he bride of a loathsome skeleton! Of an atomy! A
fiend! Monster, I will denounce thee. I care not for my own life. Of
what worth if torn from hers. Wretch, give back my bride or"----

"Spare these transports. I am now thine only friend. Thou art now cut
off from thy kin, shunned by mankind. To whom, then, wilt thou turn
for help? Mine thou art for ever!"

De Vessey gasped for utterance.

"Nevertheless," continued his tormentor, "I will direct and help thee
in this matter also. But 'tis a fearful venture. Hast thou courage?"

"If to rescue her, aught that human arm can achieve shall be done."

"He holds the portrait, I tell thee, with a steady gripe. Those
skeleton fingers will be hard to unloose."

"I will break them or perish. This good"----

"Touch them not for thy life. Death, sure but lingering, awaits
whomsoever they fasten upon. Take this key. It will admit thee to the
apartment. To-night the deed must be accomplished, or to-morrow the
maiden is beyond succour."

"And how is this charmed picture to be wrested from him?"

"An ebony wand lies at his feet; he will obey its touch. But
whatsoever thou seest, be nothing daunted, nor let any silly terror
scare thee from thy purpose. Now to thy task. But keep these marvels
to thyself. If thou whisper--ay, to the winds--our compact, thou art
not safe."

Soon De Vessey, enveloped in his disguise, found egress without
difficulty. Once outside the prison, he hurried on, scarcely giving
himself time for reflection.

The night was dark and stormy. Torches, distributed about the streets,
rocked and swung to and fro in their sockets, the flames, with a
strange and flickering glare, giving an unnatural distorted appearance
to objects within reach; and to some solitary individual, at this late
hour hurrying alone, the grim aspect of a demon or a spectre to the
disturbed imagination of the lover. His courage, at times on the point
of deserting him, revived when he remembered that another's life,
dearer than his own, depended on his exertions. The streets, almost
deserted, swam with continually accumulating torrents; but he felt not
that terrible tempest; the turmoil, the conflict within, was louder
than the roar and tumult of outward elements.

Almost ere he was aware he found himself opposite the entrance of the
painter's habitation; a shudder, like a death-chill, shot through his
frame. He applied his key. A distant gleam, a dim lurid light, seemed
to quiver before