And no blade leaped toward him; no
thirsty lips closed on his flesh! In an unwavering line he mounted
toward the cowled monster in the center of the dais, like a puppet on
the end of a string; mounted to pause before the stone altar, to lie
on it, head bent back, throat bared.... Mercifully Cliff regained
enough control to close his eyes. He opened them at a gasp from Vilma; saw the vampire raise the flaccid
body of Les Starke and hurl it far from him, to crash to the stone
steps, to roll and thud and tumble, down and down, sickeningly, to lie
awkwardly twisted on the floor before his companions! And another began to climb the long stone steps....

All through the interminable night Cliff and Vilma crouched on the
ledge, staring through the barred window. A hundred times they would
have fled to escape the maddening scene, but they could not move. Senses reeled before the awful monotony of the ceaseless climbing,
their eyes smarted with fixed staring, their tongues and throats were
parched to desert dryness; yet only after hours of endless watching,
only after the last victim had climbed the steps, did the edge of
terror dull, and a modicum of control return to their bodies. Stiffly Cliff looked over his shoulder. A faint tinge of gray rimmed
the sea on the eastern horizon. "Almost daylight," he whispered hoarsely. Vilma nodded, her gaze still held by that chamber of horror. Cliff
followed the direction of her eyes; and saw Corio standing like a
great bat in his hooded cape close to the far wall. He raised his
four-piped horn to his lips. And the instrument's fourth note crept
through the room. *       *       *       *       *

It was a doleful sound, a cry like the cry Death itself might possess;
yet oddly--and horribly--it was soothing, promising the peace of
endless sleep. And touched by its power, the columns of undead
stiffened, thinned to wraiths, flowed as water flows down the stone
steps, vanished! The dead-alive--those five vampires in crimson cowls--looked upward
uneasily. The shadows under the roof were graying with the light of
dawn. Cliff could sense their thought. Before sunrise they must be in
their tombs under the castle, to sleep until another night. With one
accord they strode down the stairs, past Corio who had prostrated
himself, and entered a black opening in the wall. With their departure
the altar fire dimmed to a sullen ember. Corio arose. He was alone in the chamber save for that dead, broken
body lying in a twisted heap at the foot of the stairs, and those
other half-alive wretches stretched out before the altar. Now, Cliff
told himself, was the time for him to get in there at Corio; now was
the time to rescue his friends--but he continued to crouch, unmoving. Again Corio blew on his silver horn, and a faint cry leaped from
Vilma's tensed lips. The luring note that had drawn her, Cliff thought
hazily; then he thought of nothing save the sound, the sound that
promised him all he could desire. Earth and its dominion, his for the
taking--if he answered that call!... Then even the sound eluded his
senses, and he heard only the promise.... He must answer, must claim
what was rightfully his! But those half-dead creatures--sight of their stirring steadied his
staggering sanity. Here and there heads lifted and bloodless husks of
bodies tried to rise. In the pallid light they seemed like corpses,
freed from newly opened graves. Some could only reach their knees;
others rose to uncertain limbs. And all moved down the stairway toward
Corio, answering his summons; followed as he made his slow way toward
the opening in the wall, still blowing the single note--the note that
promised Earth and all it held....

Cliff glanced toward Vilma--and she was not there. He looked down, saw
her far below, dropping from crack to crevice with amazing speed and
daring, hastening toward--Corio! The thought jarred any lingering taint of allurement from Cliff's
mind. He must stop her. He swung around, ignoring the cramped
stiffness of his legs, and started down the steep wall. Down, down,
recklessly, with Corio's horn-note only a faintly heard sound fading
behind him. Now he saw Vilma reach the rocks below and dash around the corner of
the castle, and he cursed, redoubling his speed. Down--down--and
suddenly the ancient rock crumbled underfoot. For an instant he hung
from straining fingertips--then dropped. A smashing impact--a stone that slid beneath him--and his head crashed
against the castle wall. Through a fiery mist of pain he pictured
Vilma in the grasp of Corio. The mist thickened--grew black--engulfed
him. _4. In Corio's Hands_

Cliff awoke with the sun glaring down on his face. He opened his eyes,
and stabbing lances of light pierced his eyeballs. Momentarily
blinded, he pressed his hands across his face and struggled erect. There was a sick feeling in his stomach, and the back of his head
throbbed incessantly. He touched the aching area, and winced. A lump
like an egg thrust out his scalp; it was sticky with blood. He stood
there, weaving from side to side, trying to recall something....

As memory came, he groaned. Vilma! He had last seen her racing madly
toward Corio, lured by his damned horn. It was daylight now; the sun
had risen at least an hour ago. An hour--with Vilma gone! Shaking his head to clear it, and gritting his teeth at the pain, he
stalked along the wall. Turning the corner he strode on toward the
crooked steps. The lifeless terrain reeled dizzily, but he went on
resolutely. The pain in his head was fading to a dull ache; and as he
mounted the steps, strength seemed to flow back into his legs. With
every sense taut he passed into the gloom of the castle. A quick glance he cast about--saw the body of Starke lying where it
had fallen. No use to examine it; there was no life there. His gaze
swept up the slope of the stairway to the altar at its head, lingered
on the phosphorescent eye of light still glowing there. Then he
shrugged grimly and moved on to the doorway in the wall. Warily he
peered in. As his eyes adjusted themselves to the greater darkness, he saw a
narrow stairway leading downward into a shadowy corridor. Somewhere in
the tunnel's depths a faint light shone. He could see nothing more. He
moved stealthily down the damp, dank stairs. At the bottom he paused, listening. He could hear nothing. A hundred
feet ahead, the corridor divided in two; a burning torch was thrust in
the wall at the junction. Cliff nodded with satisfaction. Corio _must_
be somewhere near by; for only a human needed light. Silently Cliff strode along the corridor. At the fork he hesitated,
then chose the right branch, for light glowed faintly along that
passageway. The other led downward, black as the pits of hell. A doorway appeared in the wall ahead, and he moved warily, with fists
clenched. Flickering torchlight filtered into the corridor. There was
no audible sound.