Three hundred yards from the old road he came upon that which he
sought--an ancient trail paralleling the road. Choked with young
growth, it was little more than a trace through the thick pines. He
knew that it ran to the back of the Ballville mansion; did not believe
the secret watchers would be guarding it. For how could they know he
remembered it? He hurried south along it, his ears whetted for any sound. Sight alone
could not be trusted in that forest. The mansion, he knew, was not far
away, now. He was passing through what had once been fields, in the
days of Richard's grandfather, running almost up to the spacious lawns
that girdled the Manor. But for half a century they had been abandoned
to the advance of the forest. But now he glimpsed the Manor, a hint of solid bulk among the pine tops
ahead of him. And almost simultaneously his heart shot into his throat
as a scream of human anguish knifed the stillness. He could not tell
whether it was a man or a woman who screamed, and his thought that
it might be a woman winged his feet in his reckless dash toward the
building that loomed starkly up just beyond the straggling fringe of
trees. The young pines had even invaded the once generous lawns. The whole
place wore an aspect of decay. Behind the Manor, the barns, and
outhouses which once housed slave families, were crumbling in ruin. The mansion itself seemed to totter above the litter, a creaky giant,
rat-gnawed and rotting, ready to collapse at any untoward event. With
the stealthy tread of a tiger Bristol McGrath approached a window on
the side of the house. From that window sounds were issuing that were
an affront to the tree-filtered sunlight and a crawling horror to the
brain. Nerving himself for what he might see, he peered within. _2. Black Torture_


He was looking into a great dusty chamber which might have served as a
ballroom in ante-bellum days; its lofty ceiling was hung with cobwebs,
its rich oak panels showed dark and stained. But there was a fire in
the great fireplace--a small fire, just large enough to heat to a white
glow the slender steel rods thrust into it. But it was only later that Bristol McGrath saw the fire and the things
that glowed on the hearth. His eyes were gripped like a spell on the
master of the Manor; and once again he looked on a dying man. A heavy beam had been nailed to the paneled wall, and from it jutted a
rude cross-piece. From this cross-piece Richard Ballville hung by cords
about his wrists. His toes barely touched the floor, tantalizingly,
inviting him to stretch his frame continually in an effort to relieve
the agonizing strain on his arms. The cords had cut deeply into his
wrists; blood trickled down his arms; his hands were black and swollen
almost to bursting. He was naked except for his trousers, and McGrath
saw that already the white-hot irons had been horribly employed. There
was reason enough for the deathly pallor of the man, the cold beads of
agony upon his skin. Only his fierce vitality had allowed him thus long
to survive the ghastly burns on his limbs and body. On his breast had been burned a curious symbol--a cold hand laid itself
on McGrath's spine. For he recognized that symbol, and once again his
memory raced away across the world and the years to a black, grim,
hideous jungle where drums bellowed in fire-shot darkness and naked
priests of an abhorred cult traced a frightful symbol in quivering
human flesh. Between the fireplace and the dying man squatted a thick-set black man,
clad only in ragged, muddy trousers. His back was toward the window,
presenting an impressive pair of shoulders. His bullet-head was set
squarely between those gigantic shoulders, like that of a frog, and he
appeared to be avidly watching the face of the man on the cross-piece. Richard Ballville's bloodshot eyes were like those of a tortured
animal, but they were fully sane and conscious; they blazed with
desperate vitality. He lifted his head painfully and his gaze swept the
room. Outside the window McGrath instinctively shrank back. He did not
know whether Ballville saw him or not. The man showed no sign to betray
the presence of the watcher to the bestial black who scrutinized
him. Then the brute turned his head toward the fire, reaching a long
ape-like arm toward a glowing iron--and Ballville's eyes blazed with a
fierce and urgent meaning the watcher could not mistake. McGrath did
not need the agonized motion of the tortured head that accompanied
the look. With a tigerish bound he was over the window-sill and in
the room, even as the startled black shot erect, whirling with apish
agility. [Illustration: "He reached a long, ape-like arm toward a glowing iron."] McGrath had not drawn his gun. He dared not risk a shot that might
bring other foes upon him. There was a butcher-knife in the belt that
held up the ragged, muddy trousers. It seemed to leap like a living
thing into the hand of the black as he turned. But in McGrath's hand
gleamed a curved Afghan dagger that had served him well in many a
bygone battle. Knowing the advantage of instant and relentless attack, he did not
pause. His feet scarcely touched the floor inside before they were
hurling him at the astounded black man. An inarticulate cry burst from the thick red lips. The eyes rolled
wildly, the butcher-knife went back and hissed forward with the
swiftness of a striking cobra that would have disemboweled a man whose
thews were less steely than those of Bristol McGrath. But the black was involuntarily stumbling backward as he struck, and
that instinctive action slowed his stroke just enough for McGrath to
avoid it with a lightning-like twist of his torso. The long blade
hissed under his arm-pit, slicing cloth and skin--and simultaneously
the Afghan dagger ripped through the black, bull throat. *       *       *       *       *

There was no cry, but only a choking gurgle as the man fell, spouting
blood. McGrath had sprung free as a wolf springs after delivering the
death-stroke. Without emotion he surveyed his handiwork. The black man
was already dead, his head half severed from his body. That slicing
sidewise lunge that slew in silence, severing the throat to the spinal
column, was a favorite stroke of the hairy hillmen that haunt the crags
overhanging the Khyber Pass. Less than a dozen white men have ever
mastered it. Bristol McGrath was one. McGrath turned to Richard Ballville. Foam dripped on the seared, naked
breast, and blood trickled from the lips. McGrath feared that Ballville
had suffered the same mutilation that had rendered Ahmed speechless;
but it was only suffering and shock that numbed Ballville's tongue. McGrath cut his cords and eased him down on a worn old divan near by. Ballville's lean, muscle-corded body quivered like taut steel strings
under McGrath's hands. He gagged, finding his voice. "I knew you'd come!" he gasped, writhing at the contact of the divan
against his seared flesh.