And he spread his arms in a grandiose gesture, then lowered them and raised a warning finger at me. "But you would be wise, now, to come to me of your own accord. Why struggle, when it is clear you can do nothing to stop me?"

"Then kill me," I said. It was not merely a dare; my grief at being unable to save Lucy left me in an agony of hopelessness. "Kill me honestly, and deliver me to Death uncorrupted, if indeed I am of no worth to you."

A spasm of fury contorted his features. He swept the air with his arm as though dealing a back-handed blow; my head and upper torso smashed against the floor again so violently that the air was forced from my lungs, leaving me for an agonising minute unable to draw a breath.

In the midst of my struggle, the maids rushed in crying out as their bare feet found the scattered gla.s.s. When one of them managed to light the lamp, they began to shriek in earnest. Lucy miraculously revived and, once they had freed her from beneath her mother's weighty body and wrapped it in a sheet, tried to calm them. When that failed, she sent them all away to have a gla.s.s of wine once Mrs. Westenra's corpse was laid out on the bed, for they were weeping with hysterical abandon. All this took place without any of the women noticing either intruder in Miss Lucy's bedchamber; nor did they notice when Vlad abruptly disappeared.

Yet I know he remained nearby, I lay in anguished helplessness on the floor, unable to move, and though I could speak, my cries went unheard. Mental concentration? I had none, and therefore my own efforts to remain invisible had lapsed when Vlad appeared. Yet he had apparently power enough to spare in that regard, for poor Miss Lucy could neither see nor hear me. Weeping silently, she put on the slippers beside her bed, then gathered up all the garlic blossoms strewn upon the floor and window ledge, and even the crushed ones her mother had pulled from around her neck. These she laid with heartbreaking tenderness upon her dead mother's shrouded bosom.

I tried to cry out a warning to her then, but caught myself: there was no point in trying to pierce the veil Vlad had erected between us. Even if I could, what good would the blossoms do her? They had not held the vampire back any better than the Solomon's Seal.

This was all that was left to her now-this one moment of loving and dignified grief. Beyond that lay the grave, and even worse horrors, none of which I could help her escape.

She stood with head bowed before her mother's corpse for some time. Then she lifted her face and stared curiously out at the doorway, for it was clear that the maids were lingering overlong at their wine. Worse, the sound of their voices had faded away into total silence. I knew all too well what evil had befallen them, but Miss Lucy did not; even so, the look of fright in her wide eyes indicated that she had some instinctual sense of what had occurred -and was yet to come-that night.

She stepped to the open door and called for them, only to receive no response; thus she left the room and searched them down. I waited in the most horrid suspense, thinking that I might next hear her scream. But all without was silence until she crept back into the room, wearing a look of such helpless terror upon her pale face that I felt the sting of tears.

She went straight to her night-stand and took out the little diary and pen; this time she wrote, swiftly and in earnest. I expected Vlad to arrive any moment and interrupt her chronicle, but it was as though he were allowing her this time as a last gift. At length she finished, and tore this final testament page from her diary; then she folded it, and slipped it between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Grief crushed me. For whose sake I struggled to hold back my tears, I cannot say; perhaps I did not want my enemy to gloat. I did not yield to them until I saw her final gesture of surrender: she lay down on the bed and carefully arranged her nightgown and hair, then folded her arms over her breast-as if she were already a corpse like her mother, who lay beside her.

Thus she was when Vlad came to her. By that time, I could bear no more, but closed my eyes, and would not open them, even when he mocked me and impugned Miss Lucy's honour in ways too vile to set down on paper. His verbal slings I could ignore, but when I heard the sounds of his suckling and poor Lucy's sharp little cries, I understood too well why Gerda had surrendered to madness.

In the early morning, Seward came-in quite a rush, as if he sensed that disaster had befallen us. By then, I was the only conscious soul at Hillingham; I had wakened moments before from a deep vampire-induced sleep to find Lucy near death, almost as cold and gaunt as her mother's corpse. I attempted an emergency transfer of psychic energy from myself to her, but the previous night's events had left me curiously drained; not only was I unable to complete the exercise, I became faint and nearly fell upon the poor child.

Soon I heard knocking upon the door, and John's voice calling out. I staggered downstairs and let him in; from my dishevelled appearance, he knew that the worst had indeed happened, and took immediate action. He found the four maids asleep in the dining-room; to my great relief, they had not been bitten or killed, but were merely drugged with laudanum. He managed to rouse three, and they in turn set to work, preparing a warm bath and fetching brandy to revive Miss Lucy.

Of course, such measures were of little use; we needed a transfusion of energy, but I could see that John was still weak from Renfield's attack, and so refused to let him risk himself.

But one was sent to us, as if from the G.o.ds: a good friend of both John's and Arthur Holmwood's, Mr. Quincey Morris from America.

I had thought that Arthur was John's best friend, but clearly Mr. Morris is just as close to the two of them. When he arrived, I saw a flicker of honest joy for the first time in weeks upon John's haggard face, and the two men grabbed each other's arms, then happily thumped each other's shoulders almost to the point of injury. This Quincey is a very tall, thin fellow, mostly gangly arms and legs, with thinning red hair and ubiquitous freckles. And a beak for a nose! When he stands sideways, the effect is comical (I can write so cruelly here because he is jovial and would be first to laugh at himself): first there is the great white boat of a hat called the Stetson, then the great beak of a nose, then a huge lump of an Adam's apple, all set atop a body slumped in an effort to reduce the great height.

It is a sad story I must tell, and Quincey Morris was the only bright spot in it.

Once the violent thumping of the shoulders and greetings were done, John explained the need for a."transfusion." Mr. Morris agreed, with the same unhesitating vehemence John had, which made me think that he, too, shares an unrequited love for Lucy.

So it was done--in Mrs. Westenra's bedroom, as the dead woman still lay in Lucy's bed.

John and Mr. Morris now sit talking at the breakfast table, whilst I remain upstairs to watch Miss Lucy, and write this record. As robust a man as the American is, the transfusion of his energy to her has had little effect. Her breathing is a bit less rapid, and her pulse a bit stronger, but it is not enough.

I have not spoken aloud to John of our hopeless situation in terms of Miss Lucy or ourselves, nor explained in detail last night's events. But when he saw Lucy's room with the corpse and the shattered window, some of the grim helpless fury I had felt only hours before came over his face. He knows; he knows.

It will not be long now.

Chapter 12.

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing 20 SEPTEMBER.

A day of the blackest sorrow and despair; yet in the midst of gloom shines a ray of love and valour. My heart vacillates so between the two extremes that I grow wearied and confused-but I must make sense of it all, as there are decisions to be made and lives in the balance. So I write, for writing ofttimes brings illumination.

For two days and two nights John and I sat with Miss Lucy, never leaving her an instant without one of us at her side-though I knew there was no hope of protecting her from her murderer, or from an unthinkable fate. The most we could provide her was the comfort of our presence. It was the hardest of tasks; but my own grief at failing this sweet child, who had so trusted me, was nothing compared to John's. Many times I went in to relieve him to find him with silent tears streaming down his cheeks as, tenderly, he clasped her hand whilst she lay sleeping. It is a bitter thing for him; he is still deeply in love with her, but cannot mourn her openly-cannot even profess his love a final time before she dies. That right is Arthur's, whom I have come to learn is one of his dearest and oldest friends.

And she was dying indeed. That final transfusion never restored to her any vigour, only prolonged the inevitable, which was clearly devastating to her donor, Quincey. (I cannot refer to him as "Mr. Morris," for he is, like most Americans, charmingly casual, and refreshingly forthright in stating his thoughts and feelings in his musical Texan accent.) But there is one feeling that he does try to hide- his own unrequited love for Miss Lucy. I have seen the flicker of pain in his dark eyes when he looks down at her; he cannot bear to linger in the sickroom lest his love should show, and cause John or Arthur any unhappiness. Thus he busies himself with various ways of helping: he has been our errand-boy, and when I said that Arthur should be notified at once, it was he who went to send the telegram. John tells me that Quincey would not sleep last night, but instead patrolled the grounds with pistol in hand. (John also ruefully confessed that Quincey has convinced himself the culprit is a large "vampire bat," of the sort found in South America. Apparently he once lost a beloved horse to such cause, and says he has seen a big grey bat flapping around the house.

He is closer to the truth than I thought!) As for Arthur: His father, Lord G.o.dalming, had taken a turn for the worse on Sunday-the day after Lucy's final encounter with the vampire. So the poor boy had remained the whole day and night at the elder man's deathbed. His father died shortly before dawn Monday, leaving Arthur-or, I should say, the new Lord G.o.dalming-with little time to grieve that loss before he received our telegram saying that Lucy was failing and had asked for him.

Quincey picked him up at the station, and he arrived here so red-eyed, grim, and exhausted that it pained me to lead him into Lucy's sickroom and see his sorrow multiplied. (Quincey himself disappeared, I think because he feared breaking down in the sickroom and further upsetting Arthur.) As it happened, the new Lord G.o.dalming arrived at precisely six o'clock, when I was coming to relieve John from his vigil; so Arthur sat with me the whole of my watch, until midnight.

As overwhelmed as the poor man must have been, he was cheerful with Lucy in a way that rallied her a bit-and she, too, affected such cheerfulness that I could not bear to watch them both be so brave for the other's sake. But weakness overcame her soon, and she went back to her pattern of lapsing into frequent periods of unconsciousness; other times, she gave up struggling to speak and just lay in silence. Through it all, Arthur sat beside her, holding her hand and gazing down at her with the same expression of despairing adoration I had seen John wear. Despite his privileged upbringing, Lord G.o.dalming is a strong, strong man.

In thirty years of medical practice, I have visited many families who cared for a mortally ill member. All are different, of course-some loving, some not; but all share one constant, especially when death draws nigh. The experience causes formality and pretense to fall away, not only for the dying member, but for those who tend him, so that only the truest essence of all persons remains. In some cases, this is a sad thing, for anger, regret, or sorrow might be revealed, or inner weakness wherein the individual lapses into morbid despair from which he cannot recover.

In other cases, the experience melts away the more superficial aspects of the personality, revealing a golden core of strength and compa.s.sion. This is what I saw in him and his friends Quincey and Arthur, and in Miss Lucy herself; and despite great sadness, I felt warmed and privileged to be among them.

At last the hour struck twelve, and John appeared in the doorway. I rose, patted Arthur's shoulder, and bade him come to rest, as he had not done so in almost two days. He resisted heartily until John vowed that, should Lucy's condition take a change for the worse, however slight, he would wake his friend immediately. At last he came, and we went into the drawing-room, where two comfortable sofas faced a blazing hearth.

There I rested, but did not sleep, as my thoughts were anxious and many; blessedly, Arthur fell almost at once into a doze. I listened to the clock chime hour after hour, until at last it was sunrise again-six o'clock. Arthur was still sleeping soundly, so I stole away, back into Lucy's sickroom, where John sat writing in the dimmed gaslight.

The blind was pulled, and the room shadowed. I could not see the patient's face, but above her heart and head hovered a fatal telltale sign: the glittering indigo aura that marked a vampire. At once, I ordered John to raise the blind. The pale dawn sunlight streamed in, illuminating Miss Lucy's face-which caused me to gasp, for at first I thought I was looking upon a corpse. But she still breathed, and so I hurriedly untied the black silk scarf I had fastened about the puncture wounds.

It was as I had feared; the vampire's mark had vanished, leaving the milky skin there smooth and flawless.

John saw, too, and, even before I told him, seemed to know that she was dying. He went and woke Arthur-for in truth, I could not bear to break the news to the lad myself.

Instead, I busied myself with straightening Lucy's pillows, and quickly removing all signs of sickness from the night-stand-the laudanum bottle, the morphia, the chamber-pot. Then I brushed out her hair so that it lay in becoming waves upon the pillows, for I knew that Lucy should have liked to look her best for this last moment shared with her fiance.

So the stricken lover came-or should I say, her two stricken lovers, for John, his expression and posture one of the utmost resolve, came in with his arm firmly wound about Arthur's shoulders in a gesture of unreserved support. Yet his eyes, as much as Arthur's, shone with unspilled tears; he felt the coming loss just as keenly, but Fate had not dealt him the right to show it.

As the two approached the deathbed, John let go his grip, and let his friend rush at once to Lucy's side. I do not mention my pity for my son in order to make light of Arthur's suffering-far from it, I think it shows how good a man Holmwood (that is, Lord G.o.dalming) must be, to inspire such deep loyalty in a friend. And John, too, for many lesser men have broken off long friendships over their shared love for one woman.

As for Arthur, having come from the deathbed of his father to that of the woman he loved, he entered the room pale and trembling, with fresh tears upon his cheeks. But the closer he drew to Lucy, the more firmly he put aside his double grief, wiping his eyes and running his fingers through his dishevelled curls that he might present to her his best. He is a strong man, that one. I remembered how stricken I had been when my little son Jan died, and Gerda went mad; certainly I could never have put up as stolid a front as Arthur did.

It was then that he ran to her side, and bent low to kiss her-but I had seen the growing indigo aura surrounding her; were he to consummate his intent, she might well mesmerise him to the degree that after death, she could influence him for ill. Thus I moved between them, and gently warned, "Not yet. Take her hand; it will comfort her more."

He was perplexed, but sorrow had stripped him of any defiance, so he did as told. It was a difficult thing, to tell a man that he could not kiss his dying lover, but I knew no other way to protect him.

Miss Lucy took great comfort in his presence and his touch, and sank back into sleep with a sigh. But after a time, honest sleep turned to trance, and a veil of illusory beauty such as the vampire can produce enveloped her. John saw it, I know, for he gave me a sharp, knowing glance. Lucy then opened her eyes-or rather, a demoness' eyes-and begged him to kiss her, in a seductive, wicked parody of her own sweet voice.

So swiftly did Arthur bend down to oblige her that, abandoning all civility, I caught hold of his neck and flung him away, shouting, "Not for your life!"

Remembering it now causes fresh pain, for I know how unspeakably cruel-indeed, mad- my act must have seemed to him. In fact, a gleam of violence came into his eye. But almost immediately it pa.s.sed, and he merely stood, awaiting explanation.

I did not give it, for very shortly thereafter, Lucy came to herself, and took my great coa.r.s.e hand in her fine small one and kissed it. This in itself was sufficient to summon my tears; but then she gazed up at me with beseeching, loving eyes, and said in a breathless whisper: "My true friend, and his! Guard him, and give me peace!" Atremble with emotion, I sank to my knees beside the bed. These were difficult, perhaps impossible, things she had asked of me-if Vlad was now so powerful, so impervious, how could I know that she, his offspring, would not also become so?

Yet for love's sake, I answered solemnly, "I swear!"

I do swear, Lucy. I swear it with every fibre of my being, with all my strength and soul.

Impossible it may be, but I shall accomplish it, or die in the effort...

Her breathing became more of a struggle, until I heard the faint rattle in her throat. I rose and turned to Arthur, who no longer fought to hold back the tears that streamed down his wan cheeks. The end had come, and so I bade him take her hand and kiss her only once, upon the forehead.

This he did, and then she slowly closed her eyes. The death-rattle grew louder then, and so I took Arthur's arm and drew him away. Yet before we reached the door, the sound stopped abruptly; our sweet Miss Lucy had died.

I returned to her side, and let John take his sobbing friend away. There I sat some time, gazing in grief and horror as Lucy's worn, wasted face began at once to bloom with life-or rather, undeath.

For more than twenty years, I have hunted vampires all over the European continent, and in every case, I prevailed: the vampire was destroyed, and his progenitor, Vlad, weakened.

Again and again was the same scenario repeated-the hunt, the capture, the destruction, always according to the same rules. The vampire's abilities and limitations never varied, the cross and the garlic never failed. In time I grew more powerful, and my task easier; so strong was my aura that I could move in complete confidence of invisibility around the undead. They could neither mesmerise nor overpower me. But now...

As I bitterly contemplated my failure, John returned and stood beside me in silence, both of us contemplating the corpse. For a time, neither of us spoke; and then John asked: "Professor. Does a dying man have the right to know he is dying?"

His tone was so calm and conversational that I believed he was trying to distract himself, perhaps by trying to decide whether Lucy herself had been so aware; thus, I answered in the same manner. "Of course. If he does not know, how can he properly prepare himself?"

He spoke again, and this time I noted a faint but growing anger behind his words. "And does a man engaged in battle-even a battle he cannot possibly win- have the right to know who it is he fights?"

A slight chill seized me, for I suddenly understood where his line of questioning led-yet I could not bring myself to reply. Instead, I gazed up at him, and saw that he was struggling terribly to hold in a powerful tide of emotion.

When he realised no answer would come, he said heatedly, "Professor, you cannot bear this terrible burden alone any longer. You have seen Arthur and Quincey and, I hope, come to know them as the brave, honourable men they are. They have-"

"What do you suggest, John? That I tell them the truth? Even if they believed it, what good would come of it? Only that they would be endangered-"

"Lucy was ignorant," he cried, with a sudden vehemence that flushed his cheeks scarlet.

"What good came of thatr For this I had no answer, so I stood mutely as he continued to release grief in the form of anger. He shook, lie raged, he lifted his fist and shook it in my face.

"They have as much right as I to know the cause of Lucy's death so that they might avenge it-and wipe this terrible scourge from the earth! They are my dearest friends, and I will not stand by and see them die of ignorance! Good G.o.d, Quince could very well have been bitten himself, wandering around outside in the night, trying to make himself useful in some small way!"

And at that, the storm of tears finally came, with such fury that he sank to his knees beside Miss Lucy and buried his face in the bed, one fist helplessly pounding against the mattress.

I said nothing; I let him cry. But his words p.r.i.c.ked me, and evoked within me a different sort of tempest.

After some moments, he raised his damp, flushed face and rose to leave. Before he reached the door he turned, and said with calm, quiet dignity so that I would know he'd meant every word, despite the accompanying emotional display: "Dr. Van Helsing, you have long put your trust in secrecy and science, in magical protections and rituals. Now all those things have failed you. But there is one thing which will never fail, one thing which will always be stronger than any evil: the human heart. I offer you mine and those of my two closest friends in the coming battle, for their sake as well as your own."

26 SEPTEMBER.

Lucy was buried in a double service with her mother on the twenty-second; a bitter affair for all, especially those two who knew she had not gone to a peaceful end.

Intense contemplation has not permitted the truth of John's angry words to fade; indeed, the more I savour them, the more I come to believe that he is right. We have agreed that when Miss Lucy is truly set to rest, it shall be Arthur's hand which performs the deed, and John, Quincey, and I will all be in attendance. I have written Arthur and Quincey letters, asking them to accompany me to the gravesite. Beyond that, I offered no explanation; words cannot convince as thoroughly as physical evidence.

In the meantime, the last few days have been busy ones for several reasons. As there were no surviving kin, Mrs. Westenra left her estate to Arthur. He in turn asked John and me for a.s.sistance in sifting through papers and making burial arrangements, as he was already quite overwhelmed by similar obligations in connexion with his father's death. I asked him for leave to examine Lucy's personal papers and diary for more insight as to "the nature of her disease." This he granted, being too distracted even to question my request.

In going through those papers, I discovered a thick bundle of letters from a Wilhelmina Murray, whom Lucy also mentioned constantly in her diary as "Mina." It seems these two women were the best of friends; in fact, Lucy often summered with Madam-that is, Miss- Mina at the Westenra cottage at Whitby. Lucy did not keep a diary at the time (upon returning to London, however, she succ.u.mbed to Miss Mina's journalistic influence and began one), so we have no record of what precisely occurred. But I know it was there she was first bitten.

Mina's letters, some of which were sadly never opened, reflected a lady of great kindness and intelligence. Upon reading them, I felt at once as if I had already met and befriended her; so I was even more fearful to learn of her time at Whitby with Lucy. For if Lucy had been bitten, why not her friend?

Two days after the Westenra funeral, I wrote Miss Mina Murray (now Mrs. Mina Harker) asking if I might interview her, as I had been Lucy Westenra's physician and was investigating the cause of her death. She responded promptly and most warmly, inviting me to her home in Exeter the very next day.

With some trepidation, I went. My heart was still sore after the terrible defeat with Lucy, and I dreaded finding yet another kind gentlewoman stricken with the vampire's curse.

Fortunately, when I arrived in Exeter and stepped into Mrs. Harker's drawing-room, I saw a young lady blooming with health: the rosy cheeks and lips were a welcome and beautiful sight after poor Lucy's pallor. Even lovelier was the sight of her long neck rising pure and unmarked from a collarless gown. Yet Madam Mina (I could not resist calling her so at once, for it was clear that Lucy's death had already united us in friendship) looked nothing like what I had expected. Her letters indicated a woman of such great maturity and wisdom that I had imagined her as older than Lucy, taller, and more solidly built.

But she was a good head shorter than her late friend, a tiny, fragile-looking creature hardly larger than the schoolchildren she had taught before her recent marriage to Mr. Harker.

Her face, too, was that of a child-heart-shaped beneath a dark brown pompadour, with great hazel eyes, small nose, and rosebud mouth-so innocent and ingenuous that she would go through life always looking far younger than her years. Ah, but those eyes... They reminded me of John's, for they were sensitive, intelligent, quick to absorb every detail- and blessedly free from any trace of treacherous glittering indigo. Indeed, even in the bright daylight streaming through the open shutters, a definite violet glow could be detected surrounding her: a strong aura for a strong woman.

She had apparently been hard at work when I arrived, for I heard clacking out in the hallway, which ceased the instant the maid knocked to announce my arrival. When the door swung open wide, I saw that one corner of the drawing-room had been converted into a study. Behind her stood a desk upon which rested stacked newspapers, a small black diary, white paper stacked in a wire basket, and a large typewriter with a sheet of paper inserted.

And in that second's pause when we two faced each other and I verified that she was indeed Mrs. Harker, nee Mina Murray, those intelligent eyes scrutinised me most intently, yet swiftly enough that courtesy was not breached. Apparently I impressed her as favourably as she had me, for a look of subtle warmth came over her cherubic features.

She approached with a gracious smile, and held out a delicate, pale hand one third the size of my large, callused brown one. I took it, grateful to sense by touch that my visual appraisal of her had been accurate: she was uncursed, unmarked. Thus the smile I returned to her was the first genuine one in many days.

"Madam Mina," I said, instinctively using the less formal form of address, which seemed to please her. "It is on account of the dead that I come."

Her gaze was refreshingly intense and direct (as we Dutch prefer), without the averted glances and eyelash-fluttering so favoured by Englishwomen. And I saw in it love for her dead friend and honest grat.i.tude towards me; and when she spoke, I knew she did so directly from the heart. "Sir," replied she, in a strong, mature voice that belied her juvenile appearance, "you have no better claim on me than that you were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra."

The moment of introduction over, she asked as to precisely what information I desired from her, and I explained my need for certain information about Whitby- as much as she could remember.

"Why, I can tell you everything about it," she said, gesturing for me to sit upon a nearby sofa. "I have written it all down. Would you like to see it?" Of course. So she retrieved the black diary from the desk, and handed it to me with a sudden impish glint in her eye; Madam Mina, it seems, has a wry sense of humour.

I opened the diary, intending to begin reading at once -but upon the page were neat but totally incomprehensible squiggles and curls and lines. "Mr. Jonathan Harker is a lucky man," I said, handing it back to her, "to have such a talented wife. But alas; I do not know shorthand. Would you be so kind as to read it for me?"

The child blushed as she took the diary, and at once retrieved a stack of papers from the wire basket. "Forgive me. Here: when you told me you wished to inquire about Lucy, I went ahead and wrote all the Whitby entries out on the typewriter for you."

I thanked her most sincerely for her labour, and asked whether I might read it then; she agreed and excused herself, saying that she would check on lunch.

Enclosed in the privacy of the drawing-room, I read swiftly through the entries. They spoke of Whitby and Lucy and several sleepwalking incidents; in one place, it was clear that she had rescued Miss Lucy from the vampire's very grasp without knowing it. The diary had obviously been intended to be private, for it mentioned her extreme anxiety over her then- fiance, Jonathan, who was apparently abroad and had not written in some time. I thought nothing of this at all, focusing all my attention on the events where Vlad was most clearly involved. Until, that is, I read the entry of 26 July, when Madam Mina had just received the long-awaited letter from Jonathan, forwarded by his employer. One sentence seemed to leap from the very page: "It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home."

I was glad then that she had left me alone, for I swore aloud and struck the sofa with my fist at the sight of the name. Jonathan at Castle Dracula! And here this sweet lady, by whom I was immediately smitten, was not safe at all-she was in the very heart of danger! The vampire's evil had touched her not just once, through the death of her dearest friend, but through her poor husband as well.

I read further, and learned that Jonathan had suffered from "brain fever," for he had raved wildly at the station-master in Klausenburgh for a "ticket home." Though he was penniless, his violent demeanour terrified the locals so that they gave him a ticket for the train's westernmost destination, Buda-Pesth. There he was of such a mental state that he was promptly taken to a sanitorium, and the good nuns there notified Madam Mina, who came and brought him home to England. (It was at the Buda-Pesth sanitorium that they were married.) After I had read it all, I set the papers aside and began to think. The decision had already been made to bring Quincey and Arthur into our (that is, John's and my) confidence concerning the vampire, as it only seemed right that they take part in avenging the death of the woman they loved.

Did not Madam Mina, too, have the same right? Even were Jonathan not bitten, he had already suffered great mental torment. I remembered John's bitter statement: Lucy had been ignorant about the vampire, yet that had not protected her in the least. I suppose it is true, then- knowledge is power, even if, in this case, it is only the power to surrender... or flee.

In any event, it was too late; I had already opened my heart to this young woman, and cared about her welfare the same as I had cared about Lucy's. I could not simply go and leave her here to make the dreadful discovery about her husband alone, or become the victim of his or Dracula's attack.

Therefore, when Madam Mina returned, I thanked her roundly for her illuminating ma.n.u.script-though she would have been horrified to know what I had discovered in its light. As casually as I could, I remarked upon her husband's brain fever and asked whether he had recovered completely.