"With this I could end your life quite
painlessly and quickly. It really would prove entertaining for Miss
Bradley, I'm sure." He chuckled faintly behind bruised and swollen
lips. Cliff squirmed, striving to rise, then subsided instantly. He was
bound hand and foot. "I _could_ kill you," Corio repeated musingly, "but that would lack
finesse." His teeth bared in a feline smile. "And it would be such a
waste--of blood! Instead, I'll take you out to the galley and let you
lie there till her crew awakens tonight. They have tasted blood, and
after tonight will taste none again for another month. I imagine
they'll--drain you dry!" The last phrase was a vicious snarl. Cliff heard Vilma utter a suppressed sob, and he turned his head. She
lay close by, bound like him with strips of leather. Furiously Cliff
strained at his fetters, but they held. "And while you wait for those gentle Persians to awaken," Corio
continued in tones caressingly soft, "you can think of your sweetheart
in my arms! It may teach you not to strike your betters--though you
can never profit by your lesson." Stooping, he raised Cliff's powerful form and managed to fling him
over one shoulder. Then he moved from the great hall, down the stone
steps, and across the dead plain with its sighing skeleton trees. He
was panting jerkily by the time he came to the fissure leading to the
cove, but he reached it, despite Cliff's two hundred pounds. Without
pausing, he went on into the cavern, along the rock ledge, to step at
last upon the deck of the black galley. "Pleasant thoughts," he said gently as he dropped Cliff to the spongy
boards. "You have only to wait till dark!" Cliff listened to his rapid footfalls till they died in distance; then
there was no sound save his own breathing. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the heavy gloom, and he saw
that Corio had dropped him just at the edge of the rowers' pit. There
were white things down there--bones, pale as marble, scattered about
aimlessly. Could--could those bones join to make the rowers who would
arise with the night? It seemed absurd--_was_ absurd--yet he knew it
was so! He had seen too much to doubt it. He rolled over on his back and stared upward into the shadows. He must
lie here helpless while Corio returned to Vilma--did with her as he
pleased! Perhaps he might even transform her into a blood-tainted
monster like himself! He saw her again in that room of ancient
splendor, spread-eagled to the bed; and the muscles corded in his
arms, and his lips strained white in a futile effort to break free. Interminably he lay there waiting. The galley was damp with the
chilling dampness of a sepulcher, and the dampness penetrated deeper
and deeper. Clamping his jaws together to prevent their quivering, he
struggled against a rising tide of madness which gnawed at his reason. His mind began to crunch and jangle like a machine out of gear,
threatening to destroy itself. On and on in plodding indifference the stolid moments passed, till at
last Cliff realized that it was growing darker. He rolled over on his
side and stared into the galley pit, eyes fixed on the inert masses of
white. Soon they would move! Soon the undead would rise! His thoughts,
touched by the whips of dread, sped about like slaves seeking escape
from a torture pit. And abruptly out of the welter of chaotic ideas
came one straw of sanity; he seized it, his heart hammering with hope. Those Persian sailors were armed! Their swords and knives were real,
for they cut flesh! Somewhere among their bones must lie sharp-edged
blades! He struggled to the edge of the pit, let his feet drop over. As they
touched, he balanced precariously for an instant, then fell to his
knees. He peered feverishly about among white bones, moldering
garments, and rusted armor--and saw a faint glimmer of light on
pointed steel. He sank forward on his face in the direction of the
gleam, turned over, squirmed and writhed till he felt the cold blade
against his hands. He caught it between his fingers and began sawing
back and forth. It was heart-breaking work. Age had dulled the weapon, and long
slivers of rust flaked off, but the leather which bound him was also
ancient. Though progress was slow, and the effort laborious, Cliff
knew his bonds were weakening. But it was growing darker. Even now he could see only a suggestion of
gray among the shadows. If those undead things materialized while he
lay among them!... Sweat stood out on his forehead and he redoubled
his efforts, straining at the leather as he sawed. With a snap the cords parted and his hands were free. A single slash
severed the thongs about his ankles, and he stood up, leaped to the
deck. Not an instant too soon! There was movement in the pit--a
hideous crawling of bones assembling themselves into skeletal form....

Cliff waited to see no more. There were limits to what one could see
and remain sane. With a bound he crossed the rotting deck, and sprang
ashore. Despite the dark, he almost ran from the madness of that cave,
ran till he passed through the wall of rock, till he saw the rim of
the moon gleaming behind the castle. _5. The End of the Island_

Out on the plain he sprinted through the ghostly forest. He knew he
had no time to spare--knew that soon the march of torture would
begin--knew that if Vilma were within the castle, she must answer the
summons of Corio's horn. Even now light glowed faintly in the high,
square windows. That horn! At the foot of the steps he stopped short. If _he_ heard
the horn, he too must answer! He dared not risk it. With impatient
fingers he tore a strip of cloth from his shirt, rolled it into a
cylinder, and thrust it into his ear. Another for the other ear--and
he darted up into the castle. A sweeping glance revealed no one, only the murky glow of the altar
fire, and the wraiths of smoke pluming upward toward the shadowed
roof. Wishing now that he had brought a weapon from the galley, Cliff
crossed to the opening in the wall. He stood at the top of the steps,
listening, then cursed silently as he remembered that he could hear
none but very loud sounds. He saw nothing; so he hastened down into
the corridor. His steps were swiftly stealthy as he moved toward
Corio's room. He was past the first branching passage, when a sixth sense warned him
of someone's approach. He ran swiftly to the next fork, then paused
within its shelter and glanced back, saw five red-cowled figures glide
along the tunnel and vanish up the stairway. Cliff frowned. With the
vampires in the great hall, Corio must soon follow, leading his
victims to the blood-feast. He drew back deeper into the shadows. His groping hands touched something in the dark--round and hard--like
a keg. Curiously he investigated. It _was_ a keg, and there were
others. A sandy powder trailed to the floor from a crack in one of
them. Thoughtfully Cliff let it run through his fingers. Gunpowder!