Jarvis ran to the mantelpiece and clambered up on a chair, holding the lantern close to the wall.

"Good boy, Rusty! These are the Ghost's tools, all right. Someone was working in this room--but we've beaten him to it.... Mortar on the floor ... mortar on the mantle!... Look here at these stones. That's where he was working, Rusty, and we've beaten him to it."

He stopped, and both of them turned simultaneously to look at the big picture of the historical Spaniard. Rusty had drawn his own revolver, with Jarvis doing the same by a curious instinct.

"Did you feel dat, too, Ma.r.s.e Warren?" asked the frightened negro.

Jarvis said nothing. He went to the picture and, lighting a match, pa.s.sed it all around the frame, examining it, without the discovery of a suspicious thing. He turned away, then faced it once more as he backed toward the low bal.u.s.trade of the steps over which stood one of the suits of armor.

"By George, that's weird. You could feel that just as plain...."

Rusty was still looking with fascination at the picture.

"It sure is, Ma.r.s.e Warren, it sure is...." He turned slowly, facing Warren Jarvis. He had just time for one piercing howl--a veritable high-pitched scream:

"_My Gawd, look out!_"

XVII

CONCLUSION

Rusty had dived under the table.

The great sword of the armored figure was swinging swiftly up in air, and Jarvis leaped with all the sinewy strength of his young manhood.

It was none too soon.

The great Damascus blade struck fire from the stone bal.u.s.trade where he sat a second before.

Jarvis spun about, and his automatic barked. With the instinct of the born fighting man he fired for the heart: this was his error.

The bullets spattered off the angle-braced breastplate.

Down the steps came the horrid figure, raising the great sword again.

The leaden shower did not halt the clanging monster, as the iron-clad advanced.

He remembered now that Rusty had two more revolvers--but Rusty was scuttling on hands and knees for the shelter of the turret entrance across the room.

In desperation Jarvis threw his revolver at the head of the a.s.sailant!

It was a futile pebble toss.

The weapon clattered against the metal vizor and bounced off, as the weird a.s.sailant ran within striking distance. For the first time in his life came the sensation of helplessness in a fight. There was a numbing feeling of horror as he recoiled before this thing.

His back touched the stone wall, just as the quick figure made a forward step and struck again. The sword rang out against the rock, but the hand that held that weapon knew how to wield it with determination.

Jarvis had dropped to his knees, and imitated Rusty's escape, until he was out of reach. He might have grappled--but the thought came too late. He saw the ancient weapons on the wall--there was a great poleax.

This was the instrument made for the man-at-arms to withstand the n.o.ble knight in the days of old. He whirled it on high as the other came toward him. The double-edged sword rose high to parry the stroke, and the sharp weapon clove through the rotten wood helve: Time had disarmed the American again.

A deep-chested laugh came from the human "battleship."

Warren laughed back--in the face of death: the old Jarvis fighting laugh was a tradition in Kentucky.

His next weapon was a chair. With this as a guard he managed to swing the sword with a clever parry. He gave the metal breastplate a vigorous high kick. From the helmet there came a m.u.f.fled "Oooof!" Here was one "point" for the modern!

[Ill.u.s.tration: _His next weapon was a chair_]

Thus they dodged and feinted, striking, whirling, while the Kentuckian planned his campaign.

Little by little he drew his implacable opponent toward the charcoal cross-mark on the floor. The great sword rose high--he feigned weakness and dropped his chair. Then, as the toreador dodges the mad onslaught of the maddened bull, he leaped aside and the sword struck the ground.

Before it could be raised, he swung from his side position, with the heavy antique chair, against the vizor. The equilibrium of the armored man was none too stable, as he missed his stroke--and his head went back. Again the Kentuckian charged, this time with a barehanded clinch, the chair dropped.

Around the metal waist his arms went and he forced the other back but half a foot.

It was enough!

"_Santa Madre!_" came from the helmet, as the figure stumbled through the opening trap-stone.

There was a scream, which suddenly ended at highest pitch--a splash ...

then _silence_.

Jarvis staggered back, with dilated eyes upon the fatal hole--he wiped the cold beads off his clammy brow, and staggered toward the table for support.

Rusty's head came out from the shelter of the stone coping--and he smiled an ashen imitation of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Whar's yoh friend, Ma.r.s.e Warren?"

Jarvis' head was low upon his breast, as he answered quietly: "Water--and a long drop! There's a real ghost due to haunt castle now, Rusty."

"I knowed them battleship boogies was spooks!"

Warren picked up the great sword which had fallen by the trap as the man went through. He walked up the stairs.

"Oh, Ma.r.s.e Warren, don't!"

"What's the matter?" and he snarled it. "Do I scare you?"

"You can't scare me--I'm scared already!"

Jarvis made a fencing feint at the other figure. There was no response; again he tried. Then he rushed it, and knocked the armor over.

"I guess he's genuine--and harmless."

"Oh, Ma.r.s.e Warren, you'se got gall, sh.o.r.e. I'll jest finish dis battleship--so he won't jump no moh." He had grabbed the armor and started toward the trapdoor. "I'm goin' to sink him in de harbor!"