There, from his lurking place, still gazed the husband of Mabel Clifdon; but his form no longer swayed and quivered, and his face was like marble. Only from beneath his bent brows shot a strange and terrible fire. It was as though a demon had entered the sculptured form of an angel, and concealed beneath its beauty, betrayed only through the insensible eyes, the baleful hideousness of his presence. The crowd began to disperse, at first singly, and then in whispering groups, but he stirred not; some one even shouted his name, but he stood without the power to move. Something brushed against his shoulder, and a low neigh sounded thrillingly in his ear. He turned, and with her large, dark, half human eyes fixed upon him, White Fleeta stood beside her master. It seemed as if that gentle and tender gaze had suddenly broken the fearful spell that bound him, for flinging himself to the earth with a burst of passion, Clifdon lay there, convulsed and agonized, while the animal that his hands had ever fed, and that loved him as it is in the nature of its generous kind to love, knelt by his side, and with a soft moan, rubbed her glossy head against his shoulder. Again his name was shouted, and springing to his feet, he stood for a few minutes struggling with mighty efforts to regain his composure; and then, deadly pale, but calm, drew back the curtain, and once more entered the saloon. The crowd had utterly dispersed, but the body of the dead man had been stretched upon a form which several of the company were bearing to the door. “Lend us a hand, Clifdon,” said the voice that had before summoned him, “you are the strongest of us.” “Not I,” said Clifdon, turning away to conceal the spasm that distorted his features. “I saw the whole—I am shaken with horror.” There was something in his voice that silenced them, for, without further remonstrance, they passed on, leaving him standing alone with the clown. “It is horrible!” said Clifdon, in a low tone, and with a shudder. “Horrible!” echoed the jester. Then, after a pause, raising his eyes with a steady gaze, he continued. “The rope broke, it seems. This strong rope—incredible!” The other replied not. “You are freed from your debt, Captain Ned,” resumed the clown, playing carelessly, as he spoke, with the broken rope. “You are safe now.” “Name it not,” said Clifdon hoarsely, and turning away. An exclamation from his companion called him back. “It is strange,” said the clown intently examining the ragged piece of rope. “Here is a drop of blood—a single drop of blood; just where it was broken off near the ceiling. How came it here?” “It fell from the body,” whispered Clifdon. “The body did not bleed, except at the mouth, where the blood was mixed with froth, and could not leave so dark a stain.” “You are swelling a trifle into importance,” said Clifdon, impatiently. “The spot may be accounted for in a thousand ways; it may not even be blood.”