in the light, and in respiration his mouth opened and closed. A monstrous uncanny shadow arose and fell on the wall as he writhed at his unholy task. After a moment, while still rubbing the gums of the death-like figure, there came a crash of thunder over the house that nearly threw him from his feet; and like a beaten dog he skulked into the dark of the room, while the candle shed its glimmer over bewildered tresses amid which lay the waxen face of Madeline. Satiani, trembling in the corner, fastened his ugly eyes upon the white figure. Every stroke of lightning that sent its flash upon the darkened windows and every rumble of thunder, struck him to the quick. He had no fear of man; but before God he was a coward. It was the struggle for a soul. The white visage beneath the candle he watched with the eyes of an eagle. It moved.
"I am not beaten—" he muttered, as another crash of thunder choked the sentence in his throat.
The lower lip began to quiver, and the knees to tremble. The arms—the head—the body began to straighten. There was
