The young man, lost in thought, leaned mechanically against this altar, whose stone lips were stained dark brown, so deep had they drunk of the blood of human victims. All at once he started. A voice, apparently proceeding from the stone, fell upon his ear: “Young man, you come to this place with feet which touch the tomb.” He rose quickly, and his hand sought his sword, while an echo, clear but faint as the voice of a dying man, repeated: “Young man, you come to this place with feet which touch the tomb.” At this instant a hideous face appeared on the other side of the Druid altar, a face crowned with red hair, and disfigured by a brutal sneer. “Young man,” it again repeated, “you come to this place with feet which touch the tomb.” “And with a hand which touches a sword,” calmly responded Ordener. The monster emerged from beneath the altar, revealing his thick-set, muscular limbs, his wild, blood-stained dress, his hooked hands, and his heavy stone axe. “It is I,” he cried, with a growl like that of a wild beast. “And I,” answered Ordener. “I expected you.” “I did more,” replied the bold young man; “I sought you out.” The brigand folded his arms. “Do you know who I am?” “Yes.” “And you are not frightened?” “Not now.” “Then you were afraid to come here?” And the monster tossed his head with a look of triumph. “Afraid I might not find you.” “You bid me defiance, and your feet have trampled on dead bodies!” “To-morrow they may tread upon your own.” The little man quivered with rage. Ordener stood motionless, in an attitude of haughty calm. “Take care!” muttered the brigand; “I will burst upon you and rend you as Norwegian hailstones do a lady’s parasol.” “Such a shield would be all-sufficient for me.” Something in Ordener’s eye seemed to daunt the monster. He plucked the hairs from his mantle, as a tiger might devour grass before it springs upon its prey. “You teach me what pity means,” he said. “And you teach me what it is to scorn.” “Child, your voice is soft, your face is fair, like the voice and the face of a girl; what death will you choose?” “Your own.” The small man laughed. “Know you not that I am a demon, that my spirit is the spirit of Ingulf the Destroyer?” “I know that you are a robber, that you commit murder for the love of gold.” “You are wrong,” broke in the monster; “it is for love of blood.” “Were you not paid by the d’Ahlefelds to slay Captain Dispolsen?” “What are you talking about? What names are these?” “Do you not know Captain Dispolsen, whom you killed on Urchtal Sands?” “That may be, but I have forgotten him, as I shall forget you three days hence.” “Do you not know Count d’Ahlefeld, who paid you to steal an iron casket from the captain?” “D’Ahlefeld! Stay; yes, I know him. I drank his son’s blood only yesterday, from my son’s skull.” Ordener shuddered with horror. “Were you not content with your wages?” “What wages?” asked the brigand.