other side of the mountain towering above the village came the rushing, roaring sound of a great waterfall as it tumbled down the mountainside from crag to crag, from ledge to ledge, until it struck the plain with a great noise and went rushing off to water the fertile fields of the peasants. The birds were nesting, and the early spring flowers were beginning to force their way up through last year's leaves. The snowbanks were almost all gone; only here and there on the sides of the mountain a few were visible, and they too were fast melting under the warm rays of the April sun.
But inside the castle all was not so calm. The old count was pacing to and fro in his library. He was uneasy, and he had good cause to be so, for his books of black magic could not aid him in the predicament in which he now found himself.
A week ago his son had been taken ill. This was after a gradual decline. His illness could not be diagnosed; it seemed as if the patient was overcome by weariness, although he had never exerted himself to any harmful extent. For some time he lay in a coma, then suddenly he emerged and manifested a wish to rise. He had done so, healthier in mind and in body. At any other time it would have been a perfectly natural occurrence, but now the aged count thought continually of Armand Champoy and his threat. His son did not seem the same to him. His actions were so strange, so alien, so utterly foreign to his nature.
The elder Count de Cheveaux was very perturbed over an incident that had occurred during the day. His son had removed a long-bladed stiletto from its rack in the library and had taken it to his chamber. The count knew, because he had watched him, had stealthily followed the youth and observed his every action.
That night a storm broke over the castle, shattering the placidity of the little village of Cheveaux, and for the first time the elements were in agreement with the life within the castle.
The aged count's mind was in a turmoil, but one thought stood out above the agitated throng—his son was about to kill him; of that he was sure. That Champoy had succeeded in his evil purpose of possessing the body of his son during his recent illness. And he was brooding, brooding on the dreadful course that presented itself to him as his only alternative.
At length he came to a conclusion, and with guilty steps he withdrew from the room. A flash of lightning revealed him stepping through the doorway, and his hand clutched a stiletto, the companion of the one his son had concealed in his chamber. He groped his way up the stone stairway, and with each step his purpose became firmer. He would fool that Champoy, thwart him at his vengeance. At his son's doorway he paused and clutched the weapon a little tighter. He listened for sounds, but he heard nothing save the regular breathing of his son within. He pushed the door before him and slipped quietly into the room where his son slept.
The count emerged from the doorway, and his hand was empty. Silently he trod down the stone steps, and quietly he resumed his seat in the library. The storm was becoming more violent with the passing of the hours. Idly he picked up the quill before him and toyed with it. He had thwarted Champoy at his own purpose. He smiled exultantly. But these thoughts were rudely interrupted and his hopes were shattered, for suddenly he felt his fingers tighten on the pen, and involuntarily his
(Continued on page 719)
