"Ah! you mean about that girl."

"Yes."

"I see," nodded Nick, secretly working in vain to loose the ropes confining his arms. "Well, senora, as a matter of fact, I am rather likely to make things unpleasant for you one of these days."

"It will be this day, or never. You'll not live to see another."

"Possibly not."

"_Caramba!_ do you doubt it?"

She darted nearer to him, with her hand tearing open the waist of her dress, and then the gleam of a poniard met Nick's gaze. She swept it before his eyes with a wild gesture, and gave vent to a mocking laugh.

"Do you doubt that I can slay you?"

"Not at all," answered Nick. "It's very evident."

"Or that I will?"

"That appears equally manifest."

"So it is!" hissed Cervera, with vicious intensity. "I intend to do it!

Do you hear, Nick Carter? I intend to do it!"

"Oh, yes, I hear you."

"Why don't you shrink? Why don't you plead for mercy?"

"What's the use?"

She answered him with a laugh that made the room ring.

"Besides," added Nick, "it's not my style to show the white feather."

"We'll see! _Caramba!_ we will see!"

She came nearer to him, crouching before him, so near that her breath fell hot upon his cheeks. Then, with a quick movement, she pressed the point of the blade through his clothing, till it p.r.i.c.ked the flesh above his heart.

With his arms bound, with his ankles secured to the legs of the chair, Nick appeared utterly at her mercy--of which she had none.

Despite himself, Nick shrank slightly from the wound, and for the first time shuddered at the peril by which he was menaced, and from which there seemed to be no avenue of escape.

Cervera laughed again, a laugh freighted with the terrible ring of madness.

"Did it hurt you?" she screamed, with her glittering eyes raised to search his. "Perdition! I hope so! You have tortured me with a thousand fears. I'd like to repay you with a thousand pangs!"

Nick's eyes took on an ugly gleam.

"Why don't you do so, then?" he growled.

"I would, if I had the time," cried Cervera, through her teeth.

"You have all there is."

"Ten thousand times I'd thrust it into you--thus! thus!"

Nick set his jaws and met the blade without flinching.

Twice the vicious demon thrust it through his clothing, and now two crimson stains of blood on his shirt front followed the withdrawal of the weapon.

"See! see!" screamed Cervera, triumphantly, with her terrible face upturned to his gaze. "You're beginning to bleed! Did you know that the sight of blood affects me as it does a leopard? I thirst for more--if that of one I hate! When next I strike you, I shall strike deeper!"

That she fully intended to murder him, Nick now, had not a doubt. The homicidal madness was in her eyes, in her every feature, her every motion, and it rang in every word that fell from her bloodless lips.

Yet the inflexible nerve of the detective did not for a moment desert him.

"Send the blade home at once, if you like," he said, with a scornful frown.

"Not yet--not yet!" she cried, shrilly. "There'll be time for that."

"Time and to spare," sneered Nick.

"I first wish to torture you, as you've tortured me!"

"Go ahead, then."

"Once more! Are you ready?"

"Let it come."

Again she drew back the glittering blade, only to mock him with several pretended thrusts, hoping thus to create and prolong an agony of fear and suspense.

A more viciously cruel and vindictive creature never drew the breath of life.

She laughed again, and slowly pressed the weapon closer--and then, with a sudden startled cry, she drew back and leaped to her feet.

A noise like that of a mighty cannonade seemed to shake even the solid walls of this buried chamber.

It was the crash of thunder in the heavens overhead.

It was Cervera's first intimation of the terrible tempest that had been gathering outside.

At first she thought the sound was that of revolvers, and she darted to the door and listened, pressing her ear to the wall.

The instant her back was turned, Nick made a desperate attempt to free himself, straining cords and muscles under the determined effort. It proved vain, however. The ropes held him as if made of twisted steel.

Yet in his brief but desperate struggle his right arm came in contact with an object in the side pocket of his sack coat.

The object was a box nearly filled with parlor matches--one of the most dangerous and treacherous creations of man's inventive genius.