Featured in this edition is a collection of stories, new and old.

The Bombastic Prince by James Rhodes - The Prince of Slaughter seeks to rescue a politician's child - and his own reputation!

The Jackal : Part One by Gavin Roach - romance, betrayal, horror and a sinister obsidian statue spell trouble on the Spanish Main! First in a five-part series.

Schlock! Classic Serial: Varney the Vampyre, or, The Feast of Blood - Part One - The girl has swooned, and the vampyre is at his hideous repast! Before Twilight... before Nosferatu... before Dracula... there was Varney...

Exodus by Gavin Chappell and Gavin Roach - Medina does a deal with Papa Humfo to escape her war-torn country. But what awaits her beyond the ruined city?

Castle of the Blood Visage : Part One by Gavin Chappell - Viking shieldmaiden the Red Daughter encounters a nest of Celtic Vampires. Concluded in our next edition.

Schlock! Classic Serial: Edison's Conquest of Mars (Part 1) by Garrett P. Serviss - Following the Martian invasion chronicled by Mr Wells in The War of the Worlds, threat of a second attack prompts Thomas Edison to lead a pre-emptive strike on the Red Planet!

Last of the Ogres by Sue Denimes - a perfect, gentle knight grows up at last.

Off to Bedlam Without Any Supper by David Christopher - an old man faces a dystopian future where hilarity is compulsory. 

Schlock! Classic: Queen of the Black Coast by Robert E Howard - barbarians, pirates and prehistoric jungle cities abound in this 1934 sword and sorcery masterpiece.

The Bombastic Prince by James Rhodes

Prologue

The merchant ship Morning Star, outward bound from the British Virgin Islands, the Caribbean, 1708.

“Skipper, it's Saintjohn! He and his followers have barricaded themselves in the hold and sealed all the hatches. I don’t know what they’re doing in there but it doesn’t sound natural!”

          “Very well, Mr. Simmonds, Mr. Saintjohn has gone too far this time.” Depositing all their earthly possessions overboard was one thing, but this... “Gather some men, make sure they are armed and join me below deck. Oh, and Simmonds, bring an axe.”

          Captain Lockton pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. “This really is too much,” he sighed. He should have known that damnable Alexander Saintjohn would be trouble. He shouldn’t have let that mumbo-jumbo spouting bugger on board in the first place. He marched out of his cabin stroking his moustache.

The Captain climbed through the hatch leading to the hold and approached his men gathered there. “Captain, I don’t know what they’re up to now, but I can’t hear anything in there,” said first mate Simmonds.

“Right, I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense! Simmonds, hand me that axe and stand aside, there’s a good chap.”

Once I’ve found out what’s going on in there, I’m putting Saintjohn and his followers ashore on the first scrap of land we come to, habitable or not, Captain Lockton thought. He squared up to the barricaded door, readying his axe.

A few well placed swings later and the door was off its hinges. The Captain and his men staggered back as the stench of blood threatened to overpower them. Foetid tendrils of fog rolled out from the dark, silent hold.

The captain turned to his men. “Do what you have to when we go in, but know this; I want these bastards off my ship! Mr. Simmonds, I want you on deck. The ship is yours until this mess is dealt with.” With that he drew his pistol and stepped into the hold, his men close behind him.

As he stepped up on deck, first mate Simmonds became concerned. “That fog is coming in awfully fast,” he said.

Hobbs, the boatswain, stopped work and looked up, “Aye, it is. Should we tell the skipper?”

“Perhaps not. I think his hands will be full with Saintjohn.” Simmonds glanced up at the sky. “I say, what happened to the wind...?”

“Ah, sir...”

“What now, Hobbs?” Silence from the other man. “Hobbs? Out with it, man!” said Simmonds as he turned. His eyes following the boatswain’s terrified gaze. Thick grey tendrils of fog were coiling out of the hold.

Back in the hold, things did not feel right for Captain Lockton. “Steady now, men. Spread out and for God’s sake, get some light in here,” he said, louder than he intended. One of the men began struggling with a lantern. As Lockton advanced into the gloom, something wet and warm dripped onto his cheek.

“Blood! There’s blood all over the place!” shouted a sailor.

Lockton peered at his hand. It was indeed covered in blood.

At the far end of the hold, one of the men started screaming. The scream quickly turned into a gargled choking. As Lockton started forwards and his men began to shift uneasily, he felt something give under his foot. He hit the floor hard. Blood splashed into his eyes, blinding him. Panic gripped the captain as he scrabbled over the gore-soaked floor, wiping at his face.

Blinking, Captain Lockton staggered to his feet. As he straightened, something caught his eye in the flickering light. He scooped it up from a pool of congealing blood. It appeared to be volcanic glass carved into some sort of semi-humanoid form.

The screaming started again, this time all around him. Unidentifiable, grotesque shapes shifted in the darkness, mercifully obscured by the fog. The men began to panic. Some of them rushed for the doorway. Others stood, rooted to the spot, crying and gibbering.

Briefly, as the fog parted, Locton glimpsed the dark longhaired form of Saintjohn. The man was naked, his body a mass of lacerations. Blood poured freely from his wounds, splattering to the floor. Lockton could not be sure if Saintjohn was screaming, or laughing.

As Lockton gaped, some abominable form stirred in the shadows behind Saintjohn. The captain screamed, and soiled himself in terror. He staggered, then fled for the shattered door, dropping the obsidian carving. Some of his men had made it out of the hold.

“Barricade that doorway!” yelled Lockton as he ran into the dull grey daylight. Some of the men began grabbing whatever they could and began blocking up the ruined door, heedless of their shipmates still trapped within.

Simmonds approached the captain, but stopped short when he saw the gore-splattered, reeking figure before him. “I... it appears we are becalmed in the middle of this damnable fog, sir.”

“Sail to aft, looks like a brigantine!” A shout came from the rear of the ship. As the captain turned, he saw a ship close enough for its colours to be distinguished through the murk.

“Pirates!” gasped Simmonds, ass Captain Lockton turned and strode off across the deck.

“Skipper, skipper! What do we do?” called Simmonds after him.

Lockton ignored him and walked into his cabin. He sat down behind his desk and drew his pistol. Placing the barrel into his mouth he pulled the trigger.

Part I

Road Town, capital of Tortola, British Virgin Islands, 1708.

Lord Manfred Thornville stepped out into the warm evening air, leaving the luxurious town house behind him. Poplar trees lining the avenue stirred softly as he strolled towards his carriage. Thornville took his time, enjoying the warm jasmine-scented breeze.

    Life was indeed good for Thornville this evening. He had, it appeared, solved one of his most pressing problems; he had finally procured a husband for his daughter, Charlotte. And in doing so, he had also secured his own financial future.

    “I trust all went well with Mr. Hobart, m’lord?” said Mortimer, Thornville’s driver.

    “Indeed, Mortimer, very well. That corpulent fool Hobart finally agreed to my terms. The greedy oaf is desperate for a connection with nobility and the thought of a hereditary title sealed the deal.”

    “If it’s not too bold of me to say m’lord, but ’e’s a merchant. Is that suitable for Miss Thornville?”

    “Alas Mortimer, suitability has nothing to do with it.” Thornville sighed. “Hobart is rich and we must, I fear, move with the times. The man has several sugar plantations to his name. History and titles will get one only so far. Without money they are empty and meaningless.”

    “Yes m’lord. Just doesn’t seem right, is all.”

    “Mark my words; coin is the only real power these days. And I mean to take as much as I can. The world has moved on. Business and merchants are the future, I fear.”

    “Beggin’ your pardon sir, what about that Tobias Day fellow? I understood Miss Thornville was to be marryin’ ‘im. She can’t very well be betrothed to both gentlemen now, can she?”

    “Mortimer, you know I encourage you to speak your mind, and I am glad you do so. But it does not behove you to listen to the mindless chatter of the house staff.” Thornville paused and flicked at a tiny speck upon the cuff of his frockcoat. “Rest assured Charlotte will be marrying Hobart. She will soon forget about this infatuation with a penniless poet. Anyway, even if she doesn’t, I’d wager that Mr. Day will be gone by morning, and therefore, no longer my problem.”

    “Very good sir.”

    As he climbed aboard the carriage, Thornville found his previous good mood diminished by thoughts of the troublesome poet; and the seemingly unavoidable descent into the ranks of the merchant class. Well, he thought, attempting to shake off the melancholic mood, on with the final business of the evening. Unpleasant as his new associates were, the association was certainly proving to be very profitable. If all went according to plan, his money worries would finally be over. Perhaps, he mused, later on he might indulge in a little pleasure. God knows he’d earned it.

    “Mortimer, take me to the docks. I am in need of company this evening,” said Thornville as he eased back into the seat. The carriage lurched forward, the horses’ hooves clattered on cobbles, echoing down the street of well-to-do merchants.

    Unseen by either Lord Thornville or Mortimer, a figure stepped out from the shadows and watched the carriage as it rumbled off down the road. The figure glanced left and right, as if in the grip of indecision. Then it hurried off down the street, in the opposite direction to the carriage.

~o0o~

At first glance, Charlotte Thornville appeared to be working diligently upon a piece of embroidery. Although cloth, embroidery hoop and needle were indeed upon her knee, they only served to conceal the real focus of her attention; a fully illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra. She turned a page and gazed at the illustration. “Oh my…” she whispered, turning the book in an attempt to discern who was doing what to whom.

    “Excuse me, miss.”

    Surprised by her maid, Charlotte managed to drop the book and prick her thumb at the same time. “Can’t you knock?” she snapped, standing and attempting to hide the scandalous volume.

    “Begging your pardon miss, I’ve been knocking for the last five minutes,” said the maid, pretending not to notice the book. “There’s a visitor arrived for you miss.”

    Charlotte walked over to the maid. “At this time? Who is it Rachel?”

    “It’s that Mr. Baskin, he’s waiting outside.”

    “Oh, invite him in.”

    “At this time of night, miss? I don’t think Sir Thornville would approve.”

    “My father isn’t here, Rachel, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Let Mr. Baskin in. he would not trouble us this late without good reason.”

    A short time later, Charlotte entered the kitchens. Louis Baskin was pacing back and forth, a deep frown on his young face as he looked up at his friend. “I am, I fear, the bearer of terrible news!” the young artist gasped.

    “Really, Louis! Calm down, it can’t be that bad. Your patron Lord Blackwood isn’t threatening to join the priesthood again is he?”

    “What? Oh no, no it is far worse.”

    A flippant remark died on Charlotte’s lips as she realised the very real anxiety gripping him. “Sit down, Louis. Tell me what is wrong.”

    Louis sighed. He looked into the young, beautiful face of his friend. “It is your father, Charlotte. He has arranged for you to be married.”

    “Married! Louis, what do you mean?”

    The young man composed himself then began to speak. “My dear sweet friend, your father has ‘sold’ you to that bloated merchant Arthur Hobart.” Charlotte’s face paled. “For nothing more than a share in Hobart’s business, and a hereditary title bestowed upon him by your father.”

    Charlotte was speechless. She gaped at Louie, completely at a loss.

    “It is worse still Charlotte.” The artist stood and began pacing once more. “I fear that he has dire plans concerning Tobias.”

    “Toby?” Charlotte stood. “How do you know this, Louis?”

    “There is no time! We must go to Tobias now and warn him. I fear your father intends to act upon his schemes this very night.”

    “Louis, please! You must tell me how you discovered this!”

    Louis stopped pacing, took a deep breath. “Herr Schiffmacher keeps a town house near Hobart’s residence. He is away on business at the moment so I was enjoying the company of his lovely twin daughters, earlier this evening.

    “After bidding them my fondest of farewells and making my way out of their bedroom window, I spied your father’s carriage. Not wanting news of my visit to get back to Herr Schiffmacher, I resolved to remain out of sight until your father’s carriage departed. Hidden as I was, I overheard him talking to his driver. That is when I discovered his plans for Tobias and your marriage.”

    Charlotte sat. “I will talk with my father as soon as he returns. It can’t be as bad as it appears.”

    “I doubt your father will be returning before dawn, Charlotte. When he left, he was travelling towards the docks and I heard him say to his driver that he intended to seek out company this evening.”

    Charlotte was silent for a short while. “If my father wishes to seek out the company of common whores and rogues, I am certainly not waiting for him. You’re right, Louis, we must warn Toby.” Charlotte would be damned if she would let anything happen to her true love; even if it meant going against the wishes of her father. They both hurried out into the evening.

TO BE CONTINUED

CHAPTER I.

- "How graves give up their dead,
And how the night air hideous grows
With shrieks!"

MIDNIGHT. - THE HAIL-STORM. - THE DREADFUL VISITOR. - THE VAMPYRE.

   The solemn tones of an old cathedral clock have announced midnight - the air is thick and heavy - a strange, death like stillness pervades all nature. Like the ominous calm which precedes some more than usually terrific outbreak of the elements, they seem to have paused even in their ordinary fluctuations, to gather a terrific strength for the great effort. A faint peal of thunder now comes from far off. Like a signal gun for the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring hurricane swept over a whole city, producing more devastation in the four or five minutes it lasted, than would a half century of ordinary phenomena.

   It was as if some giant had blown upon some toy town, and scattered many of the buildings before the hot blast of his terrific breath; for as suddenly as that blast of wind had come did it cease, and all was as still and calm as before.

   Sleepers awakened, and thought that what they had heard must be the confused chimera of a dream. They trembled and turned to sleep again.

   All is still - still as the very grave. Not a sound breaks the magic of repose. What is that - a strange pattering noise, as of a million fairy feet? It is hail - yes, a hail-storm has burst over the city. Leaves are dashed from the trees, mingled with small boughs; windows that lie most opposed to the direct fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise which, in its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which here and there arose from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm.

   Now and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind that in its strength, as it blew laterally, would, for a moment, hold millions of the hailstones suspended in mid air, but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some new direction, where more mischief was to be done.

   Oh, how the storm raged! Hail - rain - wind. It was, in very truth, an awful night.

* * *

   There was an antique chamber in an ancient house. Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimneypiece is a curiosity of itself. The ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. The window is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the apartment. There is but one portrait in that room, although the walls seem paneled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures. That portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice.

   There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners - covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to the room. The floor is of polished oak.

   God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist it - their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain.

   The bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed in all fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch - a girl young and beautiful as a spring morning. Her long hair has escaped from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed is in much confusion. One arm is over her head, the other hangs nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies. A neck and bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever Providence gave genius to, were half disclosed. She moaned slightly in her sleep, and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer - at least one might judge so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once faintly from them.

   She had endured much fatigue, and the storm dose not awaken her; but it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy entirely. The turmoil of the elements wakes the senses, although it cannot entirely break the repose they have lapsed into.

   Oh, what a world of witchery was in that mouth, slightly parted, and exhibiting within the pearly teeth that glistened even in the faint light that came from that bay window. How sweetly the long silken eyelashes lay upon the cheek. Now she moves, and one shoulder is entirely visible - whiter, fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed on which she lies, is the smooth skin of that fair creature, just budding into womanhood, and in that transition state which presents to us all the charms of the girl - almost of the child, with the more matured beauty and gentleness of advancing years.

   Was that lightning? Yes - an awful, vivid, terrifying flash - then a roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue vault of Heaven! Who sleeps now in that ancient city? Not one living soul. The dread trumpet of eternity could not more effectually have awakened any one.

   The hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the elements seems at its height. Now she awakens - that beautiful girl on the antique bed; she opens those eyes of celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm bursts from her lips. At least it is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil without, sounds but faint and weak. She sits upon the bed and presses her hands upon her eyes. Heavens! what a wild torrent of wind, and rain, and hail! The thunder likewise seems intent upon awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightning should again produce the wild concussion of the air. She murmurs a prayer - a prayer for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle heart come from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God of Heaven she prays for all living things. Another flash - a wild, blue, bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an instant bringing out every colour in it with terrible distinctness. A shriek bursts from the lips of the young girl, and then, with eyes fixed upon that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and with such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never before known, she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear stood upon her brow.

   "What - what was it?" she gasped; "real or delusion? Oh, God, what was it? A figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring from the outside to unclasp the window. I saw it. That flash of lightning revealed it to me. It stood the whole length of the window."

   There was a lull of the wind. The hail was not falling so thickly - moreover, it now fell, what there was of it, straight, and yet a strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window. It could not be a delusion - she is awake, and she hears it. What can produce it? Another flash of lightning - another shriek - there could be now no delusion.

   A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window. It is its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so like the hail, now that the hail has ceased. Intense fear paralysed the limbs of the beautiful girl. That one shriek is all she can utter - with hand clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in her bosom, that each moment it seems as if it would break its confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, she waits, froze with horror. The pattering and clattering of the nails continue. No word is spoken, and now she fancies she can trace the darker form of that figure against the window, and she can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for some mode of entrance. What strange light is that which now gradually creeps up into the air? red and terrible - brighter and brighter it grows. The lightning has set fire to a mill, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window. There can be no mistake. The figure is there, still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glass with its long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched. She tries to scream again but a choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot. It is too dreadful - she tries to move - each limb seems weighted down by tons of lead - she can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry, -

   "Help - help - help - help!"

   And that one word she repeats like a person in a dream. The red glare of the fire continues. It throws up the tall gaunt figure in hideous relief against the long window. It shows, too, upon the one portrait that is in the chamber, and the portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the attempting intruder, while the flickering light from the fire makes it look fearfully lifelike. A small pane of glass is broken, and the form from without introduces a long gaunt hand, which seems utterly destitute of flesh. The fastening is removed, and one-half of the window, which opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its hinges.

   And yet now she could not scream - she could not move. "Help! - help! - help!" was all she could say. But, oh, that look of terror that sat upon her face, it was dreadful - a look to haunt the memory for a life-time - a look to obtrude itself upon the happiest moments, and turn them to bitterness.

   The figure turns half round, and the light falls upon its face. It is perfectly white - perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back, and the principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the teeth - the fearful looking teeth - projecting like those of some wild animal, hideously, glaringly white, and fang-like. It approaches the bed with a strange, gliding movement. It clashes together the long nails that literally appear to hang from the finger ends. No sound comes from its lips. Is she going mad - that young and beautiful girl exposed to so much terror? she has drawn up all her limbs; she cannot even now say help. The power of articulation is gone, but the power of movement has returned to her; she can draw herself slowly along to the other side of the bed from that towards which the hideous appearance is coming.

   But her eyes are fascinated. The glance of a serpent could not have produced a greater effect upon her than did the fixed gaze of those awful, metallic-looking eyes that were bent down on her face. Crouching down so that the gigantic height was lost, and the horrible, protruding white face was the most prominent object, came on the figure. What was it? - what did it want there? - what made it look so hideous - so unlike an inhabitant of the earth, and yet be on it?

   Now she has got to the verge of the bed, and the figure pauses. It seemed as if when it paused she lost the power to proceed. The clothing of the bed was now clutched in her hands with unconscious power. She drew her breath short and thick. Her bosom heaves, and her limbs tremble, yet she cannot withdraw her eyes from that marble-looking face. He holds her with his glittering eye.

   The storm has ceased - all is still. The winds are hushed; the church clock proclaims the hour of one: a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being, and he raises his long, gaunt arms - the lips move. He advances. The girl places one small foot on to the floor. She is unconsciously dragging the clothing with her. The door of the room is in that direction - can she reach it? Has she power to walk? - can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the intruder, and so break the hideous charm? God of Heaven! is it real, or some dream so like reality as to nearly overturn judgment forever?

   The figure has paused again, and half on the bed and half out of it that young girl lies trembling. Her long hair streams across the entire width of the bed. As she has slowly moved along she has left it streaming across the pillows. The pause lasted about a minute - oh, what an age of agony. That minute was, indeed, enough for madness to do its full work in.

   With a sudden rush that could not be foreseen - with a strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of her hair, and twining them round his bony hands he held her to the bed. Then she screamed - Heaven granted her then power to scream. Shriek followed shriek in rapid succession. The bed-clothes fell in a heap by the side of the bed - she was dragged by her long silken hair completely on to it again. Her beautifully rounded limbs quivered with the agony of her soul. The glassy, horrible eyes of the figure ran over that angelic form with a hideous satisfaction - horrible profanation. He drags her head to the bed's edge. He forces it back by the long hair still entwined in his grasp. With a plunge he seizes her neck in his fang-like teeth - a gush of blood, and a hideous sucking noise follows. The girl has swooned, and the vampyre is at his hideous repast!

Chapter II.

  THE ALARM. - THE PISTOL SHOT. - THE PURSUIT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

  Lights flashed about the building, and various room doors opened; voices called one to the other. There was an universal stir and commotion among the inhabitants.

   "Did you hear a scream, Harry?" asked a young man, half-dressed, as he walked into the chamber of another about his own age.

   "I did - where was it?"

   "God knows. I dressed myself directly."

   "All is still now."

   "Yes; but unless I was dreaming there was a scream."

   "We could not both dream there was. Where do you think it came from?"

   "It burst so suddenly upon my ears that I cannot say."

   There was a tap now at the door of the room where these young men were, and a female voice said, -

   "For God's sake, get up!"

   "We are up," said both the young men, appearing.

   "Did you hear anything?"

   "Yes, a scream."

   "Oh, search the house - search the house; where did it come from, can you tell?"

   "Indeed we cannot, mother."

   Another person now joined the party. He was a man of middle age, and, as he came up to them, he said, -

   "Good God! what is the matter?"

   Scarcely had the words passed his lips, than such a rapid succession of shrieks came upon their ears, that they felt absolutely stunned by them. The elderly lady, whom one of the young men had called mother, fainted, and would have fallen to the floor of the corridor in which they all stood, had she not been promptly supported by the last comer, who himself staggered, as those piercing cries came upon the night air. He, however, was the first to recover, for the young men seemed paralysed.

   "Henry," he cried, "for God's sake support your mother. Can you doubt that these cries come from Flora's room?"

   The young man mechanically supported his mother, and then the man who had just spoken darted back to his own bed-room, from whence he returned in a moment with a pair of pistols, and shouting, -

   "Follow me who can!" he bounded across the corridor in the direction of the antique apartment, from whence the cries proceeded, but which were now hushed.

   That house was built for strength, and the doors were all of oak, and of considerable thickness. Unhappily, they had fastenings within, so that when the man reached the chamber of her who so much required help, he was helpless, for the door was fast.

   "Flora! Flora!" he cried; "Flora, speak!"

   All was still.

   "Good God!" he added; "we must force the door."

   "I hear a strange noise within," said the young man, who trembled violently.

   "And so do I. What does it sound like?"

   "I scarcely know; but it closest resembles some animal eating, or sucking some liquid."

   "What on earth can it be? Have you no weapon that will force the door? I shall go mad if I am kept here."

   "I have," said the young man. "Wait here a moment."

   He ran down the staircase, and presently returned with a small, but powerful, iron crow-bar.

   "This will do," he said.

   "It will, it will. - Give it to me."

   "Has she not spoken?"

   "Not a word. My mind misgives me that something very dreadful must have happened to her."

   "And that odd noise!"

   "Still goes on. Somehow, it curdles the very blood in my veins to hear it."

   The man took the crow-bar, and with some difficulty succeeded in introducing it between the door and the side of the wall - still it required great strength to move it, but it did move, with a harsh, crackling sound.

   "Push it!" cried he who was using the bar, "push the door at the same time."

   The younger man did so. For a few moments the massive door resisted. Then, suddenly, something gave way with a loud snap - it was part of the lock, - and the door at once swung wide open.

   How true it is that we measure time by the events which happen within a given space of it, rather than by its actual duration.

   To those who were engaged in forcing open the door of the antique chamber, where slept the young girl whom they named Flora, each moment was swelled into an hour of agony; but, in reality, from the first moment of the alarm to that when the loud cracking noise heralded the destruction of the fastenings of the door, there had elapsed but very few minutes indeed.

   "It opens - it opens," cried the young man.

   "Another moment," said the stranger, as he still plied the crowbar - "another moment, and we shall have free ingress to the chamber. Be patient."

   This stranger's name was Marchdale; and even as he spoke, he succeeded in throwing the massive door wide open, and clearing the passage to the chamber.

   To rush in with a light in his hand was the work of a moment to the young man named Henry; but the very rapid progress he made into the apartment prevented him from observing accurately what it contained, for the wind that came in from the open window caught the flame of the candle, and although it did not actually extinguish it, it blew it so much on one side, that it was comparatively useless as a light.

   "Flora - Flora!" he cried.

   Then with a sudden bound something dashed from off the bed. The concussion against him was so sudden and so utterly unexpected, as well as so tremendously violent, that he was thrown down, and, in his fall, the light was fairly extinguished.

   All was darkness, save a dull, reddish kind of light that now and then, from the nearly consumed mill in the immediate vicinity, came into the room. But by that light, dim, uncertain, and flickering as it was, some one was seen to make for the window.

   Henry, although nearly stunned by his fall, saw a figure, gigantic in height, which nearly reached from the floor to the ceiling. The other young man, George, saw it, and Mr. Marchdale likewise saw it, as did the lady who had spoken to the two young men in the corridor when first the screams of the young girl awakened alarm in the breasts of all the inhabitants of that house.

   The figure was about to pass out at the window which led to a kind of balcony, from whence there was an easy descent to a garden.

   Before it passed out they each and all caught a glance of the side-face, and they saw that the lower part of it and the lips were dabbled in blood. They saw, too, one of those fearful-looking, shining, metallic eyes which presented so terrible an appearance of unearthly ferocity.

   No wonder that for a moment a panic seized them all, which paralysed any exertions they might otherwise have made to detain that hideous form.

   But Mr. Marchdale was a man of mature years; he had seen much in life, both in this and in foreign lands; and he, although astonished to the extent of being frightened, was much more likely to recover sooner than his younger companions, which, indeed, he did, and acted promptly enough.

   "Don't rise, Henry," he cried. "Lie still."

   Almost at the moment he uttered these words, he fired at the figure, which then occupied the window, as if it were a gigantic figure set in a frame.

   The report was tremendous in that chamber, for the pistol was no toy weapon, but one made for actual service, and of sufficient length and bore of barrel to carry destruction along with the bullets that came from it.

   "If that has missed its aim," said Mr. Marchdale, "I'll never pull trigger again."

   As he spoke he dashed forward, and made a clutch at the figure he felt convinced he had shot.

   The tall form turned upon him, and when he got a full view of the face, which he did at that moment, from the opportune circumstance of the lady returning at the instant with a light she had been to her own chamber to procure, even he, Marchdale, with all his courage, and that was great, and all his nervous energy, recoiled a step or two, and uttered the exclamation of, "Great God!"

   That face was one never to be forgotten. It was hideously flushed with colour - the colour of fresh blood; the eyes had a savage and remarkable lustre whereas, before, they had looked like polished tin - they now wore a ten times brighter aspect, and flashes of light seemed to dart from them. The mouth was open, as if, from the natural formation of the countenance, the lips receded much from the large canine looking teeth.

   A strange howling noise came from the throat of this monstrous figure, and it seemed upon the point of rushing upon Mr. Marchdale. Suddenly, then, as if some impulse had seized upon it, it uttered a wild and terrible shrieking kind of laugh; and then turning, dashed through the window, and in one instant disappeared from before the eyes of those who felt nearly annihilated by its fearful presence.

   "God help us!" ejaculated Henry.

   Mr. Marchdale drew a long breath, and then, giving a stamp on the floor, as if to recover himself from the state of agitation into which even he was thrown, he cried, -

   "Be it what or who it may, I'll follow it."

   "No - no - do not," cried the lady.

   "I must, I will. Let who will come with me - I follow that dreadful form."

   As he spoke, he took the road it took, and dashed through the window into the balcony.

   "And we, too, George," exclaimed Henry; "we will follow Mr. Marchdale. This dreadful affair concerns us more nearly than it does him."

   The lady who was the mother of these young men, and of the beautiful girl who had been so awfully visited, screamed aloud, and implored them to stay. But the voice of Mr. Marchdale was heard exclaiming aloud, -

   "I see it - I see it; it makes for the wall."

   They hesitated no longer, but at once rushed into the balcony, and from thence dropped into the garden.

   The mother approached the bed-side of the insensible, perhaps murdered girl; she saw her, to all appearance, weltering in blood, and, overcome by her emotions, she fainted on the floor of the room.

   When the two young men reached the garden, they found it much lighter than might have been fairly expected; for not only was the morning rapidly approaching, but the mill was still burning, and those mingled lights made almost every object plainly visible, except when deep shadows were thrown from some gigantic trees that had stood for centuries in that sweetly wooded spot. They heard the voice of Mr. Marchdale, as he cried, -

   "There - there - towards the wall. There - there - God! how it bounds along."

   The young men hastily dashed through a thicket in the direction from whence his voice sounded, and then they found him looking wild and terrified, and with something in his hand which looked like a portion of clothing.

   "Which way, which way?" they both cried in a breath.

   He leant heavily on the arm of George, as he pointed along a vista of trees, and said in a low voice, -

   "God help us all. It is not human. Look there - look there - do you not see it?"

   They looked in the direction he indicated. At the end of this vista was the wall of the garden. At that point it was full twelve feet in height, and as they looked, they saw the hideous, monstrous form they had traced from the chamber of their sister, making frantic efforts to clear the obstacle.

   They saw it bound from the ground to the top of the wall, which it very nearly reached, and then each time it fell back again into the garden with such a dull, heavy sound, that the earth seemed to shake again with the concussion. They trembled - well indeed they might, and for some minutes they watched the figure making its fruitless efforts to leave the place.

   "What - what is it?" whispered Henry, in hoarse accents. "God, what can it possibly be?"

   "I know not," replied Mr. Marchdale. "I did seize it. It was cold and clammy like a corpse. It cannot be human."

   "Not human?"

   "Look at it now. It will surely escape now."

   "No, no - we will not be terrified thus - there is Heaven above us. Come on, and, for dear Flora's sake, let us make an effort yet to seize this bold intruder."

   "Take this pistol," said Marchdale. "It is the fellow of the one I fired. Try its efficacy."

   "He will be gone," exclaimed Henry, as at this moment, after many repeated attempts and fearful falls, the figure reached the top of the wall, and then hung by its long arms a moment or two, previous to dragging itself completely up.

   The idea of the appearance, be it what it might, entirely escaping, seemed to nerve again Mr. Marchdale, and he, as well as the two young men, ran forward towards the wall. They got so close to the figure before it sprang down on the outer side of the wall, that to miss killing it with the bullet from the pistol was a matter of utter impossibility, unless wilfully.

   Henry had the weapon, and he pointed it full at the tall form with steady aim. He pulled the trigger - the explosion followed, and that the bullet did its office there could be no manner of doubt, for the figure gave a howling shriek, and fell headlong from the wall on the outside.

   "I have shot him," cried Henry, "I have shot him."

CHAPTER III.

    THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BODY. - FLORA'S RECOVERY AND MADNESS. - THE OFFER OF ASSISTANCE FROM SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.

  
He is human!" cried Henry; "I have surely killed him."

   "It would seem so," said M. Marchdale. "Let us now hurry round to the outside of the wall, and see where he lies."

   This was at once agreed to, and the whole three of them made what expedition they could towards a gate which let into a paddock, across which they hurried, and soon found themselves clear of the garden wall, so that they could make way towards where they fully expected to find the body of him who had worn so unearthly an aspect, but who it would be an excessive relief to find was human.

   So hurried was the progress they made, that it was scarcely possible to exchange many words as they went; a kind of breathless anxiety was upon them, and in the speed they disregarded every obstacle, which would, at any other time, have probably prevented them from taking the direct road they sought.

   It was difficult on the outside of the wall to say exactly which was the precise spot which it might be supposed the body had fallen on; but, by following the wall its entire length, surely they would come upon it.

   They did so; but, to their surprise, they got from its commencement to its further extremity without finding any dead body, or even any symptoms of one having lain there.

   At some parts close to the wall there grew a kind of heath, and, consequently, the traces of blood would be lost among it, if it so happened that at the precise spot at which the strange being had seemed to topple over, such vegetation had existed. This was to be ascertained; but now, after traversing the whole length of the wall twice, they came to a halt, and looked wonderingly in each other's faces.

   "There is nothing here," said Harry.

   "Nothing," added his brother.

   "It could not have been a delusion," at length said Mr. Marchdale, with a shudder.

   "A delusion?" exclaimed the brothers. "That is not possible; we all saw it."

   "Then what terrible explanation can we give?"

   "By heavens! I know not," exclaimed Henry. "This adventure surpasses all belief, and but for the great interest we have in it, I should regard it with a world of curiosity."

   "It is too dreadful," said George; "for God's sake, Henry, let us return to ascertain if poor Flora is killed."

   "My senses," said Henry, "were all so much absorbed in gazing at that horrible form, that I never once looked towards her further than to see that she was, to appearance, dead. God help her! poor - poor, beautiful Flora. This is, indeed, a sad, sad fate for you to come to. Flora - Flora - "

   "Do not weep, Henry," said George. "Rather let us now hasten home, where we may find that tears are premature. She may yet be living and restored to us."

   "And," said Mr. Marchdale, "she may be able to give us some account of this dreadful visitation."

   "True - true," exclaimed Henry; "we will hasten home."

   They now turned their steps homewards, and as they went they much blamed themselves for all leaving home together, and with terror pictured what might occur in their absence to those who were now totally unprotected.

   "It was a rash impulse of us all to come in pursuit of this dreadful figure," remarked Mr. Marchdale; "but do not torment yourself, Henry. There may be no reason for your fears."

   At the pace they went, they very soon reached the ancient house; and when they came in sight of it, they saw lights flashing from the windows, and the shadows of faces moving to and fro, indicating that the whole household was up, and in a state of alarm.

   Henry, after some trouble, got the hall door opened by a terrified servant, who was trembling so much that she could scarcely hold the light she had with her.

   "Speak at once, Martha," said Henry. "Is Flora living?"

   "Yes; but - "

   "Enough - enough! Thank God she lives; where is she now?"

   "In her own room, Master Henry. Oh, dear - oh, dear, what will become of us all?"

   Henry rushed up the staircase, followed by George and Mr. Marchdale, nor paused he once until he reached the room of his sister.

   "Mother," he said, before he crossed the threshold, "are you here?"

   "I am, my dear - I am. Come in, pray come in, and speak to Flora."

   "Come in, Mr. Marchdale," said Henry - "come in; we will make no stranger of you."

   They all entered the room.

   Several lights had been now brought into that antique chamber, and, in addition to the mother of the beautiful girl who had been so fearfully visited, there were two female domestics, who appeared to be in the greatest possible fright, for they could render no assistance whatever to anybody.

   The tears were streaming down the mother's face, and the moment she saw Mr. Marchdale, she clung to his arm, evidently unconscious of what she was about, and exclaimed, -

   "Oh, what is this that has happened - what is this? Tell me, Marchdale! Robert Marchdale, you whom I have known even from my childhood, you will not deceive me. Tell me the meaning of all this?"

   "I cannot," he said, in a tone of much emotion. "As God is my judge, I am as much puzzled and amazed at the scene that has taken place here to-night as you can be."

   The mother wrung her hands and wept.

   "It was the storm that first awakened me," added Marchdale; "and then I heard a scream."

   The brothers tremblingly approached the bed. Flora was placed in a sitting, half-reclining posture, propped up by pillows. She was quite insensible, and her face was fearfully pale; while that she breathed at all could be but very faintly seen. On some of her clothing, about the neck, were spots of blood, and she looked more like one who had suffered some long and grievous illness, than a young girl in the prime of life and in the most robust health, as she had been on the day previous to the strange scene we have recorded.

   "Does she sleep?" said Henry, as a tear fell from his eyes upon her pallid cheek.

   "No," replied Mr. Marchdale. "This is a swoon, from which we must recover her."

   Active measures were now adopted to restore the languid circulation, and, after persevering in them for some time, they had the satisfaction of seeing her open her eyes.

   Her first act upon consciousness returning, however, was to utter a loud shriek, and it was not until Henry implored her to look around her, and see that she was surrounded by none but friendly faces, that she would venture again to open her eyes, and look timidly from one to the other. Then she shuddered, and burst into tears as she said, -

   "Oh, Heaven, have mercy upon me - Heaven, have mercy upon me and save me from that dreadful form."

   "There is no one here, Flora," said Mr. Marchdale, "but those who love you, and who, in defence of you, if needs were would lay down their lives."

   "Oh, God! Oh, God!"

   "You have been terrified. But tell us distinctly what has happened? You are quite safe now."

   She trembled so violently that Mr. Marchdale recommended that some stimulant should be give to her, and she was persuaded, although not without considerable difficulty, to swallow a small portion of some wine from a cup. There could be no doubt but that the stimulating effect of the wine was beneficial, for a slight accession of colour visited her cheeks, and she spoke in a firmer tone as she said, -

   "Do not leave me. Oh, do not leave me, any of you. I shall die if left alone now. Oh, save me - save me. That horrible form! That fearful face!"

   "Tell us how it happened, dear Flora?" said Henry.

   "No - no - no," she said, "I do not think I shall ever sleep again."

   "Say not so; you will be more composed in a few hours, and then you can tell us what has occurred."

   "I will tell you now. I will tell you now."

   She placed her hands over her face for a moment, as if to collect her scattered thoughts, and then she added, -

   "I was awakened by the storm, and I saw that terrible apparition at the window. I think I screamed, but I could not fly. Oh, God! I could not fly. It came - it seized me by the hair. I know no more. I know no more."

   She passed her hand across her neck several times, and Mr. Marchdale said, in an anxious voice, -

   "You seem, Flora, to have hurt your neck - there is a wound."

   "A wound!" said the mother, and she brought a light close to the bed, where all saw on the side of Flora's neck a small punctured wound; or, rather two, for there was one a little distance from the other.

   It was from these wounds the blood had come which was observable upon her night clothing.

   "How came these wounds?" said Henry.

   "I do not know," she replied. "I feel very faint and weak, as if I had almost bled to death."

   "You cannot have done so, dear Flora, for there are not above half-a-dozen spots of blood to be seen at all."

   Mr. Marchdale leaned against the carved head of the bed for support, and he uttered a deep groan. All eyes were turned upon him, and Henry said, in a voice of the most anxious inquiry, -

   "Have you something to say, Mr. Marchdale, which will throw some light upon this affair."

   "No, no, no, nothing!" cried Mr. Marchdale, rousing himself at once from the appearance of depression that had come over him. "I have nothing to say, but that I think Flora had better get some sleep if she can."

   "No sleep - no sleep for me," again screamed Flora. "Dare I be alone to sleep?"

   "But you shall not be alone, dear Flora," said Henry. "I will sit by your bedside and watch you."

   She took his hand in both hers, and while the tears chased each other down her cheeks, she said, -

   "Promise me, Henry, by all your hopes of Heaven, you will not leave me."

   "I promise."

   She gently laid herself down, with a deep sigh, and closed her eyes.

   "She is weak, and will sleep long," said Mr. Marchdale.

   "You sigh," said Henry. "Some fearful thoughts, I feel certain, oppress your heart."

   "Hush - hush!" said Mr. Marchdale, as he pointed to Flora. "Hush! not here - not here."

   "I understand," said Henry.

   "Let her sleep."

   There was a silence of some few minutes' duration. Flora had dropped into a deep slumber. That silence was first broken by George, who said, -

   "Mr. Marchdale, look at that portrait."

   He pointed to the portrait in the frame to which we have alluded, and the moment Marchdale looked at it he sunk into a chair as he exclaimed, -

   "Gracious Heaven, how like!"

   "It is - it is," said Henry. "Those eyes - "

   "And see the contour of the countenance, and the strange shape of the mouth."

   "Exact - exact."

   "That picture shall be moved from here. The sight of it is at once sufficient to awaken all her former terrors in poor Flora's brain if she should chance to awaken and cast her eyes suddenly upon it."

   "And is it so like him who came here?" said the mother.

   "It is the very man himself," said Mr. Marchdale. "I have not been in this house long enough to ask any of you whose portrait that may be?"

   "It is," said Henry, "the portrait of Sir Runnagate Bannerworth, an ancestor of ours, who first, by his vices, gave the great blow to the family prosperity."

   "Indeed. How long ago?"

   "About ninety years."

   "Ninety years. 'Tis a long while - ninety years."

   "You muse upon it."

   "No, no. I do wish, and yet I dread - "

   "What?"

   "To say something to you all. But not here - not here. We will hold a consultation on this matter to-morrow. Not now - not now."

   "The daylight is coming quickly on," said Henry; "I shall keep my sacred promise of not moving from this room until Flora awakens; but there can be no occasion for the detention of any of you. One is sufficient here. Go all of you, and endeavour to procure what rest you can."

   "I will fetch you my powder-flask and bullets," said Mr. Marchdale; "and you can, if you please, reload the pistols. In about two hours more it will be broad daylight."

   This arrangement was adopted. Henry did reload the pistols, and placed them on a table by the side of the bed, ready for immediate action, and then, as Flora was sleeping soundly, all left the room but himself.

   Mrs. Bannerworth was the last to do so. She would have remained, but for the earnest solicitation of Henry, that she would endeavour to get some sleep to make up for her broken night's repose, and she was indeed so broken down by her alarm on Flora's account, that she had not power to resist, but with tears flowing from her eyes, she sought her own chamber.

   And now the calmness of the night resumed its sway in that evil-fated mansion; and although no one really slept but Flora, all were still. Busy thought kept every one else wakeful. It was a mockery to lie down at all, and Henry, full of strange and painful feelings as he was, preferred his present position to the anxiety and apprehension on Flora's account which he knew he should feel if she were not within the sphere of his own observation, and she slept as soundly as some gentle infant tired of its playmates and its sports.

TO BE CONTINUED

Medina raised her head as Wassawa’s bodyguard entered the tent, holding a struggling figure in his muscular arms. Her eyes widened, and she stifled a gasp. It was Simba. What was he doing in the rebel camp?

She looked away immediately, not wanting her captors to see that she recognised the boy. Wassawa strode forward, his henchmen moving aside. The warlord gazed questioningly at his bodyguard.

‘Look who we found sneaking into the camp,’ the bodyguard rumbled. ‘Some rich city kid with a death wish.’

Wassawa’s eyes blazed. He flung up his hands, his white robes flapping about him like vulture’s wings.

‘Papa Humfo! You send Wassawa a sacrifice!’ He turned to Medina. ‘Then he won’t be offering a slave, eh – witch?’

Medina shook her head tightly. ‘Papa Humfo is kind,’ she said, with her eyes downcast. But inwardly, she felt furious. What was the idiot doing here? Had Papa Humfo truly sent him? The ways of the gods were strange.

‘Wassawa’s attack will begin at dawn,’ the warlord continued. ‘My bodyguard will prepare the sacrifice and take him to the grove. Medina will look at Wassawa,’ he added as the bodyguard dragged the prisoner from the tent.

Medina raised her head. She met Wassawa’s chilling snake-like eyes. He moved closer and Medina shuddered.

‘Wassawa wishes you to speak to Papa Humfo,’ the warlord breathed. ‘Offer him this sacrifice in return for Wassawa’s victory. As he dies, so die all Wassawa’s enemies.’

Medina stepped lightly into the sacred grove, past the ghost wall and into the spirit ring where the altar lay. The sounds of the camp were muted here. It was as if the jungle held its breath in anticipation. She could feel Papa Humfo’s presence.

It was wrong that such a man as Wassawa, a warlord and a black magician, should have control over a holy place like this. He was powerful, but he did not understand the might he wielded. To him it was simply a means to an end. Perhaps this was why Papa Humfo would speak only to Medina.

Wassawa’s bodyguard lumbered into the clearing, dragging Simba behind him. Medina looked at the man, careful to conceal her feelings. How she loathed him. She remembered how he had raped her, nearly killed her when she was first captured by the rebels – before Wassawa discovered that she could conjure spirits.

All other thoughts ceased as Papa Humfo’s deep baritone voice seemed to echo in the night beyond the grove.

The god knew her desire, and knew what Wassawa would have her ask for. He knew that these two hopes were at odds.

‘Then what am I to do?’ Medina asked inside her head.

She must make her own decisions. All that the god desired was to be fed. He would accept any deal that profited him.

‘I can’t make this sacrifice,’ Medina told the god. She looked in pain at Simba as Wassawa’s bodyguard bound him to the altar and placed the long mask over his face.

She must offer up another one’s life. Then the god would readily grant her what she asked for – to get away from this land. Wassawa’s plans meant nothing to Papa Humfo.

Now Medina knew what to do. As the bodyguard picked up the mask that he would wear during the ritual, she came to his side.

‘I have spoken with Papa Humfo,’ she murmured. The bodyguard looked down at her in surprise. She seldom spoke to him willingly.

‘What did he say?’ the bodyguard asked uncomfortably. His eyes flicked up and down her vulnerable form. ‘Will he give Wassawa the victory he demands?’

Medina gazed at him without fear, but did not answer him directly. ‘He promises great things for you,’ she told him.

‘Me?’ the big man asked, startled. ‘Will he give me back the power I had? What did he promise?’

‘This,’ Medina said simply, rising on tiptoe to kiss him.

The bodyguard crushed her frail figure to his own body as he returned the kiss fiercely. His tongue slobbered into Medina’s mouth. For a moment she endured it. Then she bit down.

Wassawa’s bodyguard fell back, trying to scream through the frothing gore. On his knees, he scrabbled frantically with his right hand, searching for his tongue as it lay where Medina had spat it. He held his mouth with his other hand in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. As his right hand grasped something fleshy and cooling, a foot pinned it and the grisly trophy to the hard packed earth. He looked up.

Still crushing his hand beneath her foot, Medina brought the skull she had snatched from the altar down with all her force. He sprawled across the ground and lay still, hardly breathing.

Scooping up the bodyguard’s mask, she hurried over to the altar where Simba lay bound. She ripped the sacrificial mask from his face and began to untie him. ‘What did you think you were doing, entering rebel territory alone?’

‘I was worried, sister,’ Simba replied as the last rope dropped to the ground. ‘I knew you would take this route to the city. When you did not appear, and I heard Wassawa’s rebels had recently moved into this area, I had to come looking for you. They’re worse than the other rebels – dangerous savages, out for themselves.’

Medina’s face softened. ‘I’m sorry I shouted, I understand. But you should have remained in the city. It’s safer there.’

‘What are you doing with Wassawa and his madmen?’ Simba asked, clambering to his feet.

‘They captured me when I was travelling, and Wassawa discovered my talent,’ said Medina. ‘If Grandmother had not passed on her secrets to me, I might not be here. But how did you get here?’

Simba was about to answer when drums began to throb in the distance. ‘Quickly! Put this on and help me get the bodyguard onto the altar!’ she hissed.

When Wassawa led his men into the grove, Medina and a masked man were binding a third figure to the altar. Two of Wassawa’s men beat traditional goat-hide drums that were slung around their waists. The drumbeats rose to a crescendo, echoing back from the trees, and then stopped abruptly. Wassawa stepped forward and gave a nod to Medina.

She and her masked companion stepped away from the prone figure on the altar as Wassawa lifted a gourd of palm wine to his lips. He drank ritualistically, and then passed it to his companions, and each drank. Then each man took one of the masks that lay at the altar’s foot and placed them over their faces.

Wassawa stepped forward, his mask nodding eerily in the flickering light. With a scraping noise he drew a machete from his belt. He held it above the feebly struggling body, and then plunged it down.

Medina nodded to Simba. His masked face looked back at her, and then he followed her quietly towards the edge of the clearing. He took a last look back.

Wassawa and his henchmen were hacking at the masked figure on the altar, cutting strips of flesh from the still living body and thrusting them raw into their mouths. The bodyguard’s bloody form thrashed spasmodically as the knives sunk in. Wassawa’s white robes were now blotched with gore. He leaned forward to hack more flesh from the body and the bodyguard’s head fell back. The mask fell off, revealing the bodyguard’s tortured face. His eyes stared glassily into the night.

Wassawa rose, horror etched into his own powerful features, his snake eyes glittering. The machete dripped gore on the hard earth.

Medina whirled round. Simba seemed paralysed by the sight. She seized his brawny arm and forced him into a run.

The pair flew through the jungle, their feet barely touching the ground. They had circled the great rebel camp without being seen, but Medina had no idea where they were heading.

‘Quickly! This way!’ Simba panted. They passed shadowy, vine-hung trees. ‘Someone’s waiting for us.’

‘Who?’ Medina gasped.

‘Barclay Obote, the man I worked for in the city,’ Simba answered.

Gunfire raked the ground beside them as they pressed on into the undergrowth. Medina’s pulse was racing, and her lungs seemed to be on fire. The shouting of the rebels was growing closer and the darkness couldn’t hide them forever.

Just as Medina was giving up hope, bright lights flared in front of them, freezing them to the spot.

‘What took you so long?’ a voice drawled from behind the glaring headlights. ‘We nearly left without you, man!’

The jeep’s engines roared into life as Medina and Simba clambered inside.

Medina saw a longhaired man in an expensive suit sitting in the passenger seat. Another man sat at the wheel, a third in the back beside Simba. But the man in the suit drew her attention the most as the driver put his foot down and sent the vehicle speeding back the way that it had come.

‘That man Wassawa, he’s no good, you know,’ said the man in the suit, leaning over and giving Medina a charming smile. He had gold fillings. ‘Simba, I’m ashamed of you, man, letting your pretty little sister get into his hands.’

‘Yeah, Mr Obote,’ Simba said. ‘I just want my sister and me to get outa this place.’

‘You wanna go to Babylon?’ Barclay Obote asked Medina. She looked at him in silence.

Ever since the country had collapsed, she had wanted to get away, go somewhere where there was still civilisation – if it existed. Stuck out in her village in the bush after losing most of her family in the famine, she had thought her brother in the big city was her only hope. When he sent her his message, she had thought she was finally going to escape. The last few months of jungle travel and the nightmare of captivity among the rebels had sapped her will. She had been close to utter despair. But now escape seemed certain.

Gunfire lit up the night behind them as Obote’s driver forced the jeep down a rutted track. Medina gasped, and looked over her shoulder.

Rebel vehicles were sweeping through the night, their headlights bouncing in the darkness as they shot across the churned up terrain. More gunfire rattled, and bullets whizzed around them.

‘Dakota!’ Barclay addressed the man in the back languidly. ‘Discourage these infidels.’

The man sitting to Simba’s right leapt up and opened fire with the assault rifle he had been clutching, blazed away at the pursuers as Barclay’s driver drove on through the darkness and the vehicle bounced across potholes.

Dawn revealed the city on the horizon, a blasted shadow of its former magnificence. Years of civil war and one uprising after another had taken their toll. It looked as if the city wanted the jungle to smother it and put an end to its misery.

Barclay’s jeep bounced and jolted across the no-man’s-land between the forest and the city. The rebels poured out from the jungle. The 4x4 rapidly approached the checkpoint, slowed enough for Barclay to shout orders at the guards, then accelerated into the city beyond.

Gunfire rattled in the distance as Barclay’s driver took them down a badly maintained road flanked by ruins and semi-ruins. A huge statue of the first president stood headless in the centre of a plaza. It was otherwise empty except for small groups of citizens clutching guns and staring numbly north, towards the jungle.

The jeep pulled up outside a rundown government office block, and Barclay took them inside. Ignoring the lift, he ushered them up a dark concrete stairwell that stank of urine. Six flights up, a passage led them to a door. Dakota opened it and Barclay ushered Medina and Simba into a large, brightly illuminated office with a view of the ruinous presidential palace.

He sat down and put his feet up on the wide desk, while Medina and Simba sat on the other side. Dakota and the driver remained on guard in the passage.

Barclay gestured expansively around at the office.

‘British desk, American computers, Swedish furniture, Japanese radio,’ he said proudly. ‘All shipped in at personal cost. But nothing’s too much for a high-ranking official.’ He switched on the radio and was rewarded with a blast of reggae music. Simba grinned. ‘You wanna leave our fine country, man?’ Barclay added, looking at Simba. ‘Why?’

Simba indicated the radio. ‘It was Bob Marley who inspired me,’ he said. ‘Exodus! Gotta go elsewhere. And I’ve saved up money while I’ve been working for you. I think I can pay my way.’

‘But Babylon, man,’ Barclay said lazily. The reggae on the radio was cut off suddenly by swelling chords of martial music. The President began shouting:

‘We will not submit to the insurgents! Again, the Habesh Rebel Alliance attack innocent people, but the mighty Civilian Defence Force will crush them. Long live the Republic of Habesh…’

Barclay switched off the radio in annoyance.

‘He’s so full of shit, man,’ he said.

Medina was growing impatient, waiting for Barclay to get down to business. ‘You can get us out of this country?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve got no money but Simba says he can pay.’

All charm vanished from Barclay’s voice. ‘Let me see the money,’ he said. Unwillingly, Simba opened his jacket and took note after note from a money belt.

‘All American dollars,’ he said anxiously.

‘Of course, my man,’ Barclay replied. ‘Would I pay my employees anything else?’ He counted the money, speaking as he did so. ‘You’ll be taken to the UK. Ever heard of it? Somewhere they have food to spare, and hot water, and good houses, and no civil war. They’ll give you money if you don’t work. Paradise, man.’

‘What do we have to do?’ Medina demanded. The noise of gunfire seemed to draw closer. She was desperate to escape.

Barclay fixed her with his cold gaze, and suddenly she was reminded of Wassawa.

‘Tell the officials that you’re seeking political asylum,’ he replied. ‘They fall for it every time. And it’s not like you’re lying. You’re escaping hell.’

‘I thought you liked it here,’ Medina replied. ‘You call the UK Babylon.’

Barclay stopped counting. ‘One day, when I’ve made my money - or the government’s ousted - I’ll move to Babylon to live in style. And by its river will I lay me down, and weep. For joy. Dakota!’ he called. The man entered quickly. ‘Their money’s good. Take them to the ship, man.’ He turned to his two customers. ‘You set sail tonight. Bon voyage.’

The car pulled into the dock entrance. Medina’s spirits rose as she caught the tang of sea air. This was it; finally they were going to escape, away from this madness. They were going somewhere where they would be treated like human beings. Somewhere they would be welcome.

The car came to a halt near a huge rusty freighter. Old, by the look of it, but that didn’t matter. It was their way out. Her deal with Papa Humfo was paying off.

‘Get out,’ said Dakota in a bored monotone. The driver stayed behind the wheel as Dakota stepped out of the car and waited for Medina and Simba.

As he led them up the gangway Medina noticed a faint but unpleasant odour. Dakota took them over to one of many containers. As they approached the smell became more pungent. Dakota opened the container door. It was packed with people. Dakota ushered them in, and Medina and Simba stepped forward uncertainly. Darkness fell as the doors closed with a clang.

Their journey had begun.

One

The ancient ring-fort loomed above the huddled village like a threat. In the stony pass solace was a thing unknown; the mountain walls themselves menaced the fragile little settlement, seeming forever on the brink of falling and crushing the life out of it. But the dark old fortress on the heights emanated an air of pure menace.

Its circular walls consisted of massive dry-stone blocks, crude but mighty, raised in an age long gone when the humble little church in the village was founded. Many raths and cashels dot the countryside of Ireland, but most are decaying hummocks, haunted by feeble spirits of long ago. Dún Dreach-Fhoula still stood, and remained inhabited even in these troubled times. But few people in the village thought of their lords on the day when the foreigners came.

A cold drizzle hung in the air that morning. Young Oengus was picking his way across the muddy village street when a distant thunder of hoofs reached his ears.

He skittered across the lane and climbed onto a vantage point atop a rocky outcrop. Suibhne the priest appeared from the dark door to the wattle church.

‘What is it, boy?’ he called urgently. ‘They say there’s trouble afoot, down on the coast.’

Unspeaking, Oengus paused at the top of the wet rock and gazed down into the valley below.

Through sheets of rain and mist, the path that led up from the valley below was visible, the same track that wound through the village and continued on into the pass. Involuntarily, he glanced at the steep cliff that rose above the village, and the ancient walls that ringed it, but hurriedly drew his attention back to the valley. He caught his breath.

The sheets of rain had parted momentarily. He glimpsed the crowded valley floor.

‘Riders!’ he called wildly, turning towards the priest. ‘Two miles down the valley. Heading towards us!’

‘Are they Munster-men?’ the priest asked quickly.

Oengus stared hard through the shifting mists. Did it matter where they came from? The lords of the valleys were no better than the foreigners, when it was campaigning season - not to honest peasant folk, at least. Besides, however dreadful, no warriors could be as terrible as they who ruled this valley.

Again the mists parted.

The plodding cavalcade of horsemen was nearer now, drawing closer to the foot of the slope. Oengus could see the riders’ rain-drenched clothes, bright and outlandishly coloured despite the downpour. Equally visible were their vast beards, and the axes slung over their shoulders, that told him they were no native Irishmen. He caught sight of their leader.

A chill of fear, mixed with awed wonder, shot through him.

‘Well, boy?’ the priest called querulously.

Oengus turned to see Suibhne had ventured out of the church, and now stood in the muddy lane below, peering up at him. Other faces had appeared in the doors of the huts around the village square.

‘They’re not Irish,’ the boy replied, his voice thick. He pushed the hair from his eyes as Loeaghaire the headman appeared at the entrance to his roundhouse.

‘Are they foreigners, then?’ Loeaghaire asked. A murmur rose from the watching villagers.

The words stuck in Oengus’ throat. He stammered

‘I think the leader is Ingunn the Red.’

‘What’s that, lad?’ Suibhne frowned.

‘Their leader is the Red Daughter.’

Oengus’ words were audible across the rain-lashed village square. The villagers’ faces fell. Suibhne clutched his crucifix, muttering to himself. Loeaghaire stood steadfast and firm, but his face was pale.

The Red Daughter? Why had she come to their remote mountain village?

‘I can see a fort up there,’ said Bjorn suddenly, peering up into the mists at the head of the line.

Ingunn looked up from her gloomy thoughts.

‘A fort?’ she demanded harshly. She glanced around at the forty-strong force that she had led up here from the coast. ‘I thought I told you to keep your eyes open!’

‘Not easy, in this rain,’ Thorkell Treebone remarked. ‘Besides, that place is ancient. Look at it!’

Ingunn craned her neck back to gaze up the slope. Silent and ominous, the megalithic dry-stone walls of the fort crowned the ridge above the pass. Granted, it looked far older than the forts the natives favoured, and for all she knew it might have been built in ancient days, before the gods triumphed over the giants. But who was to say no robber chieftain of these grim mountains had reoccupied the place? They might be facing ambush at any second.

‘Keep alert!’ she ordered. ‘Our mission is far too important to jeopardise. King Sigtrygg expects to meet us at the foot of the Boggeragh Mountains by tomorrow afternoon. I swore by Thor and Odin that we would meet him there, and join forces to attack the Danes of Cork from the rear. I swore it, and by all the gods, I’ll not break my word, nor die with an oath unfulfilled!’

Thorkell Treebone heaved a sigh, and led them cautiously onward.

‘They’re beginning to ride up the slope now,’ Oengus reported.

‘What do you suggest, headman?’ Suibhne asked Loeaghaire acerbically. ‘You are the one who makes the decisions here.’

The village elders had congregated in the lane, beneath Oengus’ rock, from which the boy issued frequent reports. It seemed that in the driving rain the foreigners had not yet noticed their village, but the elders were still to reach a decision.

‘We cannot flee,’ Loeaghaire said darkly. ‘We are the vassals of our lord in the fort above...’ A murmur rose from the villagers. Suibhne crossed himself devoutly. ‘He would hunt us down wherever we went, should we flee his domain, and it would be the worse for us,’ the headman added. He shook his head. ‘We must stand our ground. Perhaps our lord will welcome these visitors. Certainly, it seems that we must.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Come! We shall prepare to greet these foreigners as guests.’

Lulled by the swaying of her horse’s back, Ingunn felt little but the rain on her face. Her mail-encased body was cold, but no more than it would be were she aboard her longship. Water was her element, and only the crags towering above them made her uneasy. The crags and the half-ruined ring-fort that had now vanished in the mists.

The little village came as a complete surprise.

The Norsemen crested the rise as the rain began to lash down harder, splashing from their heavy sea-capes and the backs and flanks of their mounts - and there it was, ahead of them. In the shadow of the cliff, twelve or thirteen roundhouses straddled the winding road; peasant dwellings of the kind common in the lowlands, but rare up in these lonely mountains. A small crowd had gathered in the middle of the village.

Ingunn glared down at the rain-drenched figures. She had been expecting an ambush, not a welcoming committee.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, casting her eyes from left to right. These peasants posed no threat to her, with forty men at her back. As the Vikings rode into the village on either side of her, the Irishmen stared up at them with awe.

Finally, a man shuffled forward.

‘Welcome to Dún Dreach-Fhoula,’ he stuttered in thickly-accented Norse.

‘Welcome to where?’ Ingunn’s words rang out across the village. ‘What gods-forsaken heap of hovels is this?’

‘Dún Dreach-Fhoula,’ the man repeated awkwardly. ‘I am Loeaghaire, the headman of the village beneath the fort.’

Thorkell Treebone rode forward.

‘Yes, the fort,’ he said. ‘Who dwells there? Is he the King of Munster’s man? How strong is his garrison? Tell us, or suffer the consequences.’

‘Lord Dreach-Fhoula is no king’s man,’ Loeaghaire was saying as Oengus broke away from the crowd, and slipped closer to the leader of the foreigners. Never had he seen so beautiful a woman; not even his cousin Emer. Though diminutive in size, the Red Daughter was a commanding presence atop her steed, and Oengus was sure she would remain impressive down amongst the villagers.

Her followers were mighty men, strong and wild in appearance. Their impassive, savage faces frightened the young lad. But they seemed to be equally in awe of their auburn-headed chieftainess...

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ hissed a voice in Oengus’ ear.

 He turned, with a sigh.

‘Emer,’ he muttered. His cousin had followed him round the crowd, and now she was looking at him with that vexed expression she had learnt from her mother. ‘I wanted to look at the foreign woman,’ he added hesitantly. Emer folded her arms.

‘I’m sure you did,’ she hissed. ‘The heathen hussy! The shameless pagan! She dresses like a man! She’s as hideous as these heathens who accompany her.’

One of the nearest Vikings looked down at them from his horse. Oengus’ bowels turned to water as the man’s intense glare caught his own.

Suddenly, the Viking’s face split with a grin, and he chuckled.

‘Very well, then,’ said the Red Daughter loudly, closing her negotiations with the headman. ‘We accept your offer. If you can adequately stable forty horses, and supply us with food and ale for the night, you will not find us ungrateful.’

‘I’m not sure this is a good idea, Ingunn,’ said Thorkell Treebone quietly.

She shrugged, and gestured towards the grey skies that relentlessly poured rain upon the dismal scene.

‘We need decent shelter if we’re to be any use to King Sigtrygg,’ she replied. ‘We won’t get it anywhere else in this country. These robbers in the old fort accept no king, Irish or Danish. This is what we need.’

‘We have yet to meet our mysterious benefactors,’ Thorkell Treebone reminded her. ‘Currently we have only the words of this peasant.’

‘Lord Dreach-Fhoula will welcome you,’ said Loeaghaire quickly. ‘You may depend on that.’

The Vikings stared down at the huddled, uneasy villagers. The rain hissed down. Oengus and Emer watched from the side, their eyes wide.

‘Come on, then,’ said another Viking, a large man with a vast beard. He leapt down from his horse and led it across the square. ‘Stable him well,’ he told Loeaghaire.

The Red Daughter sighed.

‘You’re right, Bjorn,’ she muttered. ‘Stable these horses, Irishman! Ignore my cautious comrade. Thorkell Treebone is so cunning he could never believe another man might have simple motives.’

She climbed down from her horse, and the rest of the Vikings dismounted. Thorkell Treebone slid off his horse painfully and waddled forward. Oengus saw that he had a wooden leg. At Loeaghaire’s bidding, the villagers hurried forward to take care of their guests’ beasts. Ingunn strode towards the largest roundhouse.

Oengus watched her go, smiling to himself.

Two

That night, Loeaghaire’s hut was full. Most evenings, the men of the village would crowd in there to drink and perhaps discuss the events of the day, such as they were, and the prospects for next harvest. But tonight they had guests, and their uneasy silence undercut the boisterous roar of the foreigners.

‘There’s that woman again,’ said Emer disapprovingly. Oengus nodded. Both had slipped away from their own huts to watch the proceedings from the shadows of the entrance. The guests were carousing and drinking, while the villagers sat nervously in one corner, attentive, at Loeaghaire’s urging, to the foreigners’ every need.

‘Why does our headman welcome them like this?’ Emer added peevishly. ‘They eat our food and drink our ale. Nothing will be left once these ogres are done.’

‘So, Irishman.’ Ingunn’s words split the hubbub. Alone among her followers, she had been drinking moderately, and seemed cold sober.

‘Yes, my lady?’ Loeaghaire asked unctuously.

‘When do we meet your lord?’ she asked. ‘We are not accustomed to drinking with peasants. Your hospitality is all well and good, but that of your betters leaves much to be desired.’

‘Indeed,’ Loeaghaire replied thoughtfully. ‘You will soon meet him.’

‘We don’t want to stay here too long,’ said Thorkell. ‘I say we get going first thing in the morning. No profit in talking with this robber chieftain. He might seek recompense.’

‘I have something to offer them,’ Ingunn replied, tossing back her head. ‘If they are worth our while, we could enlist them against our foes.’

‘I am sure they will be keen to discuss this matter with you,’ Loeaghaire broke in. ‘May I ask who your foes are?’

Ingunn looked at him scornfully. ‘That’s nothing I’d tell you,’ she replied. ‘Get me this mysterious lord of yours, and I’ll tell him all about it.’

‘It is to be hoped,’ said Suibhne ponderously, in his cups as he was most nights, ‘that you do not ride against men of God.’

In the silence that fell, he blinked uncertainly, and blustered on. ‘Your people are notorious for showing the House of God little respect.’ He paused, and swallowed audibly.

Ingunn turned her ice blue gaze upon him.

‘You suggest we might plunder holy places?’ she purred. Bjorn laughed loudly beside her.

‘It is said, it is said,’ the priest replied nervously.

‘And yet, in thanks for my victory over Varg the Black, I bestowed much gold on the convent on Innis Cotrice,’ Ingunn said slowly. ‘I was the deliverance for which the nuns had prayed - though it was vengeance for my father’s death that I sought. Our desires were one. Perhaps the White Christ had a hand in my victory. I made offerings to him as I did to Thor and Odin. What of it?’

‘But they say you heathens loot monasteries,’ Suibhne replied. ‘It is common knowledge.’

Ingunn shrugged. ‘Sometimes it is necessary to forage from holy men, as from others. If they truly wished to give their treasures to their god - rather than to covet them and gloat over them - they should break or burn them, so none in this world might use them. That is the custom among my people. But as to your question, we ride against no monastery.’

She turned away abruptly, the discussion ended. From the shadows, Oengus gazed at her, and sighed.

‘You like her, don’t you?’ said Emer accusingly.

Oengus nodded quietly. Emer snorted. ‘She’s horrid,’ the girl said.

Oengus was about to reply when he saw two figures move towards the entrance. The children ducked back.

After a couple of seconds, Oengus peered warily round the corner.

‘Are they coming out?’ Emer hissed, afraid they would get in trouble. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Loeaghaire and Suibhne,’ Oengus muttered. ‘They’re just standing there.’

He peered round the corner again.

‘What is it, priest?’ Loeaghaire was saying. ‘Don’t try to stop me. You’re drunk. And don’t anger our guests. These foreigners are dangerous unless treated with caution.’

‘Dangerous, but not as evil as we are told,’ Suibhne slurred. ‘Perhaps at last we have a chance!’

‘A chance for what?’ Loeaghaire demanded. ‘What are you talking about, priest? I must be going.’

‘What am I talking about?’ the priest asked. ‘Why, what do you think? Do you enjoy being the servant of evil? Lord Dreach-Fhoula is an agent of the Devil, as are all his followers. And you aid them!’

‘I would rather they preyed upon others,’ Loeaghaire replied. ‘I would rather they let my own people be. And maybe they will, for a while, at least. If I tell them of our guests.’

Suibhne seized the headman’s arm.

‘You can’t mean to... No!’ he hissed. ‘That will solve nothing! This village has laboured under the curse since before Saint Patrick’s time. Even the Druids were afraid of Lord Dreach-Fhoula. But the Red Daughter is a mighty warrior. Maybe she will free us!’

‘Why should she?’ Loeaghaire replied. ‘She is a mercenary. What have we to offer her, or any of her kind? The foreigners have been tearing Ireland apart for a hundred years. Lord Dreach-Fhoula has been here far longer, and what his people ask of us is a small price. Don’t try to stop me. I’m going up to the fort, and that’s all I have to say.’

He pushed past the priest. Oengus and Emer ducked into the shadows as Loeaghaire strode resolutely across the village square in the direction of the precipitous path to the ring-fort. The two children exchanged glances.

Once the headman had gone, Oengus returned quickly to the door.

The Vikings were still eating, though little food was left. Suibhne had retired to a corner, where he sat in silent meditation. Oengus’ eyes strayed back to Ingunn.

She stood talking with her two lieutenants, slightly away from both her men and the villagers. Oengus’ eyes narrowed. He could easily crawl round the wall to their position, and hear the great woman speak. He was about to move when Emer’s hand landed on his shoulder.

‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked petulantly. ‘What’s going on?’

Oengus bit his lip.

‘I think our headman hopes to betray our guests to his lordship,’ he replied.

Emer’s eyes wavered, but she shook her head. ‘What of it?’ she replied. ‘We’ll be rid of them.’

‘But the priest wants to use them to rid us of Lord Dreach-Fhoula,’ Oengus added. He glanced back at Ingunn. ‘I want to know if she realises people are plotting against her.’

Before Emer could say more, he slipped away.

‘I don’t trust these Irishmen,’ Thorkell Treebone was saying.

The Red Daughter flashed him an uncharacteristic smile.

‘But you trust no one, Thorkell,’ she replied gently.

‘I don’t see what’s wrong with them,’ Bjorn protested. ‘They’ve been very hospitable.’

‘While you trust too many,’ said Ingunn. ‘But as long as we keep what wits we have about us, there’s nothing these peasants can do. Their lord is a different matter. A robber chieftain by the sound of things, and the fort up there is his stronghold. But if we were to speak with him, we should be able to bring him over to our way of thinking.’

‘He’ll ride against the folk of Cork?’ asked Bjorn.

Ingunn scowled.

‘Don’t mention our mission here,’ she said swiftly. ‘King Sigtrygg wants the Danes to suspect nothing - until we descend upon them. A surprise attack will win us the town, nothing else.’

‘Yes, Bjorn,’ agreed Thorkell. ‘We can trust no one but our sworn comrades. Were we to enlist these robbers, we would run a heavy risk of treachery, Ingunn... Ingunn?’

The Red Daughter was staring absently towards the wall.

‘Ingunn, this idea of yours is risky!’ he said loudly.

Ingunn raised a hand for silence. The two men exchanged glances as she strode towards the shadowy wall.

There was a squawk. Ingunn’s hand flashed out, and she seized a fleeing figure.

As she dragged the young boy out from his hiding place, she looked at Thorkell.

‘And it seems we’re at risk even here,’ she replied grimly.

Three

The roundhouse rose in uproar. Oengus drooped limply. He had been listening to the foreigners’ conversation with little comprehension, as they discussed matters beyond him; lying still, in the lea of the wall, as quiet as a mouse - until the rat ran over his hand.

Even then, he’d had the presence of mind to muffle his startled cry. No one had heard it, except her, it seemed. But now he was her prisoner. The Red Daughter gazed around at the villagers.

‘What is this spy doing here?’ she asked, in a low, dangerous voice. The villagers looked uncomfortable, and some glanced around for Loeaghaire.

‘Well?’ demanded Ingunn. ‘Will none of you speak? Who set this spy to listen to our speech?’

The priest rose unsteadily from the corner.

‘I know nothing of such a plan,’ he said in a wavering voice.

‘Where is your headman?’ Ingunn demanded suddenly.

‘He went up to the fort, to speak with... his lordship,’ the priest replied, with a shudder.

‘A trap!’ Thorkell exclaimed. ‘His robber masters will descend upon us and plunder us!’

Suibhne shuffled forward. ‘I told him it would be better to ally ourselves with you,’ he said.

Ingunn shifted Oengus to one side, and then drew her sword. Its razor-sharp edge whisked past the boy’s face, and he screwed his eyes shut.

‘Come no closer, if you value this lad’s life!’ she ordered. A frown crossed her face. ‘Ally yourselves? What benefit could you be to warriors like us? We want fighting men, not peasants!’

His heart beating madly, Loeaghaire halted beneath the massive stone archway leading into the fort. Two torches burned within, revealing a silent courtyard, and a stone hall beyond. He stepped forward.

The instant he passed through the arch, the torches winked out, and he was left in darkness. Fear seized him, and he turned to flee, plans forgotten.

Hands reached out of the darkness, and superhuman strength bore him to the ground.

Before he could think to struggle, his captor dragged him towards the hall. Never had he been so far into the fort before.

As he passed under the heavy stone lintel, he found himself confronted by an eerie, uncanny scene. The hall opened out into red-lit darkness. Crudely carved pillars supported a high roof that towered above the hall, where a large trench lay, brimful with a dark liquid that glistened in the light of four smoking torches. Beside it stood a stone slab, like an altar. Otherwise the hall was in darkness. But the light was sufficient to hint, if not reveal, the dark forms lurking in the shadows around him.

‘What is this?’ came a dusty, ancient voice from the darkness beyond the trench.

‘I found him lurking at the gate,’ hissed Loeaghaire’s captor. His voice sounded strangely familiar. The headman tried to turn and see who held him, but a strong paw forced his face back, and held it there.

‘Who are you, mortal?’ the dusty voice demanded.

‘I... My name is Loeaghaire,’ he replied. ‘I am headman of the village! I bring the tribute.’

‘Pah!’ spat the unseen speaker. ‘These mortals all look alike to me. But why do you come here with no tribute? Now is not the time to trouble us. Unless you offer yourself.’

‘But I have news,’ Loeaghaire gasped. ‘A group of foreigners, Viking raiders, have come to the village...’

‘What of it?’ sneered the dark voice. ‘Can you not fight your own battles?’

‘Listen to me!’ Loeaghaire demanded. At this, a hideous chorus of cackles and sniggers came from the surrounding audience. ‘I said listen!’ he shouted, and this time his voice quelled the noise.

‘We listen,’ said the voice calmly. ‘Bring him closer!’ it added in a commanding tone.

Loeaghaire’s captor forced him forward, across the hall floor to the edge of the trench. The headman peered uncertainly into the darkness beyond, but saw nothing.

‘Speak!’ commanded the voice.

‘If I can convince them, they might come here,’ Loeaghaire babbled. ‘You could take them as tribute, not my people. A glut of strong, hardy warriors. And at their head is the shield maiden known as the Red Daughter.’

‘The Red Daughter? The Red Daughter?’ The chorus took up the name.

‘Silence!’ the voice commanded, and they spoke no more.

‘We have heard of the Red Daughter,’ it told Loeaghaire. ‘We have heard how she has battled Fomorians and Fir Bolg and Sidhe. But she has met her match with the Lord of Dún Dreach-Fhoula!’

‘Shall I lead her to you?’ asked Loeaghaire eagerly.

‘No need,’ hissed the voice. ‘My companions are perfectly capable. You, however, will remain to serve your true function. Only once that is done will we begin to deal with these Vikings.’

‘No! No!’ screamed Loeaghaire, as the speaker moved slowly into the torchlight. But it was at Lord Dreach-Fhoula’s companions that he screamed, when he realised who would be first to drink his blood.

‘Father...’ he gulped.

The man’s mouth opened to reveal long canines. He ducked towards his son’s neck. Blood ran down the headman’s skin. Loeaghaire’s body slumped forward, a dead weight.

The blood-drinkers moved into the light, to feast.

Four

‘This village is cursed,’ announced the priest. The Vikings crowded round at the centre of the roundhouse, and the villagers cowered at the edges. Oengus, almost forgotten by his captor, watched as the priest bravely told his dangerous guests the tale of their people.

‘When the Irish first came to these shores,’ Suibhne went on, ‘it was to an uncanny, haunted land. Demons dwelt here; gods, our forefathers called them - some of them, at least. One tribe, the Tuatha de Danaan, were benign spirits. Of a lesser order than angels; fallen perhaps, but not as far as Lucifer.’

‘Your words mean nothing to us,’ Ingunn said. ‘You mean that this country was infested with elves and trolls?’

‘As you might say, madam,’ the priest replied. ‘Our forefathers fought against them in those dark days, and most of the devils retreated into the barrows and burial mounds that dot the landscape to this day. Occasionally they appeared to superstitious folk who risked damnation by making offerings to them, to Cromm Cruaich and his diabolical companions. The forefathers of my flock were far from innocent in this respect.

‘With the coming of the Blessed Patrick, such observances were stamped out, and few clung to the old ways. But the forefathers of my fellow-villagers, alas, kept up the rites of sacrifice. For their sins, they were driven out from their ancestral lands in Meath, and came here, to these stark, lonely mountains, where it was thought that no one dwelt. Here they settled, only to come under a worse tyranny.

‘The gods of our forefathers themselves took Ireland from elder demons, misshapen fiends who haunt our legends. Foremost among them were the Fomorians, who still dwell among the islands of the ocean. But here in this valley dwelt a worse kind of evil - the Lord of Dún Dreach-Fhoula, who was a dearg-diúlaí, a drinker of human blood.’

‘A bloodsucker?’ asked Ingunn. ‘I heard of them from the Slavs, when I went raiding in the Baltic. Vampires, they called them.’

Suibhne continued. ‘By fleeing into these mountains, my people became the serfs of this demon and his companions. He forced them to yield up human sacrifices to him, and from these an army of followers has grown, a host of the neamh-mhairbh, the undead. Even after the Bishop of Tuam had the villagers forcibly baptised, these oppressions continued unabated.’

‘Your White Christ is a weakling, an unmanly god,’ said Thorkell Treebone quietly. ‘He is no guard against trolls, vampires, or whatever they are.’

The priest looked bleakly at him. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he replied sombrely. ‘Lord Dreach-Fhoula was unaffected by the coming of the church. And still my people must offer up their kin to placate the dearg-diúlaí...’

But for the moment, the blood-drinkers were sated.

‘What of these Vikings, my lord?’ asked a male voice.

‘Yes... How shall we take our vengeance on she who has slain so many of our kin?’ The second voice was softer - that of a woman.

‘Ingunn the Red...’ came the dusty voice that had spoken before. ‘A great warrior, by all accounts - and a great beauty. A shame that she is a mere mortal. Were she of our folk, she would make a fitting consort for me - aye, and war-chief!’

‘But Lord Dreach-Fhoula!’ the male exclaimed. ‘You promised that I would lead your armies when we ride out to conquer!’

The female voice laughed scornfully.

‘Surely Lord Dreach-Fhoula jests, Sreng,’ she hissed. ‘After all - she is a mere mortal.’

Lord Dreach-Fhoula chuckled.

‘That is easily rectified, Badb,’ he replied. ‘Now do as I tell you. Go down to the village and catch me one of these mortals. We need to bait a trap...’

‘But why did you set this spy on us?’ Ingunn asked suspiciously. ‘You - or your headman, wherever he’s gone.’

Suibhne shook his head. He looked sternly at the boy.

‘I’m no one’s spy!’ Oengus replied defiantly.

‘Then why were you listening to us?’ Ingunn demanded.

‘I wanted to hear you speak,’ Oengus said feebly. ‘I have heard so many stories about you.’ He clutched at her. ‘You will help us, won’t you? You are a mighty warrior - the Red Daughter. We need your help.’

Impassively, Ingunn returned the boy’s gaze. Then, incredibly, it seemed, her face began to soften. She looked to Thorkell Treebone and Bjorn.

‘My advice is that we ride out of this cursed valley at high speed,’ said Thorkell.

‘What chance do we have against vampires, anyway?’ Bjorn said in agreement. ‘We won’t...’

He broke off. A high-pitched shriek rang out from beyond the roundhouse.

‘Emer!’ shouted Oengus. He broke away from Ingunn and ran for the door.

‘Don’t be a fool, lad!’ cried Suibhne, reaching out to grab him. ‘They’ll take you too!’ he added, as Oengus broke free, and vanished outside.

‘Is it Lord Dreach-Fhoula?’ Ingunn asked.

‘That, or one of his retainers,’ gasped Suibhne. Ingunn drew her sword.

‘Don’t risk your life for these peasants!’ shouted Thorkell, as she raced across the roundhouse. She ignored him.

Bursting out into the square, she almost stumbled over Oengus, who stood stock still before the entrance, staring across the square. Ingunn followed his gaze. She caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the shadows of a hut.

‘I have the mortal girl,’ it hissed. ‘Come up to the fort and speak with my lord, or she will die!’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Ingunn.

‘Are you the one they call the Red Daughter?’ it asked.

‘That’s what the Irish call me,’ she replied.

‘The neamh-mhairbh will come for you soon.’

The sinister figure disappeared into the shadows. Ingunn rushed towards the hut, turning the corner to see an empty space between the houses. She looked left and right. No sign of the thing. Slowly, she trailed back towards the main roundhouse.

‘It took Emer,’ came a choked voice. She crouched down, and took Oengus’ hand. He looked feebly at her.

‘I’ll get her back, boy,’ she vowed. ‘I swear it!’

Five

‘Sentimentality!’ Thorkell Treebone exploded, a couple of minutes later. ‘Ingunn, I’d never have expected you to allow something this lowly to affect you.’

Ingunn looked round the roundhouse at the assembled Norsemen and Irishmen.

‘It said that the undead would come for us soon. I must go and speak with Lord Dreach-Fhoula, or the lad’s friend will die.’ She reached out to ruffle Oengus’ hair, and he started nervously.

Thorkell Treebone spat disgustedly.

‘We should leave this place, and these luckless folk,’ he growled. ‘Before their ill-luck rubs off on us!’

Ingunn shook her head emphatically. ‘These people have given us hospitality,’ she replied. ‘We owe them something, at least.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Thorkell. ‘If they could, they’d hand us over to their lord without a qualm. We should leave now. Otherwise, we may never join up with King Sigtrygg!’

‘He’s not important,’ Ingunn replied. ‘Not as important as our honour.’

‘Our honour?’ sneered Thorkell. ‘We’ll gain no honour aiding these wretches. More important matters need attending to, ones that will give us far greater honour than dying at the hands of vampires. You swore to join Sigtrygg at the appointed time. What will your honour be if you do not fulfil your oath?’

‘We owe something to this people,’ Ingunn insisted. ‘By Odin! we’re not leaving that girl to die!’

‘You’re not our queen,’ Thorkell Treebone replied. ‘We’re equals. We all have a say when it comes to risking our lives needlessly.’ He glanced around at the silent Vikings. ‘We’ll vote on it,’ he added.

Ingunn scowled. Oengus glanced up at her, seeing her face troubled by emotion. But then she sighed.

‘Very well - vote,’ she snapped. ‘Who wants to remain here and crush the vampires?’

‘I will!’ said Bjorn. He looked at Thorkell Treebone guiltily. ‘Ingunn’s right. We owe it to these people.’

‘I’ll fight,’ said Gunnholm the Berserker, and his three brothers nodded. Thorkell Treebone went red with anger.

‘Who else?’ said Ingunn, looking round at her followers. ‘Come on, don’t be shy,’ she added sarcastically.

‘My vote is that we join King Sigtrygg with all haste,’ said one of the other Vikings. His fellows nodded in agreement.

‘This isn’t our fight,’ added another.

Suibhne stepped forward. ‘May I add a few words?’ he asked. ‘All I have to say is that it is every man’s duty to fight evil where they find it - if they can. My people are weak, and cannot fight. But you are strong.’

Thorkell Treebone shook his head.

‘A prudent man doesn’t step heedless into a den of wolves,’ he replied. ‘Few of my fellows are crazy enough to risk their lives for you, priest. We have higher loyalties.’

Ingunn stared bitterly at the ground for a few seconds. Oengus watched her anxiously, wondering quite how she would convince her men. She had sworn to him that she would save Emer, but this oath conflicted with her existing obligations. How would she resolve this problem?

Ingunn raised her face. Impassive, she looked round at them. ‘Very well,’ she said.

Oengus choked. He looked up at her, his eyes wide. Surely she wasn’t so weak that she would allow her men to get the better of her? This must be a trick.

She looked down at him.

‘My apologies, lad,’ she said. ‘But we have other commitments. And I cannot fight these vampires alone.’ She turned to her men. ‘Shall we leave, then? Now, before they come for us?’

‘You’d run away and abandon us?’ Suibhne gaped at her.

Ingunn regarded him coldly. ‘You mean nothing to me besides my men,’ she said, her voice level. ‘It was a majority decision, and I respect it. I am no tyrant, and my men are not thralls. Never have I broken my word. But perhaps I swore rashly in this instance.’ Her gaze flickered to Oengus, and it seemed to her that her eyes softened.

‘Farewell, boy,’ she said. ‘It seems that tonight you learn a lesson - that there is more to life than the heroism of which the bards sing. Practical concerns must come first.’

Oengus was horrified. He had heard so many tales of her, of how she had battled men and monsters, how she had avenged her father’s death with cunning and cruelty, how she had saved entire clans from destruction. Even Irish bards sang of her exploits, and many said that she was one of the old warrior women reborn.

But rumours and hearsay were one thing: here she was in the flesh, and it seemed that she fell short of her legendary stature. The dreams on which Oengus had built his hopes were crumbling.

‘But Emer...’ was all he had time to gulp.

Coldly, Ingunn turned away. ‘Saddle the horses,’ she commanded. ‘If we leave, let us leave now!’

Oengus watched in cold despair as the Vikings made their preparations. One man departed in the direction of the hut they had commandeered as a stable, while the rest gathered up their equipment and accoutrements.

Ingunn paced up and down the roundhouse. After a while, she scowled. ‘Where are the horses? They should be here by now. Bjorn! Go and see what’s holding Oli up.’

Bjorn ducked out of the door.

Before Oli reached the stables he knew something was wrong. Snorting and whinnying, the horses moved restlessly in the musty darkness of the stables. He slipped in through the doors, and tried to calm them, but to no avail. What had upset them? He scrambled back as one reared up, hoofs missing his skull by inches. Staggering away, he collided with the wattle wall. All was noise and confusion as the beasts stamped and snorted, eyes rolling in the darkness. He’d have to go back and get the others. There was nothing he could do on his own here.

‘Oli!’

He recognised the distant cry as Bjorn’s voice, calling to him from outside. He was about to reply when something moved in the darkness beside him. Too small to be a horse, it seemed almost human.

‘Who’s that?’ he hissed.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he saw a slight, female figure, holding a child in her arms. His face cleared.

‘Are you one of the villagers?’ he asked. The woman was silent. ‘Were you hiding from us?’ Oli added. He licked his lips, and glanced in the direction of the main hut. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said reassuringly, and the woman regarded him in silence. ‘Put your child down and come here. That’s right. There’s nothing to fear. Come closer.’

Oli panted eagerly, as the woman slipped skinny arms around his bulky frame. Her lips were hot and wet as they nuzzled his skin. He heard Bjorn shout his name again.

‘Wait here,’ he muttered. The woman refused to let go. ‘Let me go!’ he barked, but the woman had a strength that belied her frail figure. He struggled, then froze as he felt sharp teeth sink into his neck...

Bjorn could hear the horses moving restlessly in the stables. Oli had not replied to his call. Had a horse knocked him out, or even killed him? What had disturbed them, anyway? He glanced around the village. From the main hut came a glimmer of light, but otherwise all was in darkness.

He whirled round at a footstep from behind him. Oli stood before him in the doorway of the stables. There was something odd in his manner. He gazed at Bjorn in silence.

‘What’s happened?’ Bjorn rumbled. ‘Why have you taken so long?’

Oli made no reply, but lifted his hand numbly up to his neck. Impatient, Bjorn pushed past him, and went to calm the horses.

Ingunn strode up and down. What was taking Bjorn so long?

Hearing a noise from the doorway, she looked up, expecting to see Bjorn returned. Her eyes widened at the sinister figures before her. Three dark, cloaked figures, cowls pulled up to hide their faces stood there. Suibhne gasped.

Without taking her eyes away from the figures, Ingunn said, ‘Who are they, priest? Are these the vampires?’

‘I don’t know,’ Suibhne muttered. ‘Only Loeaghaire ever went up to the hillfort.’

‘Come with us,’ said one of the figures, in a hissing, inhuman voice that nevertheless sounded oddly familiar. ‘Red Daughter, come with us. Our lord wishes to speak with you.’

Ingunn stared at them. She turned towards her men. Oengus looked up at her, eyes wide with mute appeal. Thorkell Treebone folded his arms.

‘Come with us,’ the figure repeated. ‘Lord Dreach-Fhoula has an offer to make.’

Ingunn halted, and studied the enigmatic messenger in silence. Finally, she spoke. ‘What offer?’ she demanded. ‘Where have you taken this boy’s friend?’

‘Come with us,’ the figure said once more, ‘and all will be made clear to you.’

Ingunn took an impulsive step forward.

‘Where are you going?’ Thorkell Treebone demanded. Ingunn looked over her shoulder.

‘You heard him,’ she said. ‘This Lord Dreach-Fhoula has an offer to make.’ She looked down at Oengus. ‘Perhaps I can fulfil both my vows,’ she added. Before anyone could speak, she turned, and strode towards the uncanny messengers.

‘Let me come with you!’ said Oengus impulsively, and ran after her.

‘Wait!’ cried Thorkell. But it was too late. In a swirl of cloaks, the three figures had ushered Ingunn and the boy from the hall.

Thorkell Treebone halted at the doors. Suibhne laid his hand on the Viking’s shoulder.

‘What do you want, priest?’ he growled. Suibhne bravely returned his gaze.

‘Let her go,’ he said. ‘She goes to solve our predicament.’

Thorkell Treebone glowered at him. ‘Is it any concern of ours what curse you labour under?’ he barked.

‘She swore to save the young girl,’ Suibhne said.

Thorkell Treebone gave the priest a black look. ‘An oath she regretted. She also swore to join King Sigtrygg by tomorrow afternoon. Unless...’ He broke off suddenly.

‘Unless what?’ Suibhne asked.

‘Aye!’ a voice rumbled from the doorway. ‘Unless what?’

Thorkell Treebone turned to see Bjorn standing there. Behind him was Oli, the Viking who had been sent to the stables, staring round vaguely. In the courtyard beyond were the horses.

‘I saw Ingunn going up the hill with three men,’ Bjorn added. ‘I called out to her, but she didn’t seem to hear me. What’s going on?’

‘She said something about fulfilling both vows,’ Thorkell Treebone said slowly. ‘Never before has she broken her word - her entire renown among our people is rooted in that reputation. Oh, you peasants would not understand,’ he added, looking at Suibhne, ‘but all warriors who wish to prosper in their craft must keep their honour spotless - all the more a woman who takes up the sword in a man’s world. Who would employ traitors in their host?

‘Before we learnt the truth concerning this vampire lord and his undead army, Ingunn was hoping to enlist the Lord of Dreach-Fhoula in her warband. With reinforcements, we would ensure Sigtrygg’s victory tomorrow.’ His eyes were bleak as he looked at the priest. ‘Does she hope to bargain for that girl’s life and enlist the undead in her ranks as well?’

Suibhne looked at the Viking in horror.

TO BE CONTINUED

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Chapter I.

It is impossible that the stupendous events which followed the disastrous invasion of the earth by the Martians should go without record, and circumstances having placed the facts at my disposal, I deem it a duty, both to posterity and to those who were witnesses of and participants in the avenging counterstroke that the earth dealt back at its ruthless enemy in the heavens, to write down the story in a connected form.

The Martians had nearly all perished, not through our puny efforts, but in consequence of disease, and the few survivors fled in one of their projectile cars, inflicting their cruelest blow in the act of departure.

Their Mysterious Explosive.

They possessed a mysterious explosive, of unimaginable puissance, with whose aid they set their car in motion for Mars from a point in Bergen County, N. J., just back of the Palisades.

The force of the explosion may be imagined when it is recollected that they had to give the car a velocity of more than seven miles per second in order to overcome the attraction of the earth and the resistance of the atmosphere.

The shock destroyed all of New York that had not already fallen a prey, and all the buildings yet standing in the surrounding towns and cities fell in one far-circling ruin.

The Palisades tumbled in vast sheets, starting a tidal wave in the Hudson that drowned the opposite shore.

Thousands of Victims.

The victims of this ferocious explosion were numbered by tens of thousands, and the shock, transmitted through the rocky frame of the globe, was recorded by seismographic pendulums in England and on the Continent of Europe.

The terrible results achieved by the invaders had produced everywhere a mingled feeling of consternation and hopelessness. The devastation was widespread. The death-dealing engines which the Martians had brought with them had proved irresistible and the inhabitants of the earth possessed nothing capable of contending against them. There had been no protection for the great cities; no protection even for the open country. Everything had gone down before the savage onslaught of those merciless invaders from space. Savage ruins covered the sites of many formerly flourishing towns and villages, and the broken walls of great cities stared at the heavens like the exhumed skeletons of Pompeii. The awful agencies had extirpated pastures and meadows and dried up the very springs of fertility in the earth where they had touched it. In some parts of the devastated lands pestilence broke out; elsewhere there was famine. Despondency black as night brooded over some of the fairest portions of the globe.

All Not Yet Destroyed.

Yet all had not been destroyed, because all had not been reached by the withering hand of the destroyer. The Martians had not had time to complete their work before they themselves fell a prey to the diseases that carried them off at the very culmination of their triumph.

From those lands which had, fortunately, escaped invasion, relief was sent to the sufferers. The outburst of pity and of charity exceeded anything that the world had known. Differences of race and religion were swallowed up in the universal sympathy which was felt for those who had suffered so terribly from an evil that was as unexpected as it was unimaginable in its enormity.

But the worst was not yet. More dreadful than the actual suffering and the scenes of death and devastation which overspread the afflicted lands was the profound mental and moral depression that followed. This was shared even by those who had not seen the Martians and had not witnessed the destructive effects of the frightful engines of war that they had imported for the conquest of the earth. All mankind was sunk deep in this universal despair, and it became tenfold blacker when the astronomers announced from their observatories that strange lights were visible, moving and flashing upon the red surface of the Planet of War. These mysterious appearances could only be interpreted in the light of past experience to mean that the Martians were preparing for another invasion of the earth, and who could doubt that with the invincible powers of destruction at their command they would this time make their work complete and final?

A Startling Announcement.

This startling announcement was the more pitiable in its effects because it served to unnerve and discourage those few of stouter hearts and more hopeful temperaments who had already begun the labor of restoration and reconstruction amid the embers of their desolated homes. In New York this feeling of hope and confidence, this determination to rise against disaster and to wipe out the evidences of its dreadful presence as quickly as possible, had especially manifested itself. Already a company had been formed and a large amount of capital subscribed for the reconstruction of the destroyed bridges over the East River. Already architects were busily at work planning new twenty-story hotels and apartment houses; new churches and new cathedrals on a grander scale than before.

The Martians Returning.

Amid this stir of renewed life came the fatal news that Mars was undoubtedly preparing to deal us a death blow. The sudden revulsion of feeling flitted like the shadow of an eclipse over the earth. The scenes that followed were indescribable. Men lost their reason. The faint-hearted ended the suspense with self-destruction, the stout-hearted remained steadfast, but without hope and knowing not what to do.

But there was a gleam of hope of which the general public as yet knew nothing. It was due to a few dauntless men of science, conspicuous among whom were Lord Kelvin, the great English savant; Herr Roentgen, the discoverer of the famous X ray, and especially Thomas A. Edison, the American genius of science. These men and a few others had examined with the utmost care the engines of war, the flying machines, the generators of mysterious destructive forces that the Martians had produced, with the object of discovering, if possible, the sources of their power.

Suddenly from Mr. Edison's laboratory at Orange flashed the startling intelligence that he had not only discovered the manner in which the invaders had been able to produce the mighty energies which they employed with such terrible effect, but that, going further, he had found a way to overcome them.

The glad news was quickly circulated throughout the civilized world. Luckily the Atlantic cables had not been destroyed by the Martians, so that communication between the Eastern and Western continents was uninterrupted. It was a proud day for America. Even while the Martians had been upon the earth, carrying everything before them, demonstrating to the confusion of the most optimistic that there was no possibility of standing against them, a feeling—a confidence had manifested itself in France, to a minor extent in England, and particularly in Russia, that the Americans might discover means to meet and master the invaders.

Now, it seemed, this hope and expectation were to be realized. Too late, it is true, in a certain sense, but not too late to meet the new invasion which the astronomers had announced was impending. The effect was as wonderful and indescribable as that of the despondency which but a little while before had overspread the world. One could almost hear the universal sigh of relief which went up from humanity. To relief succeeded confidence—so quickly does the human spirit recover like an elastic spring, when pressure is released.

"We Are Ready for Them!"

"Let them come," was the almost joyous cry. "We shall be ready for them now. The Americans have solved the problem. Edison has placed the means of victory within our power."

Looking back upon that time now, I recall, with a thrill, the pride that stirred me at the thought that, after all, the inhabitants of the Earth were a match for those terrible men from Mars, despite all the advantage which they had gained from their millions of years of prior civilization and science.

As good fortunes, like bad, never come singly, the news of Mr. Edison's discovery was quickly followed by additional glad tidings from that laboratory of marvels in the lap of the Orange mountains. During their career of conquest the Martians had astonished the inhabitants of the earth no less with their flying machines—which navigated our atmosphere as easily as they had that of their native planet—than with their more destructive inventions. These flying machines in themselves had given them an enormous advantage in the contest. High above the desolation that they had caused to reign on the surface of the earth, and, out of the range of our guns, they had hung safe in the upper air. From the clouds they had dropped death upon the earth.

Edison's Flying Machine.

Now, rumor declared that Mr. Edison had invented and perfected a flying machine much more complete and manageable than those of the Martians had been. Wonderful stories quickly found their way into the newspapers concerning what Mr. Edison had already accomplished with the aid of his model electrical balloon. His laboratory was carefully guarded against the invasion of the curious, because he rightly felt that a premature announcement, which should promise more than could be actually fulfilled, would, at this critical juncture, plunge mankind back again into the gulf of despair, out of which it had just begun to emerge.

Nevertheless, inklings of the truth leaked out. The flying machine had been seen by many persons hovering by night high above the Orange hills and disappearing in the faint starlight as if it had gone away into the depths of space, out of which it would re-emerge before the morning light had streaked the east, and be seen settling down again within the walls that surrounded the laboratory of the great inventor. At length the rumor, gradually deepening into a conviction, spread that Edison himself, accompanied by a few scientific friends, had made an experimental trip to the moon. At a time when the spirit of mankind was less profoundly stirred, such a story would have been received with complete incredulity, but now, rising on the wings of the new hope that was buoying up the earth, this extraordinary rumor became a day star of truth to the nations.

A Trip to the Moon.

And it was true. I had myself been one of the occupants of the car of the flying Ship of Space on that night when it silently left the earth, and rising out of the great shadow of the globe, sped on to the moon. We had landed upon the scarred and desolate face of the earth's satellite, and but that there are greater and more interesting events, the telling of which must not be delayed, I should undertake to describe the particulars of this first visit of men to another world.

But, as I have already intimated, this was only an experimental trip. By visiting this little nearby island in the ocean of space, Mr. Edison simply wished to demonstrate the practicability of his invention, and to convince, first of all, himself and his scientific friends that it was possible for men—mortal men—to quit and to revisit the earth at their will. That aim this experimental trip triumphantly attained.

It would carry me into technical details that would hardly interest the reader to describe the mechanism of Mr. Edison's flying machine. Let it suffice to say that it depended upon the principal of electrical attraction and repulsion. By means of a most ingenious and complicated construction he had mastered the problem of how to produce, in a limited space, electricity of any desired potential and of any polarity, and that without danger to the experimenter or to the material experimented upon. It is gravitation, as everybody knows, that makes man a prisoner on the earth. If he could overcome, or neutralize, gravitation he could float away a free creature of interstellar space. Mr. Edison in his invention had pitted electricity against gravitation. Nature, in fact, had done the same thing long before. Every astronomer knew it, but none had been able to imitate or to reproduce this miracle of nature. When a comet approaches the sun, the orbit in which it travels indicates that it is moving under the impulse of the sun's gravitation. It is in reality falling in a great parabolic or elliptical curve through space. But, while a comet approaches the sun it begins to display—stretching out for millions, and sometimes hundreds of millions of miles on the side away from the sun—an immense luminous train called its tail. This train extends back into that part of space from which the comet is moving. Thus the sun at one and the same time is drawing the comet toward itself and driving off from the comet in an opposite direction minute particles or atoms which, instead of obeying the gravitational force, are plainly compelled to disobey it. That this energy, which the sun exercises against its own gravitation, is electrical in its nature, hardly anybody will doubt. The head of the comet being comparatively heavy and massive, falls on toward the sun, despite the electrical repulsion. But the atoms which form the tail, being almost without weight, yield to the electrical rather than to the gravitational influence, and so fly away from the sun.

Gravity Overcome.

Now, what Mr. Edison had done was, in effect, to create an electrified particle which might be compared to one of the atoms composing the tail of a comet, although in reality it was a kind of car, of metal, weighing some hundreds of pounds and capable of bearing some thousands of pounds with it in its flight. By producing, with the aid of the electrical generator contained in this car, an enormous charge of electricity, Mr. Edison was able to counterbalance, and a trifle more than counterbalance, the attraction of the earth, and thus cause the car to fly off from the earth as an electrified pithball flies from the prime conductor.

As we sat in the brilliantly lighted chamber that formed the interior of the car, and where stores of compressed air had been provided together with chemical apparatus, by means of which fresh supplies of oxygen and nitrogen might be obtained for our consumption during the flight through space, Mr. Edison touched a polished button, thus causing the generation of the required electrical charge on the exterior of the car, and immediately we began to rise.

The moment and direction of our flight had been so timed and prearranged, that the original impulse would carry us straight toward the moon.

A Triumphant Test.

When we fell within the sphere of attraction of that orb it only became necessary to so manipulate the electrical charge upon our car as nearly, but not quite, to counterbalance the effect of the moon's attraction in order that we might gradually approach it and with an easy motion, settle, without shock, upon its surface.

We did not remain to examine the wonders of the moon, although we could not fail to observe many curious things therein. Having demonstrated the fact that we could not only leave the earth, but could journey through space and safely land upon the surface of another planet, Mr. Edison's immediate purpose was fulfilled, and we hastened back to the earth, employing in leaving the moon and landing again upon our own planet the same means of control over the electrical attraction and repulsion between the respective planets and our car which I have already described.

Telegraphing the News.

When actual experiment had thus demonstrated the practicability of the invention, Mr. Edison no longer withheld the news of what he had been doing from the world. The telegraph lines and the ocean cables labored with the messages that in endless succession, and burdened with an infinity of detail, were sent all over the earth. Everywhere the utmost enthusiasm was aroused.

"Let the Martians come," was the cry. "If necessary, we can quit the earth as the Athenians fled from Athens before the advancing host of Xerxes, and like them, take refuge upon our ships—these new ships of space, with which American inventiveness has furnished us."

And then, like a flash, some genius struck out an idea that fired the world.

"Why should we wait? Why should we run the risk of having our cities destroyed and our lands desolated a second time? Let us go to Mars. We have the means. Let us beard the lion in his den. Let us ourselves turn conquerors and take possession of that detestable planet, and if necessary, destroy it in order to relieve the earth of this perpetual threat which now hangs over us like the sword of Damocles."

Chapter II.

This enthusiasm would have had but little justification had Mr. Edison done nothing more than invent a machine which could navigate the atmosphere and the regions of interplanetary space.

He had, however, and this fact was generally known, although the details had not yet leaked out—invented also machines of war intended to meet the utmost that the Martians could do for either offence or defence in the struggle which was now about to ensue.

A Wonderful Instrument.

Acting upon the hint which had been conveyed from various investigations in the domain of physics, and concentrating upon the problem all those unmatched powers of intellect which distinguished him, the great inventor had succeeded in producing a little implement which one could carry in his hand, but which was more powerful than any battleship that ever floated. The details of its mechanism could not be easily explained, without the use of tedious technicalities and the employment of terms, diagrams and mathematical statements, all of which would lie outside the scope of this narrative. But the principle of the thing was simple enough. It was upon the great scientific doctrine, which we have since seen so completely and brilliantly developed, of the law of harmonic vibrations, extending from atoms and molecules at one end of the series up to worlds and suns at the other end, that Mr. Edison based his invention.

Every kind of substance has its own vibratory rhythm. That of iron differs from that of pine wood. The atoms of gold do not vibrate in the same time or through the same range as those of lead, and so on for all known substances, and all the chemical elements. So, on a larger scale, every massive body has its period of vibration. A great suspension bridge vibrates, under the impulse of forces that are applied to it, in long periods. No company of soldiers ever crosses such a bridge without breaking step. If they tramped together, and were followed by other companies keeping the same time with their feet, after a while the vibrations of the bridge would become so great and destructive that it would fall in pieces. So any structure, if its vibration rate is known, could easily be destroyed by a force applied to it in such a way that it should simply increase the swing of those vibrations up to the point of destruction.

Now Mr. Edison had been able to ascertain the vibratory swing of many well-known substances, and to produce, by means of the instrument which he had contrived, pulsations in the ether which were completely under his control, and which could be made long or short, quick or slow, at his will. He could run through the whole gamut from the slow vibrations of sound in air up to the four hundred and twenty-five millions of millions of vibrations per second of the ultra red rays.

Having obtained an instrument of such power, it only remained to concentrate its energy upon a given object in order that the atoms composing that object should be set into violent undulation, sufficient to burst it asunder and to scatter its molecules broadcast. This the inventor effected by the simplest means in the world—simply a parabolic reflector by which the destructive waves could be sent like a beam of light, but invisible, in any direction and focused upon any desired point.

Testing the "Disintegrator."

I had the good fortune to be present when this powerful engine of destruction was submitted to its first test. We had gone upon the roof of Mr. Edison's laboratory and the inventor held the little instrument, with its attached mirror, in his hand. We looked about for some object on which to try its powers. On a bare limb of a tree not far away, for it was late in the Fall, sat a disconsolate crow.

"Good," said Mr. Edison, "that will do." He touched a button at the side of the instrument and a soft, whirring noise was heard.

"Feathers," said Mr. Edison, "have a vibration period of three hundred and eighty-six million per second."

He adjusted the index as he spoke. Then, through a sighting tube, he aimed at the bird.

"Now watch," he said.

The Crow's Fate.
Another soft whirr in the instrument, a momentary flash of light close around it, and, behold, the crow had turned from black to white!

"Its feathers are gone," said the inventor; "they have been dissipated into their constituent atoms. Now, we will finish the crow."

Instantly there was another adjustment of the index, another outshooting of vibratory force, a rapid up and down motion of the index to include a certain range of vibrations, and the crow itself was gone—vanished in empty space! There was the bare twig on which a moment before it had stood. Behind, in the sky, was the white cloud against which its black form had been sharply outlined, but there was no more crow.

Bad for the Martians.

"That looks bad for the Martians, doesn't it?" said the Wizard. "I have ascertained the vibration rate of all the materials of which their war engines whose remains we have collected together are composed. They can be shattered into nothingness in the fraction of a second. Even if the vibration period were not known, it could quickly be hit upon by simply running through the gamut."

"Hurrah!" cried one of the onlookers. "We have met the Martians and they are ours."

Such in brief was the first of the contrivances which Mr. Edison invented for the approaching war with Mars.

And these facts had become widely known. Additional experiments had completed the demonstration of the inventor's ability, with the aid of his wonderful instrument, to destroy any given object, or any part of an object, provided that that part differed in its atomic constitution, and consequently in its vibratory period, from the other parts.

A most impressive public exhibition of the powers of the little disintegrator was given amid the ruins of New York. On lower Broadway a part of the walls of one of the gigantic buildings, which had been destroyed by the Martians, impended in such a manner that it threatened at any moment to fall upon the heads of the passers-by. The Fire Department did not dare touch it. To blow it up seemed a dangerous expedient, because already new buildings had been erected in its neighborhood, and their safety would be imperiled by the flying fragments. The fact happened to come to my knowledge.

"Here is an opportunity," I said to Mr. Edison, "to try the powers of your machine on a large scale."

"Capital!" he instantly replied. "I shall go at once."

Disintegrating a Building.

For the work now in hand it was necessary to employ a battery of disintegrators, since the field of destruction covered by each was comparatively limited. All of the impending portions of the wall must be destroyed at once and together, for otherwise the danger would rather be accentuated than annihilated. The disintegrators were placed upon the roof of a neighboring building, so adjusted that their fields of destruction overlapped one another upon the wall. Their indexes were all set to correspond with the vibration period of the peculiar kind of brick of which the wall consisted. Then the energy was turned on, and a shout of wonder arose from the multitudes which had assembled at a safe distance to witness the experiment.

Only a Cloud Remained.

The wall did not fall; it did not break asunder; no fragments shot this way and that and high in the air; there was no explosion; no shock or noise disturbed the still atmosphere—only a soft whirr, that seemed to pervade everything and to tingle in the nerves of the spectators; and—what had been was not! The wall was gone! But high above and all around the place where it had hung over the street with its threat of death there appeared, swiftly billowing outward in every direction, a faint, bluish cloud. It was the scattered atoms of the destroyed wall.

And now the cry "On to Mars!" was heard on all sides. But for such an enterprise funds were needed—millions upon millions. Yet some of the fairest and richest portions of the earth had been impoverished by the frightful ravages of those enemies who had dropped down upon them from the skies. Still, the money must be had. The salvation of the planet, as everybody was now convinced, depended upon the successful negotiation of a gigantic war fund, in comparison with which all the expenditures in all of the wars that had been waged by the nations for 2,000 years would be insignificant. The electrical ships and the vibration engines must be constructed by scores and thousands. Only Mr. Edison's immense resources and unrivaled equipment had enabled him to make the models whose powers had been so satisfactorily shown. But to multiply these upon a war scale was not only beyond the resources of any individual—hardly a nation on the globe in the period of its greatest prosperity could have undertaken such a work. All the nations, then, must now conjoin. They must unite their resources, and, if necessary, exhaust all their hoards, in order to raise the needed sum.

The Yankees Lead.

Negotiations were at once begun. The United States naturally took the lead, and their leadership was never for a moment questioned abroad.

Washington was selected as the place of meeting for a great congress of the nations. Washington, luckily, had been one of the places which had not been touched by the Martians. But if Washington had been a city composed of hotels alone, and every hotel so great as to be a little city in itself, it would have been utterly insufficient for the accommodation of the innumerable throngs which now flocked to the banks of the Potomac. But when was American enterprise unequal to a crisis? The necessary hotels, lodging houses and restaurants were constructed with astounding rapidity. One could see the city growing and expanding day by day and week after week. It flowed over Georgetown Heights; it leaped the Potomac; it spread east and west, south and north; square mile after square mile of territory was buried under the advancing buildings, until the gigantic city, which had thus grown up like a mushroom in a night, was fully capable of accommodating all its expected guests.

At first it had been intended that the heads of the various governments should in person attend this universal congress, but as the enterprise went on, as the enthusiasm spread, as the necessity for haste became more apparent through the warning notes which were constantly sounded from the observatories where the astronomers were nightly beholding new evidences of threatening preparations in Mars, the kings and queens of the old world felt that they could not remain at home; that their proper place was at the new focus and centre of the whole world—the city of Washington. Without concerted action, without interchange of suggestion, this impulse seemed to seize all the old world monarchs at once. Suddenly cablegrams flashed to the Government at Washington, announcing that Queen Victoria, the Emperor William, the Czar Nicholas, Alphonso of Spain, with his mother, Maria Christina; the old Emperor Francis Joseph and the Empress Elizabeth, of Austria; King Oscar and Queen Sophia, of Sweden and Norway; King Humbert and Queen Margherita, of Italy; King George and Queen Olga, of Greece; Abdul Hamid, of Turkey; Tsait'ien, Emperor of China; Mutsuhito, the Japanese Mikado, with his beautiful Princess Haruko; the President of France, the President of Switzerland, the First Syndic of the little republic of Andorra, perched on the crest of the Pyrenees, and the heads of all the Central and South American republics, were coming to Washington to take part in the deliberations, which, it was felt, were to settle the fate of earth and Mars.

One day, after this announcement had been received, and the additional news had come that nearly all the visiting monarchs had set out, attended by brilliant suites and convoyed by fleets of warships, for their destination, some coming across the Atlantic to the port of New York, others across the Pacific to San Francisco, Mr. Edison said to me:

"This will be a fine spectacle. Would you like to watch it?"

"Certainly," I replied.

A Grand Spectacle.

The Ship of Space was immediately at our disposal. I think I have not yet mentioned the fact that the inventor's control over the electrical generator carried in the car was so perfect that by varying the potential or changing the polarity he could cause it slowly or swiftly, as might be desired, to approach or recede from any object. The only practical difficulty was presented when the polarity of the electrical charge upon an object in the neighborhood of the car was unknown to those in the car, and happened to be opposite to that of the charge which the car, at that particular moment, was bearing. In such a case, of course, the car would fly toward the object, whatever it might be, like a pith ball or a feather, attracted to the knob of an electrical machine. In this way, considerable danger was occasionally encountered, and a few accidents could not be avoided. Fortunately, however, such cases were rare. It was only now and then that, owing to some local cause, electrical polarities unknown to or unexpected by the navigators, endangered the safety of the car. As I shall have occasion to relate, however, in the course of the narrative, this danger became more acute and assumed at times a most formidable phase, when we had ventured outside the sphere of the earth and were moving through the unexplored regions beyond.

On this occasion, having embarked, we rose rapidly to a height of some thousands of feet and directed our course over the Atlantic. When half way to Ireland, we beheld, in the distance, steaming westward, the smoke of several fleets. As we drew nearer a marvellous spectacle unfolded itself to our eyes. From the northeast, their great guns flashing in the sunlight and their huge funnels belching black volumes that rested like thunder clouds upon the sea, came the mighty warships of England, with her meteor flag streaming red in the breeze, while the royal insignia, indicating the presence of the ruler of the British Empire, was conspicuously displayed upon the flagship of the squadron.

Following a course more directly westward appeared, under another black cloud of smoke, the hulls and guns and burgeons of another great fleet, carrying the tri-color of France, and bearing in its midst the head of the magnificent republic of western Europe.

Further south, beating up against the northerly winds, came a third fleet with the gold and red of Spain fluttering from its masthead. This, too, was carrying its King westward, where now, indeed, the star of empire had taken its way.

Universal Brotherhood.

Rising a little higher, so as to extend our horizon, we saw coming down the English channel, behind the British fleet, the black ships of Russia. Side by side, or following one another's lead, these war fleets were on a peaceful voyage that belied their threatening appearance. There had been no thought of danger to or from the forts and ports of rival nations which they had passed. There was no enmity, and no fear between them when the throats of their ponderous guns yawned at one another across the waves. They were now, in spirit, all one fleet, having one object, bearing against one enemy, ready to defend but one country, and that country was the entire earth.

It was some time before we caught sight of the Emperor William's fleet. It seems that the Kaiser, although at first consenting to the arrangement by which Washington had been selected as the assembling place for the nations, afterwards objected to it.

Kaiser Wilhelm's Jealousy.

"I ought to do this thing myself," he had said. "My glorious ancestors would never have consented to allow these upstart Republicans to lead in a warlike enterprise of this kind. What would my grandfather have said to it? I suspect that it is some scheme aimed at the divine right of kings."

But the good sense of the German people would not suffer their ruler to place them in a position so false and so untenable. And swept along by their enthusiasm the Kaiser had at last consented to embark on his flagship at Kiel, and now he was following the other fleets on their great mission to the Western Continent.

Why did they bring their warships when their intentions were peaceable, do you ask? Well, it was partly the effect of ancient habit, and partly due to the fact that such multitudes of officials and members of ruling families wished to embark for Washington that the ordinary means of ocean communications would have been utterly inadequate to convey them.

After we had feasted our eyes on this strange sight, Mr. Edison suddenly exclaimed: "Now let us see the fellows from the rising sun."

Over the Mississippi.

The car was immediately directed toward the west. We rapidly approached the American coast, and as we sailed over the Alleghany Mountains and the broad plains of the Ohio and the Mississippi, we saw crawling beneath us from west, south and north, an endless succession of railway trains bearing their multitudes on to Washington. With marvellous speed we rushed westward, rising high to skim over the snow-topped peaks of the Rocky Mountains and then the glittering rim of the Pacific was before us. Half way between the American coast and Hawaii we met the fleets coming from China and Japan. Side by side they were ploughing the main, having forgotten, or laid aside, all the animosities of their former wars.

I well remember how my heart was stirred at this impressive exhibition of the boundless influence which my country had come to exercise over all the people of the world, and I turned to look at the man to whose genius this uprising of the earth was due. But Mr. Edison, after his wont, appeared totally unconscious of the fact that he was personally responsible for what was going on. His mind, seemingly, was entirely absorbed in considering problems, the solution of which might be essential to our success in the terrific struggle which was soon to begin.

Back to Washington.

"Well, have you seen enough?" he asked. "Then let us go back to Washington."

As we speeded back across the continent we beheld beneath us again the burdened express trains rushing toward the Atlantic, and hundreds of thousands of upturned eyes watched our swift progress, and volleys of cheers reached our ears, for every one knew that this was Edison's electrical warship, on which the hope of the nation, and the hopes of all the nations, depended. These scenes were repeated again and again until the car hovered over the still expanding capital on the Potomac, where the unceasing ring of hammers rose to the clouds.

Chapter III.

The day appointed for the assembling of the nations in Washington opened bright and beautiful. Arrangements had been made for the reception of the distinguished guests at the Capitol. No time was to be wasted, and, having assembled in the Senate Chamber, the business that had called them together was to be immediately begun. The scene in Pennsylvania avenue, when the procession of dignitaries and royalties passed up toward the Capitol, was one never to be forgotten. Bands were playing, magnificent equipages flashed in the morning sunlight, the flags of every nation on the earth fluttered in the breeze. Queen Victoria, with the Prince of Wales escorting her, and riding in an open carriage, was greeted with roars of cheers; the Emperor William, following in another carriage with Empress Victoria at his side, condescended to bow and smile in response to the greetings of a free people. Each of the other monarchs was received in a similar manner. The Czar of Russia proved to be an especial favorite with the multitude on account of the ancient friendship of his house for America. But the greatest applause of all came when the President of France, followed by the President of Switzerland and the First Syndic of the little Republic of Andorra, made their appearance. Equally warm were the greetings extended to the representatives of Mexico and the South American States.

The Sultan of Turkey.

The crowd apparently hardly knew at first how to receive the Sultan of Turkey, but the universal good feeling was in his favor, and finally rounds of hand clapping and cheers greeted his progress along the splendid avenue.

A happy idea had apparently occurred to the Emperor of China and the Mikado of Japan, for, attended by their intermingled suites, they rode together in a single carriage. This object lesson in the unity of international feeling immensely pleased the spectators.

An Unparallelled Scene.

The scene in the Senate Chamber stirred every one profoundly. That it was brilliant and magnificent goes without saying, but there was a seriousness, an intense feeling of expectancy, pervading both those who looked on and those who were to do the work for which these magnates of the earth had assembled, which produced an ineradicable impression. The President of the United States, of course, presided. Representatives of the greater powers occupied the front seats, and some of them were honored with special chairs near the President.

No time was wasted in preliminaries. The President made a brief speech.

"We have come together," he said, "to consider a question that equally interests the whole earth. I need not remind you that unexpectedly and without provocation on our part the people—the monsters, I should rather say—of Mars, recently came down upon the earth, attacked us in our homes and spread desolation around them. Having the advantage of ages of evolution, which for us are yet in the future, they brought with them engines of death and of destruction against which we found it impossible to contend. It is within the memory of every one in reach of my voice that it was through the entirely unexpected succor which Providence sent us that we were suddenly and effectually freed from the invaders. By our own efforts we could have done nothing."

McKinley's Tribute.

"But, as you all know, the first feeling of relief which followed the death of our foes was quickly succeeded by the fearful news which came to us from the observatories, that the Martians were undoubtedly preparing for a second invasion of our planet. Against this we should have had no recourse and no hope but for the genius of one of my countrymen, who, as you are all aware, has perfected means which may enable us not only to withstand the attack of those awful enemies, but to meet them, and, let us hope, to conquer them on their own ground."

"Mr. Edison is here to explain to you what those means are. But we have also another object. Whether we send a fleet of interplanetary ships to invade Mars or whether we simply confine our attention to works of defence, in either case it will be necessary to raise a very large sum of money. None of us has yet recovered from the effects of the recent invasion. The earth is poor to-day compared to its position a few years ago; yet we cannot allow our poverty to stand in the way. The money, the means, must be had. It will be part of our business here to raise a gigantic war fund by the aid of which we can construct the equipment and machinery that we shall require. This, I think, is all I need to say. Let us proceed to business."

"Where is Mr. Edison?" cried a voice.

"Will Mr. Edison please step forward?" said the President.

There was a stir in the assembly, and the iron-gray head of the great inventor was seen moving through the crowd. In his hand he carried one of his marvellous disintegrators. He was requested to explain and illustrate its operation. Mr. Edison smiled.

Edison to the Rescue.

"I can explain its details," he said, "to Lord Kelvin, for instance, but if Their Majesties will excuse me, I doubt whether I can make it plain to the crowned heads."

The Emperor William smiled superciliously. Apparently he thought that another assault had been committed upon the divine right of kings. But the Czar Nicholas appeared to be amused, and the Emperor of China, who had been studying English, laughed in his sleeve, as if he suspected that a joke had been perpetrated.

"I think," said one of the deputies, "that a simple exhibition of the powers of the instrument, without a technical explanation of its method of working, will suffice for our purpose."

This suggestion was immediately approved. In response to it, Mr. Edison, by a few simple experiments, showed how he could quickly and certainly shatter into its constituent atoms any object upon which the vibratory force of the disintegrator should be directed. In this manner he caused an inkstand to disappear under the very nose of the Emperor William without a spot of ink being scattered upon his sacred person, but evidently the odor of the disunited atoms was not agreeable to the nostrils of the Kaiser.

Mr. Edison also explained in general terms the principle on which the instrument worked. He was greeted with round after round of applause, and the spirit of the assembly rose high.

Next the workings of the electrical ship were explained, and it was announced that after the meeting had adjourned an exhibition of the flying powers of the ship would be given in the open air.

These experiments, together with the accompanying explanations, added to what had already been disseminated through the public press, were quite sufficient to convince all the representatives who had assembled in Washington that the problem of how to conquer the Martians had been solved. The means were plainly at hand. It only remained to apply them. For this purpose, as the President had pointed out, it would be necessary to raise a very large sum of money.

"How much will be needed?" asked one of the English representatives.

"At least ten thousand millions of dollars," replied the President.

"It would be safer," said a Senator from the Pacific Coast, "to make it twenty-five thousand millions."

"I suggest," said the King of Italy, "that the nations be called in alphabetical order, and that the representatives of each name a sum which it is ready and able to contribute."

"We want the cash or its equivalent," shouted the Pacific Coast Senator.

"I shall not follow the alphabet strictly," said the President, "but shall begin with the larger nations first. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it is proper that the United States should lead the way. Mr. Secretary," he continued, turning to the Secretary of the Treasury, "how much can we stand?"

An Enormous Sum.

"At least a thousand millions," replied the Secretary of the Treasury.

A roar of applause that shook the room burst from the assembly. Even some of the monarchs threw up their hats. The Emperor Tsait'ten smiled from ear to ear. One of the Roko Tuis, or native chiefs, from Fiji, sprang up and brandished a war club.

The President then proceeded to call the other nations, beginning with Austria-Hungary and ending with Zanzibar, whose Sultan, Hamoud bin Mahomed, had come to the congress in the escort of Queen Victoria. Each contributed liberally.

Germany coming in alphabetical order just before Great Britain, had named, through its Chancellor, the sum of $500,000,000, but when the First Lord of the British Treasury, not wishing to be behind the United States, named double that sum as the contribution of the British Empire, the Emperor William looked displeased. He spoke a word in the ear of the Chancellor, who immediately raised his hand.

A Thousand Million Dollars.

"We will give a thousand million dollars," said the Chancellor.

Queen Victoria seemed surprised, though not displeased. The First Lord of the Treasury met her eye, and then, rising in his place, said:

"Make it fifteen hundred million for Great Britain."

Emperor William consulted again with his Chancellor, but evidently concluded not to increase his bid.

But, at any rate, the fund had benefited to the amount of a thousand millions by this little outburst of imperial rivalry.

The greatest surprise of all, however, came when the King of Siam was called upon for his contribution. He had not been given a foremost place in the Congress, but when the name of his country was pronounced he rose by his chair, dressed in a gorgeous specimen of the peculiar attire of his country, then slowly pushed his way to the front, stepped up to the President's desk and deposited upon it a small box.

"This is our contribution," he said, in broken English.

The cover was lifted, and there darted, shimmering in the half gloom of the Chamber, a burst of iridescence from the box.

The Long Lost Treasure.

"My friends of the Western world," continued the King of Siam, "will be interested in seeing this gem. Only once before has the eye of a European been blessed with the sight of it. Your books will tell you that in the seventeenth century a traveler, Tavernier, saw in India an unmatched diamond which afterward disappeared like a meteor, and was thought to have been lost from the earth. You all know the name of that diamond and its history. It is the Great Mogul, and it lies before you. How it came into my possession I shall not explain. At any rate, it is honestly mine, and I freely contribute it here to aid in protecting my native planet against those enemies who appear determined to destroy it."

When the excitement which the appearance of this long lost treasure, that had been the subject of so many romances and of such long and fruitless search, had subsided, the President continued calling the list, until he had completed it.

Upon taking the sum of the contributions (the Great Mogul was reckoned at three millions) it was found to be still one thousand millions short of the required amount.

The Secretary of the Treasury was instantly on his feet.

"Mr. President," he said, "I think we can stand that addition. Let it be added to the contribution of the United States of America."

When the cheers that greeted the conclusion of the business were over, the President announced that the next affair of the Congress was to select a director who should have entire charge of the preparations for the war. It was the universal sentiment that no man could be so well suited for this post as Mr. Edison himself. He was accordingly selected by the unanimous and enthusiastic choice of the great assembly.

"How long a time do you require to put everything in readiness?" asked the President.

"Give me carte blanche," replied Mr. Edison, "and I believe I can have a hundred electric ships and three thousand disintegrators ready within six months."

A tremendous cheer greeted this announcement.

"Your powers are unlimited," said the President, "draw on the fund for as much money as you need," whereupon the Treasurer of the United States was made the disbursing officer of the fund, and the meeting adjourned.

Not less than 5,000,000 people had assembled at Washington from all parts of the world. Every one of this immense multitude had been able to listen to the speeches and the cheers in the Senate chamber, although not personally present there. Wires had been run all over the city, and hundreds of improved telephonic receivers provided, so that every one could hear. Even those who were unable to visit Washington, people living in Baltimore, New York, Boston, and as far away as New Orleans, St. Louis and Chicago, had also listened to the proceedings with the aid of these receivers. Upon the whole, probably not less than 50,000,000 people had heard the deliberations of the great congress of the nations.

The Excitement in Washington.

The telegraph and the cable had sent the news across the oceans to all the capitols of the earth. The exultation was so great that the people seemed mad with joy.

The promised exhibition of the electrical ship took place the next day. Enormous multitudes witnessed the experiment, and there was a struggle for places in the car. Even Queen Victoria, accompanied by the Prince of Wales, ventured to take a ride in it, and they enjoyed it so much that Mr. Edison prolonged the journey as far as Boston and the Bunker Hill monument.

Most of the other monarchs also took a high ride, but when the turn of the Emperor of China came he repeated a fable which he said had come down from the time of Confucius:

A Chinese Legend.

"Once upon a time there was a Chinaman living in the valley of the Hoang-Ho River, who was accustomed frequently to lie on his back, gazing at, and envying, the birds that he saw flying away in the sky. One day he saw a black speck which rapidly grew larger and larger, until as it got near he perceived that it was an enormous bird, which overshadowed the earth with its wings. It was the elephant of birds, the roc. 'Come with me,' said the roc, 'and I will show you the wonders of the kingdom of the birds.' The man caught hold of its claw and nestled among its feathers, and they rapidly rose high in the air, and sailed away to the Kuen-Lun Mountains. Here, as they passed near the top of the peaks, another roc made its appearance. The wings of the two great birds brushed together, and immediately they fell to fighting. In the midst of the melee the man lost his hold and tumbled into the top of a tree, where his pigtail caught on a branch, and he remained suspended. There the unfortunate man hung helpless, until a rat, which had its home in the rocks at the foot of the tree, took compassion upon him, and, climbing up, gnawed off the branch. As the man slowly and painfully wended his weary way homeward, he said: 'This teaches me that creatures to whom nature has given neither feathers nor wings should leave the kingdom of the birds to those who are fitted to inhabit it.'"

Having told this story, Tsait'ien turned his back on the electrical ship.

The Grand Ball.

After the exhibition was finished, and amid the fresh outburst of enthusiasm that followed, it was suggested that a proper way to wind up the Congress and give suitable expression to the festive mood which now possessed mankind would be to have a grand ball. This suggestion met with immediate and universal approval.

But for so gigantic an affair it was, of course, necessary to make special preparations. A convenient place was selected on the Virginia side of the Potomac; a space of ten acres was carefully levelled and covered with a polished floor, rows of columns one hundred feet apart were run across it in every direction, and these were decorated with electric lights, displaying every color of the spectrum.

Unsurpassed Fireworks.

Above this immense space, rising in the centre to a height of more than a thousand feet, was anchored a vast number of balloons, all aglow with lights, and forming a tremendous dome, in which brilliant lamps were arranged in such a manner as to exhibit, in an endless succession of combinations, all the national colors, ensigns and insignia of the various countries represented at the Congress. Blazing eagles, lions, unicorns, dragons and other imaginary creatures that the different nations had chosen for their symbols appeared to hover high above the dancers, shedding a brilliant light upon the scene.

Circles of magnificent thrones were placed upon the floor in convenient locations for seeing. A thousand bands of music played, and tens of thousands of couples, gayly dressed and flashing with gems, whirled together upon the polished floor.

Queen Victoria Dances.

The Queen of England led the dance, on the arm of the President of the United States.