saw that a Presence was materializing at the fifth vertex. A vibrant
glow like the luminous vapor of a mercury arc was momentarily becoming
more dense and substantial. Lambent flames played about the brows of
the Initiates in the pentacle. A terrific tension pervaded the vault.
The bluish glow became deeper, and was shot with flashes of crimson
and yellowish green. Each drawn face was now a ghastly slate-gray: the
Presence at the fifth vertex was drawing the living essence from the
swaying, gesturing bodies of Hassan and his trio of Initiates.
The Presence took human form: a lordly, satanic visage and a
magnificently muscled body that quivered and throbbed to the droning
chant. Then, rich and clear as a god calling across the wastes of
space, the Presence began declaiming:
"_Al Asfarani! Al Asfarani! Al Asfarani!_ I come from the realm of fire
to command you! I have come out of the depths! Harken! Harken! Harken!
_Al Asfarani!_ Golden One! Step forth from your body and walk into the
darkness among those whose bread is dust! Walk among the lonely dead
and seek Shirkuh! Call him by his name and take him by the hand! Guide
him from the shadows and into the morning!"
[Illustration: "_A terrific tension pervaded the tumult. The Presence
took human form!_"]
The unconscious woman shuddered at the sound of that mighty voice. She
made a despairing gesture as if to resist the command that came from
the fifth vertex. Then she relaxed.
The Presence continued his prodigious chant. Even the brazen
reverberation of the gongs was drowned by his awful utterance.
A thin streamer, like the thread of smoke rising from an
almost-quenched altar flame, rose from Antoinette Delatour's
half-parted lips.
"_Cordieu!_" shouted the Marquis in Farrell's ear. "They're doing it!"
His gestures rather than his voice stirred Farrell to action. They
retreated, then charged crashing against the door. It resisted the
shock. Farrell drew his simitar and hacked at the tropical hardwood. A
carven panel splintered.
"Good God! Look!" he yelled in despair.
The Presence was now towering toward the ceiling. It was bending over
like a monstrous serpent in human form, arching and writhing, reaching
as though over some invisible wall, making passes and gestures over the
silver-white body of Antoinette.
The Initiates in the pentacle were paper-white. They swayed to the
cadence of that great voice whose concussion was now making the very
vault tremble.
The train of smoke-like vapor that emerged from Antoinette's lips was
becoming more dense, and hovered over her body like a veil.
"Quick!" shouted the Marquis, as they frantically hacked the stout
wood. "Hold them, while I exorcise the Presence!"
The door was reinforced with iron rods that bound it together. Their
blades were nicked and saw-toothed from the fierce assault.
"Again!" cried the Marquis as his simitar flashed home.
A chunk of the hardwood tore loose from its severed reinforcement. They
shouldered through, torn and cut by the splinters and the ragged ends
of the rods they had hacked.
A musician cried out and sprang to his feet. And then one of the
Initiates who sat beside the dais saw Farrell and the Marquis as they
dashed across the circular vault. He aroused his comrades from their
fascinated contemplation of the invocation of which they were now
accessories rather than principals. They started as from a deep sleep,
stared for an instant, then drew their simitars and charged to meet
the intruders, and to protect the left flank of the pentacle, from
which the Presence still leaned over the unconscious girl, intoning the
mighty commands that would send her across the Border.
Shoulder to shoulder, Farrell and the Marquis met the assault with
deliberate, deadly pistol fire. The attack was checked; but the enemy
stood fast and firm, protecting the pentacle. And despite the hail of
lead they had poured into the ranks of the Ismailians, Farrell and his
ally were still outnumbered ten to one.
The musicians were salvaging weapons.
There was not enough time to reload the pistols. The Ismailians had
recovered from the shock of their murderous reception, and seeing their
advantage, leaped forward, blades ready.
Then a clash of steel, and a red mill of slaughter. The Marquis
fought with vengeful desperation. He wove in and out, side-stepping
and parrying, shearing and slaying. And Farrell, keeping at his side,
carved a gory path into the enemy. He fought with a blind, unreasoning
fury, seeking to hack his way through the press and clear a road for
the Marquis who could cope with that monstrous Presence that was in
thunderous tones chanting the life and vital essence from Antoinette.
The enemy, sensing that the Marquis was the keystone of the arch,
concentrated their attack on him; and despite his exquisite
swordsmanship, he was being slashed to pieces by a desperation and
force that discounted his skill.
He sank once beneath a whirlwind of blades, and recovered under the
shelter of Farrell's blade; but he was coughing blood from a deep wound.
And Hassan and his trio had left the pentacle. The Presence, now
endowed with the power borrowed from all that the Initiates had
conjured from across the Border, was self-sustaining and no longer
needed its portion of human vitality.
Hassan, behind the line of the assault, directed his Initiates in the
attack.
"Cut him down, O sons of flat-nosed mothers!" he cried, as he saw the
Marquis recover and press forward.
But that magnificent last effort burned out. With a cry of mortal rage,
the Marquis lashed out with a final, devastating stroke, then collapsed
on a heap of slain.
"Finish!" despaired Farrell. He was doomed, and Antoinette also--even
though he could cut his way out. An adept was required to exorcise
that terrific Presence that was drawing her from her body.
But the enemy, instead of closing in to hew him to pieces, gaped
stupidly, then yelled in terror. They were staring at something at his
right, and to the rear. He glanced over his shoulder, compelled by the
consternation that stopped them where they stood.
* * * * *
Farrell lowered his own point, himself struck with awe. He recalled
what the Marquis had said about the denizens of that labyrinth of
passages.
A monstrous, amorphous thing had emerged from the circular pool
into which Hassan had ordered the dead _fedawi_ to be flung. It was
misshapen, and grotesque in its vague semblance to humanity. Its
bulbous head had a single, circular eye the size of a saucer. It
glittered glassily in the bluish, spectral light. The limbs were
shapeless and ponderous, and it lumbered, dripping wet, across the
tiles. Its feet fell with a metallic clank, and its breath hissed and
wheezed.
A second and similar creature was emerging from the water, even as the
first advanced with slow, laborious pace. The hand clutched a short
iron bar.
The bar rose in a sweeping arc and crunched down on the skull of an
Ismailian, spattering blood and brain in a shower. The second monster
clambered over the coping, unlimbered a bludgeon, and with gruesome
deliberation picked a victim and struck.
There was a moment of silence unbroken save for the wheezing breath
of the creatures from the pit. Then the Ismailians yelled in mortal
terror. They forgot Farrell with his dripping blade and bewildered
eyes; they forgot the Marquis, who stirred, and strove to lash out
once more with his red scimitar; they forgot the golden-haired girl,
and the malevolent Presence that, now silent, throbbed and pulsed, an
aggregate of quivering, electric-bluish cold fire.
They broke and fled toward the splintered door.
At the height of their panic, Farrell understood. The monsters were men
in diving-suits.
The Marquis was down. Farrell could not himself thwart that monster
that was drinking Antoinette's vital essence and taking her across
the Border beyond recall; but he could slay until he dropped from
wounds, or from weariness of slaughter. He hurdled the hedge of fallen
Ismailians and with a cry of rage and grief joined his allies to exact
vengeance.
A third diver was at that moment emerging from the pool and joining the
assault against the frenzied enemy, striking them down with remorseless
precision as they struggled to crowd through the splintered panel of
the door that had given Farrell admittance.
Farrell, however, was not the only one whose wits had recovered from
the terror inspired by the apparitions from the black pool.
"Back and face them, _ya mumineen_!" shouted Hassan. "They are men like
ourselves!"
But his attempt to rally his men was vain. Those who abandoned their
efforts to crowd through the jammed door, and circled around to escape
by way of the opposite entrance, were blocked by the arrival of a file
of _fedawi_ who, knives drawn, had come running from the assembly hall.
The dripping revolvers that the divers drew as they discarded their
grappling-irons crackled and flamed, pouring a deadly fire into the new
center of action.
Then Farrell conceived the desperate device of capturing Hassan
and forcing him to recall the elemental monster that was drinking
Antoinette's life. He leaped forward, cutting and slashing his way
through the few who interposed.
"We meet in Paradise, _ya mumineen_!" Hassan shouted, seeing that the
day was lost. And before Farrell could seize him, Hassan released the
trap-door before the dais and dropped into the vault below.
The last hope was gone. Pursuit through those subterranean mazes would
be futile. As Farrell turned from the yawning trap that had allowed the
arch-enemy to escape, the rage of slaughter left him. The crackle of
pistols died out. He saw that the circular chamber was cleared of all
but the dead and wounded Ismailians. The divers, handicapped by their
heavy suits, could not carry out an effective pursuit of the survivors
of their deadly fire.
Weary and despairing, Farrell nerved himself to confront the diabolical
creature that was drawing Antoinette across the border. He turned----
The Marquis des Islots was raising his hacked, bleeding body from a
heap of slain. He tottered, swayed, then advanced toward the lambent
flame-presence. Farrell stared in fascination as that gory wreck of
a man advanced, making ritual gestures with his faltering hands, and
muttering in a low voice.
The Presence was shrinking and dimming, and that shimmering exhalation
from Antoinette's lips was being retracted. The Marquis sustained
himself with will alone. He staggered, sank--Farrell's heart sank with
him--he recovered, stepped forward again, still gesticulating and
murmuring. The Presence leaned forward to confront him, and menaced him
with its remaining energy, seeking to outlive the dying adept.
The Marquis' bleeding, gashed face was drawn and white; his eyes
were fixed and staring. He achieved another pass; then he collected
himself, paused, and instead of murmuring, thundered a final phrase of
command.
The Presence vanished; and the last vestige of grayish, luminous haze
disappeared between Antoinette's lips.
Farrell leaped forward in time to catch the Marquis as he collapsed.
* * * * *
The divers, returning from the farther entrance at which the Ismailians
had made their last stand, lifted one another's domed helmets. Then,
grimy and exultant, Pierre d'Artois and the two members of the _Sûreté_
gathered about Farrell and the Marquis, who was regaining a little of
his strength.
"_Messieurs_," he said, as he gestured toward Antoinette, "she is safe.
She will presently awaken. It can not return. _Jamais!_... It was my
fault ... in the beginning ... but this infamy was not my intent.... I
loved her, but she rejected me ... persistently. And for revenge ...
and to break her spirit ... I administered without her knowledge a
compound ... of hypnotic drugs ... so that she and that Syrian girl
would each night exchange bodies ... then Hassan took a hand...."
He regarded d'Artois for a moment.
"You, _monsieur_, doubtless understand----" Then, to Farrell, "But this
last infamy ... was not mine--Shirkuh and Hassan--I tried to make ...
amends----"
For an instant Farrell regarded the dying man with revulsion. Then he
saw the remorse on the drawn, blood-splashed features, and thought
of the Marquis' last gallant stand, confronting and exorcising that
diabolical presence from beyond the Border.
"Stout fellow," he muttered, as he grasped the Marquis' hand.
"_C'est fini_," murmured d'Artois a moment later. "Magnificent in his
death as he was misguided in his life ... dying on his feet, he had the
will to conquer, and make restitution."
Then d'Artois rose and glanced about him.
"Do you know the way out of here?"
"Through that door," directed Farrell. "He told me, before we made our
rush."
"_Messieurs_," suggested d'Artois, "be ready with your pistols, should
any of these assassins be lingering. I will take charge of the young
lady, and you, my friend, lead the way. _Monsieur le Marquis_ perhaps
deserves greater courtesy, but we can not carry his body and take the
risk of being caught without weapons drawn and ready."
Farrell led the way. Without much difficulty, he found the passage
that opened into the vault where he had lain while regaining his
consciousness preliminary to submitting to Hassan's tests. And from
there they finally emerged in the heart of the citadel. A few moments
later Farrell and d'Artois, carrying Antoinette, met Raoul where he was
waiting at the wheel of the Renault.
_9. D'Artois Is Envious_
Antoinette, an hour later, was entirely herself.
"Oh, it's wonderful to be out of that awful garden," she said, and
curled herself up in the depth of a large, upholstered chair. "And now
that _Monsieur le Médicin_ admits that I'm as good as new, you might
satisfy my curiosity on a few points. How did you ever----"
She glanced up at Farrell, who had seated himself on the arm of her
chair. He was not yet through convincing himself that Satan's Garden
was a thing of the past, and insisted on keeping Antoinette within
arm's reach.
"Suppose you ask Pierre," he said.
D'Artois laughed.
"After all, _mon vieux_, you were responsible. We found two bodies
floating down the Nive. One of them wore--oh, very becomingly, I assure
you!--a knife in his stomach. The _Sûreté_ informed me. I identified
the knife. It was one of mine, which you had taken from my collection
to wear while disguised as Ibrahim the Afghan ruffian.
"'_Alors_,' said I, 'Ibrahim Khan has given good account of himself.
Perhaps, but God forbid, his own body will follow. I assure you that we
watched with anxiety. But no further signs. At low tide, however--you
know, the Nive rises and falls with the tide, since we're so close to
the sea--we found another body, mainly as the result of our continued
close watch for yours. This one was wedged near the central of the
seven bridges. We investigated, and found an uncharted drain of
considerable diameter.
"'_Mordieu_,' said I to _Monsieur_ the Prefect, 'if bodies came out,
bodies can also go in.' We got diving-suits. The tide in the meanwhile
rose, but we had the location well marked. We advanced up the drain
until we came to a dead end. Even before we left the water we heard the
clash and crackle of your skirmish----"
"Massacre, you mean," interpolated Farrell, grinning as much as his
bandages permitted. "Not a second too soon."
"_Eh bien_, we shut our exhaust air-valves and thus rose to the
surface. Our grappling-irons snagged to the coping helped us unaided
over the top. Then we sliced our airlines and lifelines, opened our
exhausts and----"
"Scared them out of a week's growth!" added Farrell as d'Artois paused
to light a cigarette. "But that damnable thing all of quivering
fire--good Lord!"
"That," submitted d'Artois, "is something that I can explain but
vaguely, if at all. I called it some more mummery, and decided, rather
hastily, perhaps, that you and the Marquis needed help first of all.
On reflection, and in view of some of your remarks since we left, I am
of the opinion that it was either an elemental conjured up by those
devil-mongering adepts, or else a wandering and malignant astral that
was energized by the vital essence of the adepts, or perhaps by the
vibration concentration of their ritual. _Monsieur le Marquis_, God
rest his erring soul, could doubtless explain what it was, since he
used his last spark of will to combat it and thwart its attempt to
convert Mademoiselle Antoinette into--what did you tell me?--a courier
to call Shirkuh from the hell in which he now must be roasting.
"I would very much relish," continued d'Artois, "questioning Hassan,
who devised all that deviltry. But alas! he escaped. And while you,
both of you, were causing the good doctor a certain amount of concern,
I heard that the _Sûreté_ and a handful of _gendarmes_ cleaned out the
entire nest. Unhappily, two were taken alive of that crew of assassins.
And of course, those lovely ladies of the garden."
Farrell sighed from weariness and contentment, then grimaced from the
ache of his wounds.
"The Marquis," he observed, "didn't have time to explain how that
hypnotic drug enabled him to project Antoinette's _self_ into the
body of the Syrian bride of the garden--Lord, it's impossible to
imagine how a brave fellow like him could have let his resentment and
disappointment carry him to such lengths! Having her scourged by proxy,
so to speak."
"Too much occultism and devil-mongering upset his brilliant mind,"
replied d'Artois. "Somber, gloomy, and drunk with his talents. And
translating Antoinette into the body of a bride of the garden, whom he
could flog at will, was his warped expression of denied affection. As
to just how he accomplished it, we can but surmise. Strange drugs are
compounded in the Orient. When I complete the analysis of the pastries
they offered us that night at the château, I may further enlighten you."
"But the stripes and welts that appeared on Antoinette's body?"
wondered Farrell.
"For once you ask me something simple," retorted d'Artois. "Did you
know that if a hypnotic is touched with a pencil, for example, and
offered the suggestion that it is a red-hot iron, he will develop a
blister, and all the symptoms of a burn at the spot touched? Moll and
others concede that point with very little argument. It has often been
experimentally demonstrated.
"_Alors_, the body of the Syrian girl was scourged. Antoinette's
_self_, though in a borrowed body, retained what we can roughly call
an astral connection with her own body; otherwise she could not have
returned to it at the end of each ordeal. And through this connection,
the body of Antoinette developed the same welts that were raised on
the skin of the Syrian girl; just as, by rough analogy, the hypnotic
subject through suggestion shows all outward signs of a burn. And the
marks of the heavy anklets the Syrian bride of the garden wore were
similarly branded on Antoinette's ankles.
"The Marquis during his unsuccessful courtship of Antoinette had ample
opportunities to administer the hypnotic drug at which he hinted, so
that his influence could have been gained without her knowledge. This,
together with the objective symptoms, convinces me that if it was not
the conventional hypnosis we know, it was at least a quasi-hypnosis.
And as you know, there are vegetable compounds which, if properly
administered, will effect a partial release of the astral counterpart
of a body, or its spiritual essence. To pursue it to its origin would
lead you to a study of Egyptian magic, and the nine traditional
elements of every living human body.
"I will leave all this to you, _mon vieux_, to study, this matter of
stigmata resulting from suggestion and other psychic influences. Me, I
am no lecturer.
"And as to Antoinette's Arabic remarks in her sleep: the bride of the
garden, dispossessed of her body for the time, sought Antoinette's. And
by that astral connection which she retained with her own, she felt the
scourgings administered in the garden, and expressed herself, through
Antoinette's lips, as you heard."
D'Artois emerged from his chair and bowed with formal precision.
"I will therefore leave you here, my blundering Afghan, to have your
wounds properly nursed while I go about doing all that an old man
can do under the circumstances: envy you, and write a monograph on
_Messieurs les Assassins_, and Satan's Garden, from which you so
happily emerged."
With a peremptory gesture, he cut short Antoinette's insistence upon
his pausing for at least a moment. Then, halting at the door, he
concluded as he glanced at Farrell, "_Mordieu_, and to think that you
enjoyed all that fine sword-play, while I, Pierre d'Artois, had to
wear a diving-suit to find a fight, and then had to use a crowbar! In
_several_ ways I envy you."
THE END