where the deer stood knee-deep in the bracken.
It was a fair and perfect picture of a noble English homestead, far enough removed apparently from crime and violence. And yet!
A deep sigh burst from the old man’s breast; his lips quivered. The shadow of that awful fear was in his eyes. Not that he feared for himself, for the snows of seventy years lay upon his head, and his life’s work was done.
It was others he was thinking of. The bright bars of the setting sun shone on a young and graceful couple below coming towards the moat. A tender light filled old Ravenspur’s eyes.
Then he started as a gay laugh reached his ears. The sound caught him almost like a blow. Where had he heard a laugh like that before? It seemed strangely out of place. And yet those two were young, and they loved one another. Under happier auspices, Geoffrey Ravenspur would some day come into the wide acres and noble revenues, and take his cousin Vera to wife.
“May God spare them!” Ravenspur cried aloud. “Surely the curse must burn itself out some time, or the truth must come to light. If I could only live to know that they were to be happy!”
The words were a fervent prayer. The dying sun that turned the towers and turrets of the castle to a golden glory fell on his white, quivering face. It lit up the agony of the strong man with despair upon him. He turned as a hand lay light as thistledown on his arm.
“Amen with all my heart, dear grandfather,” a gentle voice murmured. “I could not help hearing what you said.”
Ravenspur smiled mournfully. He looked down into a pure, young face, gentle and placid, like that of a madonna, and yet full of strength. The dark brown eyes were so clear that the white soul seemed to gleam behind them. There was Hindoo blood in Marion Ravenspur’s veins, but she bore no trace of the fact. And out of the seven surviving members of that ill-fated race, Marion was the most beloved. All relied upon her, all trusted her. In the blackest hour her courage never faltered; she never bowed before the unseen terror.
Ravenspur turned upon her almost fiercely.
“We must save Vera and Geoffrey,” he said. “They must be preserved. The whole future of our race lies with those two young people. Watch over them, Marion; shield Vera from every harm. I know that she loves you. Swear that you will protect her from every evil!”
“There is no occasion to swear anything,” Marion said in her clear, sweet voice. “Dear, don’t you know that I am devoted heart and soul to your interests? When my parents died, and I elected to come here in preference to returning to my mother’s people, you received me with open arms. Do you suppose that I could ever forget the love and affection that have been poured upon me? If I can save Vera she is already saved. But why do you speak like this to-day?”
Ravenspur gave a quick glance around him.
“Because my time has come,” he whispered hoarsely. “Keep this to yourself, Marion, for I have told nobody but you. The black assassin is upon me. I wake at nights with fearful pains at my heart—I cannot breathe. I have to fight for my life, as my brother Charles fought for his two years ago. To-morrow morning I may be found dead in my bed—as Charles was. Then there will be an inquest, and the doctors will be puzzled, as they were before.”
“Grandfather! You are not afraid?”
“Afraid! I am glad—glad, I tell you. I am old and careworn, and the suspense is gradually sapping my senses. Better death, swift and terrible, than that. But not a word of this to the rest, as you love me!”
II - THE WANDERER RETURNS
The hour was growing late, and the family were dining in the great hall. Rupert Ravenspur sat at the head of the table, with Gordon’s wife opposite him. The lovers sat smiling and happy side by side. Across the table Marion beamed gently upon the company. Nothing ever seemed to eclipse her quiet gaiety; she was the life and soul of the party. There was something angelic about the girl as she sat there clad in soft, diaphanous white.
Lamps gleamed on the fair damask, on the feathery daintiness of flowers, and on the lush purple and gold and russet of grapes and peaches. From the walls long lines of bygone Ravenspurs looked down—fair women in hoops and farthingale, men in armor. There was a flash of color from the painted roof.
Presently the soft-footed servants would quit the castle for the night, for under the new order of things nobody slept in the castle excepting the family. Also, it was the solemn duty of each servitor to taste every dish as it came to the table. A strange precaution, but necessary in the circumstances.
For the moment the haunting terror was forgotten. Wines red and white gleamed and sparkled in crystal glasses. Rupert Ravenspur’s worn, white face relaxed. They were a doomed race, and they knew it; yet laughter was there, a little saddened, but eyes brightened as they looked from one to another.
By and bye the servants began to withdraw. The cloth was drawn in the old-fashioned way, a long row of decanters stood before the head of the house and was reflected in the shining, brown polished mahogany. Big log fires danced and glowed from the deep ingle-nooks; from outside came the sense of the silence.
An aged butler stood before Ravenspur with a key on a salver.
“I fancy that is all, sir,” he said.
Ravenspur rose and made his way along the corridor to the outer doorway. Here he counted the whole of the domestic staff carefully past the drawbridge, and then the portcullis was raised. Ravenspur Castle and its inhabitants were cut off from the outer world. Nobody could molest them till morning.
And yet the curl of a bitter smile was on Ravenspur’s face as he returned to the dining-hall. Even in the face of these precautions two of the garrison had gone down before the unseen hand of the assassin. There was some comfort in the reflection that the outer world was barred off, but it was futile, childish, in vain.
The young people, with Mrs. Charles, had risen from the table and had gathered on the pile of skins and cushions in one of the ingle-nooks. Gordon Ravenspur was sipping his claret and holding a cigar with a hand that trembled.
Hardy man as he was, the shadow lay upon him also; indeed, it lay upon them all. If the black death failed to strike, then madness would come creeping in its track. Thus it was that evening generally found the family all together. There was something soothing in the presence of numbers.
They were talking quietly, almost in whispers. Occasionally a laugh would break from Vera, only to be suppressed with a smile of apology. Ravenspur looked fondly into the blue eyes of the dainty little beauty whom they all loved so dearly.
“I hope I didn’t offend you, grandfather,” she said.
In that big hall voices sounded strained and loud. Ravenspur smiled.
“Nothing you could do would offend me,” he said. “It may be possible that a kindly Providence will permit me to hear the old roof ringing with laughter again. It may be, perhaps, that that is reserved for strangers when we are all gone.”
“Only seven left,” Gordon murmured.
“Eight, father,” Vera suggested. She looked up from the lounge on the floor with the flicker of the
