the coppery-colored, deserted beach of Constantine.
"We have arrived," stated Mochanda briefly. "Follow me. You have come against my wishes to the island—enough! If harm befall you, remember you were forewarned, and now will I lead you to the castle fortress and to Menehem Sorcha, my master."
Anniston followed silently, as the Jew led the way through a huge ravine, the hills rising on either side like great, grim walls. Far above, from lofty, overhanging crags, the fierce shrieks of vultures rose upon the air, and the echoes rumbled and bounded among the rocks, sounding uncanny in the morning solitude.
"Yonder," volunteered Mochanda, "is the castle."
Anniston gazed eagerly as directed, and was not dissatisfied with his first glimpse of the home of Berenice, a huge mass of brick and stone, blackened and marred by the elements for ages, the battlements rising more than a hundred feet in height, topped by large balconies and the cupola which Mochanda had already mentioned.
"It looks mighty ancient," commented Anniston enthusiastically.
"It is," was the reply. "Rumor has it that it was built in the seventeenth century by Meshad Bin, a cruel Kurd, who was driven from Persia by order of the Shah. He was a noted outlaw and collected the money with which he built the fortress from caravans held up on the highroad near Tabriz. Tales are told of his terrible cruelty, that he threw his prisoners from the battlements to be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks below, and certainly it was the most
