Satan's Garden By E. HOFFMANN PRICE _The story of a terrific adventure in Bayonne, two ravishingly beautiful girls, occult evil and sudden death in the lair of the hasheesh-eaters._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales April and May 1934. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Since the publication of "The Rajah's Gift" in WEIRD TALES nine years ago, followed by "The Stranger from Kurdistan," E. Hoffmann Price has been acclaimed one of the masters of quality fiction; yet his superb artistry has not interfered in any way with the vividness and thrilling power of his fascinating stories. West Point graduate, expert swordsman, orientalist and former soldier of fortune, his life itself is a thrilling tale of adventure. Endowed with a natural gift for narrative, he possesses also a warm imagination and unsurpassed literary craftsmanship. All these qualities are woven into the strange weird tale presented herewith: "Satan's Garden." _1. Invisible Scourge_ It was long past the hour of tinkling glass, and song to the guitar, and crowded tables at the Café du Théâtre. The gray-walled city of Bayonne slept in the moonlight like an odalisque overcome with wine and lying bejewelled in a garden whence the musicians had departed. It is thus that Bayonne has slept each night of the full moon for more than nineteen centuries at the junction of the Nive and the Adour, guarding the road to Spain. There were two who sat in a room on the second floor of a house that faced the street running along the city wall. One was old and leathery, with fierce, upturned gray mustaches, and eyes that smoldered beneath shaggy brows; the other was not more than half his age, a lean, broad-shouldered man whose bronzed features were rugged as the masonry of the fortress, and seamed with a saber slash that ran from his cheek-bone almost to the chin. The younger emerged from the depths of his chair like a panther leaving his cage. He paced the length of the room and paused at the window to stare out into the dazzling moon-brightness that slowly marched from the rolling, tree-clustered parkway and invaded the shadows cast by the city wall across the dry moat that skirted it. Then, as he retraced his steps, he glanced at his watch. "Later than usual tonight, Pierre," he observed. His voice was weary from baffled wrath. "Do you suppose that It may skip a night?" Pierre d'Artois shook his gray head and sighed. "Why should It fail to torment her? We sit here like dummies, you and I. And to what purpose? Look!" He indicated the seals on the door at his left. "It could get through neither door nor window without breaking those seals----"