philip was sitting unbound, Ben Seghir holding a flask of palm wine to his lips, while the two servants chafed his ankles and wrists.

Philip strove to preserve a calm front, but he had an uncontrollable desire to burst into loud prolonged laughter. The relief was so sudden and unexpected, and as inexplicable as the first attack on him. Was he at the mercy of a madman here in the wilderness, or was this merely Ben Seghir's idea of prolonging his torture? He drank deeply of the strong fermented liquor, and got a grip on himself with an immense effort.

"Who is this man?"

Again Ben Seghir held the pictures out to Philip. The latter glanced down, to see that they were all of his uncle, Joseph Deland. They were particularly good ones, taken on the eve of his last fatal journey into the desert.

Philip looked at Ben Seghir's changed, eager face with dawning hope. He knew the extraordinary influence the missing man had exercised amongst the desert tribes. Was it possible that even this ruffian—?

"That is my uncle, Joseph Deland, a famous scientist who has been lost in the desert for many months. I am leading an expedition to find him. At least, I was until you interrupted me," concluded Philip lightly, lighting a cigarette with hands that shook only very imperceptibly.

He received another shock when Ben Seghir abruptly took his hand in both of his and lifted it to his lips and brow.

"Blessed be Allah, who hath opened my eyes before it was too late. I have sworn to serve Deland effendi while life burns within me. He, and all that are of his blood, are sacred to me. May his enemies perish from the earth!"

Ben Seghir's eyes filled suddenly with fierce anger as he stared out across the wide desert.

"Tell me more," he asked suddenly. "Tell me more, effendi. Much is dark and clouded in my mind."

Ben Seghir listened with absorbed interest, putting shrewd questions at intervals as Philip recounted the events that had led up to his expedition, and everything connected with it.

"There is a story told concerning thy great prophet, Jesus!" the bandit said, after a long silence at the conclusion of Philip's tale. "The story of a traitor. For thirty pieces of silver, he sold his Master to the Jews. A traitor called Es Kariot."

The bandit, who had been a student at the famous medersa of Kairween, nodded complacently as he produced this evidence of his learning.

"He who gave me this to kill thee"— Ber Seghir indicated a bag of money he had drawn from beneath his robe— "he also should be named Es Kariot. A traitor and a great liar! No word hath he spoken of Deland effendi, or that thou wert of his blood, and went to seek him! He hath tricked and deceived me as to the purpose of this journey of thine. Almost he hath made of me a traitor like himself. Almost had I betrayed unwittingly one who brought me back from the gates of Jehannum— one whose wisdom and compassion are greater than I have known in any man."

"There are few like my uncle," the other agreed. "I owe everything to him."

Ben Seghir took the bag of money, untied the string threaded through the leather, and looked at the heap of coins. Gold and silver of the various currencies used in the desert lay glinting in the sun.

Slowly the Arab's long brown fingers sorted the coins, selecting only the silver Turkish mejedies until thirty were counted out, and put carefully away in his broad leather girdle. Taking the remainder, with a dramatic gesture natural to his race, he flung it out over the stones and sand.

"May Allah strengthen my arm against him!" he said, and gravely resumed his place at Philip's side. "I will go with thee on thy search. But it must be otherwise than the way thou hast chosen, effendi. It must be said that I have killed thee, that Es Kariot may be deceived. We will not travel with the garfla. Two or three men can travel swiftly and safely where a great caravan would perish. Where we go, we go alone and very secretly. These two worthless ones we can take to serve us, unless thou dost desire that they should die!"

He turned upon these last, that stood uncertain as to what was required of them now. Ben Seghir abruptly solved their difficulties.

"You lumps of swine's flesh! Bring food— bring water— bring rugs that the effendi may ease the limbs thou hast bruised! By Allah, must I cut off the hands and feet you have forgotten how to use?"

4: In the Desert

SIX MONTHS— ten months— a year of intolerable suns hung in skies of molten brass, of magic dawns and flaming sunsets, of lost wells and mirages, of hunger and torturing thirst, of heart-breaking monotony, nerve-racking danger, pain, weariness, and toil beyond belief.

A year over the limitless rolling dunes stretching in nightmare endless seas of sand. Over arid, naked plains where not even a stick or a stone relieved the straining vision. Across bleak tablelands where the great winds howled and whistled with cutting devilish ferocity.

A year of threads picked up and lost again, of chasing shadows and will-o'-the-wisps. A year of stern, unceasing conflict with unfriendly tribes, with fevers and agues, with superstition and prejudice that blocked the way.

A year of this, and Ben Seghir and Philip still struggled doggedly southward, lured by elusive persistent rumors picked up here and there—rumors of a white man— a Healer. Southward... southward was the invariable answer to their diplomatic questionings. And southward the two followed the shadowy trail.

Lean and weather-beaten as old Sinbad the Sailor himself, the two men came at last to the foot-hills of the rocky fastnesses south of Timbuktu. They possessed two thin, mangy camels that they had purchased with their last ounces of tobacco and salt that morning at an oasis; they had two precious fanatis filled with water and a small skinfull of dates each. That was all.

Their hamlas, tent, sleeping-bags, instruments—all had been lost or stolen or bartered for food long since. One of the camel-men had lost his life in a hand-to-hand fight at Zem-Zem, where he had been ill-advised enough to exhibit a piece of money. The other servant succumbed to the effects of a great thirst engendered by thirteen days over a practically waterless way, followed by immoderate drafts of lakby with which he celebrated his arrival at a douar.

At the foot of a narrow, winding pass hemmed in by tall cliffs, Philip looked about him with red-rimmed, sunken eyes.

"This is the pass through the mountains of which the old sheikh spoke. This must be the Diabi Ridge."

"Even so," agreed Ben Seghir. "Beyond that opening in the cliff-face, the great valley must lie, where dwell the Zangali tribe. And in the hills at the farther side of that valley Askia Ibn Askia has his palace. I recognize this place, effendi, from the tales my father told me when I was a child. He took a wife of the Zangali people and lived in that valley until she died— very young and very fair she was, and my father fled this place and its memories when she left him."

"If half the reports we have heard have any truth in them, this ruler of the Zangalis, this Askia Ibn Askia, is going to be a very tough nut," Philip ruminated half to himself. "We've had fairly definite accounts of him these last weeks— he doesn't seem to hide his light under a bushel. First of all, he's stricken with some deadly disease. Secondly, he's a tyrant who would make the Roman emperors, at their most decadent, look dull and uninventive. Thirdly, there is some white magician at his court who makes great spells, and who appears to be a fairly new star on Ibn Askia's horizon."

"Thou hast spoken," was the other's reply. "Let us cross these mountains and seek out this sheikh in his palace."

"We're running into the greatest danger, remember," Philip reminded his companion. "And there may be no more truth in these reports than in all the others we heard, and proved false."

"It is as Allah wills," was the grave response. "Let us therefore find this Askia Ibn Askia. If it is written that we die at his hand, wherefore should we seek to escape? What is written— is written."

Philip extended a thin, grimy hand. "My sentiments down to the ground," he answered warmly. "I wanted to make sure you felt as I did about this. I've the strongest presentiment we've come to the end of our search. We'll camp here tonight. It's sheltered and there's good grazing for the camels; we can hobble them and leave them here until our return— we can't get them across this ridge. Tomorrow for the lion's den, my brother Daniel!"

5: The Hospitality of Askia Ibn Askia

AN ORANGE MOON lifted slowly over the long spine of the Diabi Ridge, throwing fantastic shadows across deep chasms and beetling crags. The moonlight fell serenely over the huts and hovels of Askia Ibn Askia's dominion in the Zangali valley beyond, and its full orb discovered two figures toiling up the range of hills on the farther side of the plain.

A jackal howled a greeting to the travelers as they approached the summit; the terrific roar of a mountain lion echoed and reverberated in the hollow hills. But within the great barrier of cactus-hedge crowning the slopes above the two men, all was dark and silent as a tomb.

"It seems peaceful," said Philip at last, as they cautiously approached. "At least we shall be allowed to pass the barricade. There seems no guard."

"They wait within," was Ben Seghir's gloomy reply. "The Singing Mountain never lies, and long ere we left the valley, its voice would warn them of our approach. As soon as we pass the opening in the wall of cactus, it will sing no more."

Both men glanced back at the dark, forbidding crag that towered over the plain they had left below; the low, eerie song of the wind piping in its crevices reached their ears. But as they reached the gap in the tall hedge, Philip noticed with a shock that the strange note of the Singing Mountain ceased abruptly.

"All is as my father said," murmured Ben Seghir as they walked the narrow streets, their long black shadows at their heels. "And here should be the Place of Speaking."

They halted before a pretentious building, a painted, massive temple of an earlier civilization that had been adapted to the needs of the sheikhs of the Zangali tribe.

No slightest sound of life or movement reached the straining ears of the two as they climbed the stone steps and passed through a vast pillared entrance. Philip felt his pulses racing as he and Ben Seghir walked down one long corridor after another and paused at last before a Moorish arch hung with a heavy curtain of marvelous hue and fabric.

As they hesitated, the curtain was swung back by some swift, invisible hand, and Philip gasped involuntarily. Even the stolid fatalism of the Arab was shaken, and he muttered:

"Inshallah! Here is the end!"

Philip stood taut— the shock of what confronted him momentarily held him, brain and body, in a vise of paralyzing emotion. Then his stubborn fighting spirit reasserted itself. His courage rose to meet the danger. A strange, desperate fury seized him that anything so atrocious, so bestial, so inimical to sane human life could live.

At the extreme end of a great hall was a throne carved from teakwood inlaid with ivory. On it sat a creature who Philip rightly supposed was the Sheikh Askia Ibn Askia himself— a small, wizened figure wrapped in gorgeous cloth of gold, and wearing a silver turban in which ruby and emerald, diamond and pearl gleamed and flashed above the withered face of the wearer.

The face of a demon— old and evil beyond belief. The dark, wrinkled skin was scored by a thousand lines, and in the sunken eyes a red gleam smoldered that was a refection of the very fires of hell.

In Philip's eyes an answering light responded, cold and clear as a winter star, and he strode forward with the Arab at his elbow. A long, cackling peal of laughter burst from Ibn Askia's lips as the two approached his throne.

They passed between a double rank of warriors, whose extended spears glowed white-hot within a few inches of their thinly-clad bodies, and each warrior in turn laid his spear-tip upon that of his opposite neighbor behind the two, as they passed up that fiery lane.

"Thou canst not complain of the warmth of thy welcome, white man! It shall not be said that the people of Zangali cannot entertain their guests worthily."

His malicious cackle broke out again and a huge gray ape, fastened to a pillar in a recess behind the throne, chattered and shook its chain savagely. Meeting the disdain in Philip's steady gaze, the sheikh's laughing mouth shut up like a trap.

"Dog! Thine eyes are too bold— my vultures shall pick them from their sockets ere tomorrow's sun has set! Thou and this accursed spawn of Eblis at thy side! Who are ye that do not shrink from my fiery spears? Who are ye that enter my palace clad like beggars, and with the pride of kings? Ye shall die... die, I say!"

The self-possession and calm poise of the two infuriated the sheikh to a gibbering rage that made him uglier and more inhuman than the gray ape itself; and the two who stared at him did so not altogether from bravado, but in a kind of frozen wonder that such a thing could dwell in human flesh.

Like a tree blasted by lightning, like a mummy risen from its centuries of sleep, like a soul escaped from hell in a borrowed outworn body, the sheikh half rose from his throne, shaking with passion, barely able to articulate:

"Die... die!" The voice cracked on a sudden squeal of laughter again. "Nay, ye shall live... live in... torment... live till ye crawl to me... to beg for death!"

Suddenly, like a corpse-candle extinguished by the wind, the evil light behind his eyes went out; the jaw dropped; the figure collapsed and crumpled back on the throne.

"The Healer... the Healer! Ah-h-h!" he gasped.

One of the immense slaves, who formed the bodyguard around the throne, vanished swiftly, to return almost immediately with a man wrapped in a dark burnoose. The face that looked out from beneath the hood almost forced an exclamation from Philip's lips; beside him Ben Seghir stood like a carven statue, but deep in his brooding eyes a look of almost fanatical devotion suddenly dawned.

It was the missing man— Joseph Deland. Except for the deep bronze of his skin, and the new lines that danger and hardships had drawn on his wonderfully chiseled face, he was unchanged. Humor and patient understanding still lit the deep-set eyes, the same thoughtful, watching intelligence furrowed the wide brow, the same peculiarly tender compassion curled the strong mouth.

His keen glance fell at once on his nephew and the Arab at his side, but not by the flicker of an eyelash did he acknowledge them. Calmly he gave them the glance he might have bestowed on any stranger, and turned to minister to the stricken man on the throne.

In a few minutes Ibn Askia recovered sufficiently to sit upright and beckon to Philip and his companion:

"Tomorrow"— his voice was the rattle of dry leaves in an east wind— "tomorrow my sorcerers shall work terrible magic! They and their devils shall chase your souls to hell... and bring them back again, that I may laugh... and mock at your entreaties!"

Exhausted by pain and fury, he collapsed limply once more; and two slaves, in long woolen robes of red and blue, lifted him into a sort of sedan-chair and bore him from the hall.

6: In an Ancient Granary

IN THE ANCIENT granary built into the foundation of the temple-palace of the sheikh, Philip and Ben Seghir spent long sleepless hours that night. Momentarily they hoped and expected to see, or at least receive some message from Deland.

In the thick darkness there was the sound of intermittent rustlings, the scurryings of little creatures over the stone and straw of the granary pavements, the squeak and chirp of many small night-things on their hunting, and faint and far off, through the slits in the massive walls, came the sighing breath of the desert wind to the ears of the two prisoners.

But no stealthy footstep, no welcome, cautious whisper greeted their straining ears. At last the dense blackness began to be streaked with gray, and the outlines of the huge earthen pots for storing grain became visible. It was a vast granary, built for year-long sieges in olden times, when the Zangalis were but a handful of wandering nomads on the desert, and the palace was a temple devoted to strange and long-forgotten gods.

In the gray dawn, both men secretly admitted to themselves that they might expect nothing but the vengeance of the demented sheikh. Defeat was doubly bitter now. To have seen Deland again, and to be butchered for Ibn Askia's amusement without ever joining forces with the man they had tracked so far and so long! Not even to have the chance of one good fight with the enemy, and die side by side with the man they had found at last!

Philip cursed aloud that he had not used his weapon to kill the devil-haunted ruler when he was face to face with him, and unbound, the previous night.

"Effendi, it is the wisdom of the unwise thus to heap mud upon thine own head. It was not written that the sheikh should die by thy hand. Neither dost thou reckon on the price we should have paid for that killing. We— and also Deland effendi, may Allah protect him!"

"With my weapon gone, and my hands shackled, I can only remember the chance I missed. And we are going to pay anyhow. We've gained nothing— nothing! Not even a word or a look from my uncle. I should have shot Ibn Askia between his eyes when I had the chance."

"All is as Allah wills!" was the imperturbable reply. "We live still, and here is another day. Who can say what good and evil lie between sunrise and its setting?"

Lacking the Arab's profound fatalism, Philip continued to gird himself, while the gray light grew clearer in their prison. Not until a strong shaft struck through an opening in the walls, and fell on a vast jar towering above its fellows, did Philip notice the marking on it.

Idly at first, his mind still preoccupied, his eyes saw the uneven clumsy lettering without attaching any significance to it. Quite suddenly, however, he scrambled to his feet, the chains clanking about his wrists and ankles. With stiff, awkward movements, he stumbled over to the jar.

Yes, it was lettering, traced hastily and almost illegibly across the pot's immense girth:

J. D.

Philip gave a hoarse, shaky laugh as he turned to Ben Seghit.

"My uncle's initials! Now what do you suppose—"

He broke off and stared about, peering at every jar, looking in all directions for some other clue or message. After the first thrill of the discovery, his heart sank. Evidently there had not been time to complete the message. Or perhaps his uncle had once been a prisoner in the granary, and written that. Perhaps it was no clue at all.

He kicked about in the dust and moldy grain around the jar in vain. He made a new tour of inspection, gazing at the huge grain receptacle from every angle. Then he turned to Ben Seghir eagerly.

"Inside— inside, of course!"

With a spurt of new vigor, he ran against the jar and sent it crashing. The brittle clay broke and splintered in every direction, and after a few minutes of eager search among the pieces, the Arab's desert-trained eagle vision discerned the tiny folded paper in the dust.

"Am a prisoner," Philip read aloud. "Am doing all in my power— it is very little. Askia suspects you came for me. He may die any hour, but will sting to the last. Don't give up hope. It's a miracle that you have found me. Another may save the three of us even yet. Askia will set his devilish Tibetan sorcerers on you. They are inhuman, possessed of extraordinary occult powers. Fight with your mind, your will, your whole soul! Above all— do not look into their eyes! Let them blind you first! Fight— fight— you're up against a most devilish thing. J. D."

Ben Seghir listened intently, sitting cross-legged in the dust, his worn face and undimmed eyes fixed on the dancing motes in a long sunbeam.

"Why has not Allah, in his wisdom, permitted that Es Kariot should be destroyed by these yellow devils?" he ruminated sadly. "For the soul of Es Kariot is safe and fat as the body that contains it, and would suffer very greatly, seeing that it cannot fight."

The other's stern, troubled look softened as he looked down at his companion.

"You're not the first to feel that Justice is unnecessarily blind," he remarked, running his fingers through his dusty, bleached hair.

"For me it will be the fire and the knife, effendi," pursued the Arab evenly. "Wert thou a true Believer— a son of Islam— Allah's hand would shield thy soul. But thou dost not believe, therefore these yellow devils may have power over thee. For me, however, the fire and the knife!"

Philip saw nothing incongruous in the bandit's profound religious convictions. He had met these seeming discrepancies of character in the desert too often to wonder at them. He envied the Arab's calm faith, and the fortitude with which he contemplated a hideous death.

For himself... a long shudder ran through him at the images that rose in his overtired brain.

He thrust the little note deep into a pocket; the touch of it might bring comfort and strength during the hours of the coming day. Then, subsiding limply by the Arab, he leaned back against the rough walls. Exhaustion of mind and body drugged him to a semi-consciousness, and in half-waking dreams he followed a phantom Muriel over dark lonely wastes— wandering hopelessly— never able to reach that wraith-like figure just beyond his grasp.

7: Terror

IT WAS FULL NOON; the round patch of sky visible through the open dome of the roof was white-hot when, in the great hall where the two prisoners had first seen Askia Ibn Askia, they faced him again.

The place was crowded from wall to wall with naked figures, rank with the odor of the oiled, perspiring bodies of warriors and slaves, who squatted shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, their sullen faces stirred to a faint animation by the promised spectacle, but the dominant emotion on every brooding face was fear. Fear of their mad, cruel ruler, fear that a glance, a movement, an unconscious gesture would bring Ibn Askia's beastlike fury upon anyone of them.

Philip and Ben Seghir stood in their tattered, soiled barracans, the chains still about their feet and hands. After one glance at the sheikh's venomous face, Philip looked at the two figures standing on the raised dais that supported the throne. In spite of his courage, he knew the taste of deadly fear as he looked.

Yellow-clad, yellow-skinned, approaching the gigantic in stature, with flat, expressionless faces, their small, oblique, almond-shaped eyes under bristling tufts of eyebrows showed a cold remote hate beside which the sheikh's mad fury seemed an almost friendly quality.

Tibetans— renegade preists who for good reasons had been obliged to flee from the sanctuaries of their monasteries, and had smuggled themselves as pilgrims to Mecca, and from thence with the great Haj had journeyed across Arabia to Africa, where the silent desert had received them, hidden them from the pursuing vengeance of their terrible Order.

Philip had read of these dehumanized creatures, who turned the occult and mystic splendor of their priestly knowledge to uses vile and degraded beyond all thought. He recalled, with a cold sickness in his breast, the words of a man he had once met at the famous Teng-Su Club in London, a man who had made daring explorations across unknown Tibet. This explorer had given Philip a vivid account of much he had seen and heard.

At their highest, these Lama priests lived like gods among men, so high and strange and mystic was their rule, so absolute their obedience to their lofty code, so terrible and inexplicable the supernatural powers they commanded. But the renegade priests! Like Lucifer, they sank from highest heaven to lowest hell.

Philip gave credence to all he had heard, and taken as travelers' tales, when he met the frozen evil in the depths of those slanting eyes that stared unwinking into his.

Their eyes! Even as his look locked with theirs, some words came dimly to his mind, some urgent command he could not for the moment recollect. He would recall it in a minute... in a minute! How curiously light his tired body felt suddenly... what was that sound of wild bees in his ears?... how did this great smooth gray sea suddenly appear before his eyes?... eyes... what was that about eyes?... there were no eyes, only sea... deep— fathomless— undulating— pulling him down... down... down!

Depth after depth he plumbed, until he knew that he could not return, for he had fallen off the margin of the world into the vast, uncharted ether. Once, from some far-distant state, he heard a voice and knew it called him:

"Effendi! Do not look into their eyes! Do not look into their eyes!"

He could not make sense of that. There were no eyes, but the urgent warning seemed to check his swift descent, and he began to swing in great whirling circles, and both voice and star vanished and went out.

Then Terror met him!

Terror, that with slow and dreadful ease severed the soul from his shrinking body and pursued his naked and defenseless spirit with a silent, menacing calm— like the calm at the heart of a raging typhoon.

Through hell after deeper hell, Philip fled before it. Overtaken, tortured, he escaped, to flee through the vast spaces that cradle the universe.

He perished by fire and in the green depths of the sea, he was torn asunder by wild beasts, he died of plague and famine. He was crushed in the great folds of monstrous serpents, he writhed with the bitter taste of poison on his tongue. He lived a thousand lives of shame and violence and sin—he died a thousand hideous and lingering deaths.

And on the threshold of each death, the vast evil waited for him—and he fled past sun, moon, and stars— through great seas— on the wings of howling winds. Through time and space he flung himself, only to meet the Terror face to face in the end... to be plucked back to new abominations... live out another life to its bitter death!

Quite abruptly, he was back on this earth again. On the verge of madness, weak as a man after long fever and delirium, his face gray, his breath whistling through his clenched teeth, he lay at the foot of Ibn Askia's dais. The sheikh was laughing until his withered frame threatened to shake to pieces. The two Tibetans had withdrawn to the shadows behind the throne, where even the savage ape whimpered and cowered from their proximity.

Ben Seghir stood in his chains, his eyes full of reproach and anxiety as he looked at Philip. To him, Ibn Askia turned suddenly:

"Thou hast no mind to torment! Ugurrah! Thou hast a body, however." He struck his hands together and slaves came running. "The fire—the torturers—in haste, in haste, you crawling things of dust!"

Philip closed his eyes. A deadly faintness threatened to snatch him back to oblivion, and he fought with all his will to retain consciousness. The sheikh prolonged the preparations, watching Philip meanwhile. When all was ready, and the white-hot irons but a few inches from Ben Seghir's proud face, Ibn Askia turned to the white man.

"Thou wouldst save this desert scum? Billah, that is in thy power to do! Crawl to me, dog, down on thy hands and knees— bow thy stiff head to my feet and swear that there is none greater than Askia Ibn Askia— ruler of the Zangalis. Also, that my people and I shall not forego some small amusement, my sorcerers shall once more work magic with thee."

"Promise nothing, effendi!" came Ben Seghir's urgent murmur. "I can but die! Worse than death awaits thee if thou dost look once more into the eyes of the yellow devils!"

Ben Seghir was cruelly silenced, and the sheikh leant forward to look into Philip's agonized face. Ibn Askia was drunk with the sense of power—his madness rose like a tide within him, the fierce, exultant pounding of his heart shook his withered body until his ugly head rolled on his shoulders. Stamping his feet, beating his fists upon the arms of his great carved throne, he laughed and cursed and screamed at this proud white man whom he had brought so low.

Philip tried to speak, tried to command his limp, useless muscles to wave the torturers away from Ben Seghir, strove to curse the gibbering sheikh. But the swooning weakness came over him in waves, and he could neither speak nor move.

Ibn Askia's maniacal laugh threatened to choke him. He rose, clutching at the gold-embroidered robe around his throat. His voice shrilled to a squeal and died in his throat with a strange abrupt bubble of sound. His arms thrashed impotently in blind, arrested movements. His eyes glared and grew fixed, and the dark skin of his face turned gray.

As before, one of his bodyguard vanished, to return in a few minutes with Deland. He walked in quietly and looked about him, comprehending the horrible drama he was entering upon, with bright penetrating eyes... the breathless sweating audience, the two prisoners, the Tibetan sorcerers, the ape that shook in a palsy of fear beside them, and the staring, unnatural quiet of the master of the ceremonies himself.

The hiss of indrawn, excited breathing, the rattle of the gray ape's chain alone broke the silence as the Healer bent over the throne and made a brief examination.

With slow precision, Deland presently folded the golden robe again about the motionless sheikh, deftly drawing a corner of the rich fabric across the staring, sightless eyes. Then he turned to face the assembly.

"People of Zangali!" he began. "Your sheikh, Askia Ibn Askia, is dead!"

The quietly uttered words shocked the dense crowd into a frozen silence. Each man sat like stone, afraid even now that the silent thing beneath its golden pall might strike to kill.

The prisoners exchanged glances while Deland surveyed the serried ranks of slaves and warriors intently. All three were thinking the same thought. How would this event affect them? How could they mold this crisis to their own advantage?

And in the shadows behind the throne, the two Tibetans stood like statues, their slanting eyes agleam.

Abruptly one of the tallest of the warriors sprang to his feet, tossing his spear above his head. "Inshallah!" he cried. "We are free men at last! The great devil whom Allah sent to torment us is dead!"

He broke into a strong rhythmic chant, stamping his feet and swaying his great shoulders; and in a few moments the vast hall was full of stamping feet, while the shouting and chanting rose wilder and wilder. Curtains were torn from the lofty arches and trampled underfoot as the mob burst out in all directions to call the tidings to the four winds of heaven.

The roll of drums echoed through the streets to the plain below, giving the news to the tribe; soon the rocky ascent to the palace was alive with men, women, and children scaling the rough ways like monkeys and shouting as they came.

No one took any notice of the prisoners. No one except the two tall Tibetans.

As the crowd rose in its first confusion, Deland took a swift stride to his nephew and, kneeling to support his head, put a flask to his ashen lips. But even as Philip drank, the two ex-priests were upon him, one dashing the cup from his lips, the other plucking the older man from his side, as one might pick up a twig from the earth.

Philip fought with his last ounce of strength; the few drops of the cordial he had drunk, and the brief glimpse of escape gave him abnormal strength for the moment. He dashed his fist into the malevolent yellow mask that leered into his face, but he was clasped like a child in the gigantic arms of the Tibetan.

He fought in vain to turn away his eyes— he couldn't move his head— couldn't even close his eyes... nearer... nearer that nameless gray cloud of evil descended on him.

But Ben Seghir, maimed and tortured, was yet free! His tormentors had fled with the rest, and he stooped to the hot irons. The sight of Deland, as well as Philip, in the hands of the yellow devils transformed him into a madder and more dangerous thing than Ibn Askia himself had been. Gripping a hideous weapon in each torn, bleeding hand, he sprang like a tiger, and with all the wary cunning of the jungle beast.

The Tibetan who held Deland prisoner in his grasp dropped him and fell like a great tree cut down; and where his wicked, slanting eyes had been, there remained only two dreadful empty sockets, burned deep into his brain.

The other Tibetan saw, and as Ben Seghir leaped for him, he held Philip before him as a shield, circling to face the Arab.

Deland made a spring, his small lean body clinging to the massive yellow shoulders from behind. In a flash he unloosed the turban wound about the ex-priest's head and passed a thick fold across his face, muffling him completely.

The yellow giant, like some great snake, stood circling swiftly on his own axis, swinging Philip like a club. But, blinded and encumbered, the Tibetan was caught at last, receiving one jagged sizzling iron deep in his body.

Mad with agony, the giant dropped his human weapon, tore the bandage from his eyes, flung Deland from his back to the floor, and staggered toward the Arab. Ben Seghir ducked under the two huge arms and thrust his weapon under the outthrust chin of his enemy. As the latter tottered backward from the impact, Ben Seghir flung himself upon him, bearing him backward to the ground.

And what he had done to the first, he did also to this second assailant, piercing him to his evil brain.

No one noticed the Healer, with two others wrapped close in burnooses, walk slowly away when evening came. No one remarked them crossing the valley, and toiling painfully up the steeps of the Diabi Ridge.

The Zangali were drunk with freedom and palm wine, and if they had noticed, they would not have cared. The plain and hillside blazed with bonfires. The roll of drums, the shrill, strange music of reed-pipes, the rhythmic stamping of countless feet in the red firelight beside the cooking-pots, the fragrant blue clouds of tobacco, the sound of hundreds of chattering voices, laughter and song, and, at intervals the long-drawn, exultant tribal cry of the Zangali people rose to the starlit splendor of the heavens.

8: Thirty Pieces of Silver

THE GREAT yearly garfla from Timbuktu had almost reached the borders of Algeria. Philip, with Deland and Ben Seghir joining it in that desert city, had journeyed north under its protection. The irony of the bandits being befriended by the merchants of that richly laden caravan was appreciated only by the three themselves, however, for Ben Seghir was too much disfigured to be recognizable.

During the long months of the return journey, Philip's mind grew more and more despondent. What was there for him at the end of this great adventure? he asked himself.

His youth was gone, the last spark stamped out under the iron heel of suffering. He looked ten years older, and felt more than that. It would be hard to take up the thread of his old civilized life again. His value, his ambitions, his whole philosophy of life— all were radically altered.

And Muriel! Ah, it was she who was at the core of his problems! More than ever he loved her— needed her— felt existence barren and purposeless without her. Could she free herself from Bradley? Would she come to him if not?

How would Bradley face the situation on his return with Deland? Should he feign ignorance of Bradley's treachery— or not? What would be the best for Muriel—the best for all concerned in the long run?

Ben Seghir voiced this question when he came to take farewell of Philip, two days before they were due at El Kidja.

"And Es Kariot? What of him, effendi? Billah, what greeting hast thou for him who sent me to slay thee? Es Kariot, whose heart is evil even toward the Wise One— the Healer! By the life of this moon, I would know what is in thy thoughts concerning him."

Gray eyes met black— Ben Seghir's unfathomable as some dark mountain tarn in that long silent interchange. He put Philip's hand to his lips and brow, and bent forward to kiss his shoulder in farewell salute.

"What is written, is written," he remarked. "May Allah make smooth the way for thy feet."

SHORTLY before dawn, two days later, Philip and Deland arrived at the gates of El Kidja. They made their way through the sleeping city like ghosts returning to some ancient haunt. Swift messengers had been sent ahead to break the news of their coming to Muriel; but nothing definite regarding time being connected with desert-journeys, the two arrived alone and unheralded at the house with the big veranda, where Bradley had played the part of eavesdropper almost two years ago.

Deland went in alone, leaving Philip to saunter about under the shade of bamboos and palm-trees. For long the l atter waited there, wondering at the unnatural air of quiet that reigned, even after Deland had disappeared indoors.

Not a servant was to be seen, or even heard. No voice, or step, or cry of greeting came to his ears. He began to get uneasy. Was anything wrong? Anyone ill? At last— as he was on the point of entering the house to investigate— Deland appeared on the veranda. The latter's face was very grave, and his voice, always quiet, was more deliberate than usual.

"I was coming for you, my boy. A terrible thing has just been discovered here— a ghastly occurrence!"

"Muriel! Not Muriel!"

"No— no!" Deland patted the other's arm reassuringly. "No— it's Bradley. He's been murdered. They've only just discovered the body."

Philip followed the other through the dim, quiet house to a spacious room upstairs. Muriel was standing there by the open shutters, her dazed eyes enormous in a thin, white face. She put a cold hand into Philip's without a word, her eyes reverting to the silent figure on the bed

Bradley Gleave lay there, the handle of a dagger protruding from his breast—achieving a dignity in death that in life he had never attained.

Philip's gaze traveled from the still face to something that gleamed on the white sheet folded across the dead man's body. He stared, incredulous. He took a few swift strides to look more closely.

Yes— it was money! Silver money! Something began to take shape in the depths of his whirling thoughts

He stared down at the little pattern of coins. They were Turkish mejedies, laid neatly in three little rows, one below the other. Three little rows—ten coins in each!

"Good God!" he whispered with fascinated eyes fixed on the glinting coins. "Thirty pieces of silver!"

End

Table of Contents

- 1: The Dark Star
- 2: Passport to the Desert
- 3: The Eighth Green Man
- 4: The Doomed Treveans
- 5: From the Dark Halls of Hell
- 6: The Laughing Thing
- 7: The Power of the Dog
- 8: The Lord of the Tarn
- 9: The Devil's Graveyard
- 10: The Return
- 11: The Djinnee of El Sheyb
- 12: The Whistling Corpse
- 13: El Hamel, the Lost One
- 14: Werewolf of the Sahara
- 15: The Altar of Melek Taos
- 16: The Secret Trail
- 17: Thirty Pieces of Silver