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screams had ceased, but the whole castle was in an uproar, voices shouting, the clank of weapons, lights flashing up, Dom Vincente’s voice shouting for the soldiers, the noise of armed men rushing through the rooms and falling over each other. With all the confusion, Desmarte, the Spaniard, and I reached Marcita’s room just as Luigi darted inside and snatched his sister into his arms.
    Others rushed in, carrying lights and weapons, shouting, demanding to know what was occurring.
    The girl lay quietly in her brother’s arms, her dark hair loose and rippling over her shoulders, her dainty night-garments torn to shreds and exposing her lovely body. Long scratches showed upon her arms, breasts and shoulders.
    Presently she opened her eyes, shuddered, then shrieked wildly and clung frantically to Luigi, begging him not to let something take her.
    “The door!” she whimpered. “I left it unbarred. And something crept into my room through the darkness.
    I struck at it with my dagger and it hurled me to the floor, tearing, tearing at me. Then I fainted.”
    “Where is von Schiller?” asked the Spaniard, a fierce glint in his dark eyes. Every man glanced at his neighbor. All the guests were there except the German. I noted de Montour, gazing at the terrified girl, his face more haggard than usual. And I thought it strange that he wore no weapon.
    “Aye, von Schiller!” exclaimed Desmarte fiercely. And half of us followed Dom Vincente out into the corridor. We began a vengeful search through the castle, and in a small, dark hallway we found von Schiller. On his face he lay, in a crimson, ever widening stain.
    “This is the work of some native!” exclaimed Desmarte, face aghast.
    “Nonsense,” bellowed Dom Vincente. “No native from the outside could pass the soldiers. All slaves, von Schiller’s among them, were barred and bolted in the slave quarters, except Gola, who sleeps in Pierre’s room, and Ysabel’s woman.”

    “But who else could have done this deed?” exclaimed Desmarte in a fury.
    “You!” I said abruptly; “else why ran you so swiftly away from the room of Marcita?”
    “Curse you, you lie!” he shouted, and his swift-drawn sword leaped for my breast; but quick as he was, the Spaniard was quicker. Desmarte’s rapier clattered against the wall and Desmarte stood like a statue, the Spaniard’s motionless point just touching his throat.
    “Bind him,” said the Spaniard without passion.
    “Put down your blade, Don Florenzo,” commanded Dom Vincente, striding forward and dominating the scene. “ Signor Desmarte, you are one of my best friends, but I am the only law here and duty must be done. Give your word that you will not seek to escape.”
    “I give it,” replied the Gascon calmly. “I acted hastily. I apologize. I was not intentionally running away, but the halls and corridors of this cursed castle confuse me.”
    Of us all, probably but one man believed him.
    “ Messieurs !” De Montour stepped forward. “This youth is not guilty. Turn the German over.”
    Two soldiers did as he asked. De Montour shuddered, pointing. The rest of us glanced once, then recoiled in horror.
    “Could man have done that thing?”
    “With a dagger–” began someone.
    “No dagger makes wounds like that,” said the Spaniard. “The German was torn to pieces by the talons of some frightful beast.”
    We glanced about us, half expecting some hideous monster to leap upon us from the shadows.

    We searched that castle; every foot, every inch of it. And we found no trace of any beast.
    Dawn was breaking when I returned to my room, to find that Gola had barred himself in; and it took me nearly a half-hour to convince him to let me in.
    Having smacked him soundly and berated him for his cowardice, I told him what had taken place, as he could understand French and could speak a weird mixture which he proudly called French.
    His mouth gaped and only the whites of his eyes showed as the tale reached its