Two black silhouettes, wetly shiny in the moonlight, had come into the open. Behind them straggled six more, the guerrillas. "Don't!" came the cry again, this time a command. "You cannot destroy us now. It is midnight, the hour of the Nameless One." At the word "midnight" an idea fairly exploded itself in Lanark's brain. He thrust his sword into the hands of his old sergeant. "Guard against them," he said in the old tone of command. "That book of yours may serve as shield, and Enid's Bible. I have something else to do." He turned and ran around the edge of the grave, then toward the hole that was filled with the ruins of the old house; the hole that emitted a glow of weak blue light. Into it he flung himself, wondering if this diluted gleam of the old unearthly blaze would burn him. It did not; his booted legs felt warmth like that of a hot stove, no more. From above he heard the voice of Jager, shouting, tensely and masterfully, a formula from the _Long Lost Friend_: "Ye evil things, stand and look upon me for a moment, while I charm three drops of blood from you, which you have forfeited. The first from your teeth, the second from your lungs, the third from your heart's own main." Louder went his voice, and higher, as though he had to fight to keep down his hysteria: "God bid me vanquish you all!" Lanark had reached the upward column of the broken chimney. All about his feet lay fragments, glowing blue. He shoved at them with his toe. There was an oblong of metal. He touched it--yes, that had been a door to an old brick oven. He lifted it. Underneath lay what he had hidden four years ago--a case of unknown construction. But as he picked it up, he saw that it had a lid. What had Enid overheard from her stepfather, so long ago? "... that he would live and prosper until the secret writing should be taken forth and destroyed ... it would never open, save at the place of the Nameless One, at midnight under a full moon." With his thumbnail he pried at the lid, and it came open easily. The box seemed full of darkness, and when he thrust in his hands he felt something crumble, like paper burned to ashes. That was what it was--ashes. He turned the case over, and let the flakes fall out, like strange black snow. From somewhere resounded a shriek, or chorus of shrieks. Then a woman weeping--that would be Enid--and a cry of "God be thanked!" unmistakably from Jager. The blue light died away all around Lanark, and his legs were cool. The old basement had fallen strangely dark. Then he was aware of great fatigue, the trembling of his hands, the ropy weakness of his lamed leg. And he could not climb out again, until Jager came and put down a hand. * * * * * At rosy dawn the three sat on the front stoop of Jager's cabin. Enid was pouring coffee from a serviceable old black pot.