"What!" he stammered, horrified.

"Here--in the dark," she whispered--"and I feel their fingers caressing me--searching--moving stealthily to surprise and grasp my thoughts.... I know what they are doing.... I am resisting.... I am fighting--fighting!"

She sat bolt upright with clenched hands at her breast, her face palely aglow in the dimness as though illumined by some vivid inward light--or, as he thought--from the azure blaze in her wide-open eyes.

"Is--is this what you call--what you believe to be magic?" he asked unsteadily. "Is there some hostile psychic influence threatening you?"

"Yes. I'm resisting. I'm fighting--fighting. They shall not trap me.

They shall not harm you!... I know how to defend myself and you!... And _you_!"

Suddenly she flung her left arm around his neck and the delicate clenched hand brushed his cheek.

"They shall not have you," she breathed. "I am fighting. I am holding my own. There are eight of them--eight Assassins! My mind is in battle with theirs--fiercely in battle.... I hold my own! I am armed and waiting!"

With a convulsive movement she drew his head closer to her shoulder.

"Eight of them!" she whispered,--"trying to entrap and seize my brain.

But my thoughts are free! My mind is defending you--you, here in my arms!"

After a breathless silence: "Look out!" she whispered with terrible energy; "they are after _your_ mind at last. Fix your thoughts on me!

Keep your mind clear of their net! Don't let their ghostly fingers touch it. Look at me!" She drew him closer. "Look at _me_! Believe in _me_! I can resist. I can defend you. Does your head feel confused?"

"Yes--numb."

"_Don't sleep!_ Don't close your eyes! Keep them open and look at me!"

"I can scarcely see you----"

"You _must_ see me!"

"My eyes are heavy," he said drowsily. "I can't see you, Tressa----"

"Wake! Look at me! Keep your mind clear. Oh, I beg you--I beg you!

They're after our minds and souls, I tell you! Oh, believe in me," she beseeched him in an agonised whisper--"Can't you believe in me for a moment,--as if you loved me!"

His heavy lids lifted and he tried to look at her.

"Can you see me? _Can_ you?"

He muttered something in a confused voice.

"Victor!"

At the sound of his own name, he opened his eyes again and tried to straighten up, but his pistol fell to the carpet.

"Victor!" she gasped, "clear your mind in the name of God!"

"I can not----"

"I tell you hell is opening beyond that door!--outside your bolted door, there! Can't you believe me! Can't you hear me! Oh, what will hold you if the love of God can not!" she burst out. "I'd crucify myself for you if you'd look at me--if you'd only fight hard enough to believe in me--as though you loved me!"

His eyes unclosed but he sank back against her shoulder.

"Victor!" she cried in a terrible voice.

There was no answer.

"If the love of God could only hold you for a moment more!"--she stammered with her mouth against his ear, "just for a moment, Victor!

Can't you hear me?"

"Yes--very far away."

"Fight for me! Try to care for me! Don't let Sanang have me!"

He shuddered in her arms, reached out and resting heavily on her shoulder, staggered to his feet and stood swaying like a drunken man.

"No, by God," he said thickly, "Sanang shall not touch you."

The girl was on her feet now, holding him upright with an arm around his shoulders.

"They can't--can't harm us together," she stammered. "Hark! Listen! Can you hear? Oh, can you hear?"

"Give me my pistol," he tried to say, but his tongue seemed twisted.

"No--by God--Sanang shall not touch you."

She stooped lithely and recovered the weapon. "Hush," she said close to his burning face. "Listen. Our minds are safe! I can hear somebody's soul bidding its body farewell!"

White-lipped she burst out laughing, kicked the shroud out of the way, thrust the pistol into his right hand, went forward, forcing him along beside her, and drew the bolts from the door.

Suddenly he spoke distinctly:

"Is there anything outside that door on the landing?"

"Yes.... I don't know what. Are you ready?" She laid her hand on lock and knob.

He nodded. At the same instant she jerked open the door; and a hunchback who had been picking at the lock fell headlong into the room, his pistol exploding on the carpet in a streak of fire.

It was a horrible struggle to secure the powerful misshapen creature, for he clawed and squealed and bounced about on the floor, striking blindly with ape-like arms. But at last Cleves held him down, throttled and twitching, and Tressa ripped strips from the shroud to truss up the writhing thing.

Then Cleves switched on the light.

"Why--why--you rat!" he exclaimed in hysterical relief at seeing a living man whom he recognised there at his feet. "What are you doing here?"

The hunchback's red eyes blazed up at him from the floor.

"Who--who is he?" faltered the girl.

"He's a German tailor named Albert Feke--one of the Chicago Bolsheviki--the most dangerous sort we harbour--one of their vile leaders who preaches that might is right and tells his disciples to go ahead and take what they want."