So! And here I was to witness an initiation into the inner circle of demonaltry. My fears for the girl had been panic, and nerves, almost hysteria. And the mummy case, the smaller one, was doubtless that which Pierre sought.

But where was Pierre? No matter. In the morning we would return and loot the place.

The Marquis, after bowing before the shrine of the peacock, extended his arms, chanted in a tongue unknown to me. Then, after tossing incense into the brazier on the altar, he began anew, this time in French.

“Malik Taûs, Standard-bearer of Iniquity, Lord of the Outer Marches, Prince of the Borderland, thee we revere, and before thee we bow! Hear then our prayer, Malik Taûs, Thousand-eyed Lord Peacock, Sovereign Rebel, Dark Prince! To thee we consecrate this sacrifice on behalf of Santiago who defied thee; and for him we crave pardon and peace, for him across the Border we raise our prayer!”

“Amin!” intoned the congregation, bowing their heads to the floor. “So be it!”

A pause. And again, the Marquis raised his voice.

“Santiago, Santiago my friend, whose death I caused, concede to me your pardon, and accept from me our prayer! I who sent you to your death, and these my servants alike seek to make atonement!”

“Amin!”

“And this woman without like or equal, I offer to you, Santiago; and to you I consecrate her, to be yours until the end of time. Santiago, you whom I sent to your death, accept her who is the very image and likeness of her I loved very long ago; accept as my peace offering this wondrous one who is my lost one incarnate. Santiago, in the name of Thousand-eyed Malik Taûs, I offer to you this woman whom I shall embalm in rich spices and wind in linen and encase in sycamore and enshrine beside you to be yours for ever and ever!”

“Amin!”

Lord God! A poniard gleamed in his upraised hand. I drew and leveled the Luger … remembered I looked into a mirror … dropped my eyes, sick with horror …

A blinding, awful incandescence flared about me, illuminating that vault with the blue-white flame of noonday sun … a muffled, choked report … the mirror before me was clouded. A dense mist fogged the air. Hooded figures rushed to and fro, confused, colliding with each other, clawing and rubbing their eyes, blinded by that devastating flame.

And among them strode one not hooded, who moved with sure, swift certitude. Pierre d’Artois, wielding a blackjack! Each swing brought down a hooded figure; down they went before those cool, deliberately placed strokes … one stroke, one man … the cruel precision of machinery … the last man had taken the count. Pierre stepped to the wall, reached behind the arras, withdrew his hand, snatched from the wall an antique battle-ax, and dashed down the passage toward me.

“Don’t touch that grill!” I shouted.

“The juice, he is turned off.”