The sailor considered. It was no use wasting another leaden bullet on a man who was evidently impregnable to such. He remembered that a silver button cut from one's coat was considered sovereign against a wizard when all else failed. But, unfortunately, Marquard wore no silver buttons, and very few buttons of any kind. An idea struck him, there was the magic ball that the witch had given him. It was true that, if it flew wide of its mark, he would have staked, and lost, his all; since he would no longer boast any influence to protect him. On the other hand, he felt a presentiment that it would not fail him. In any case the sorcerer, who was aware by this time of his possession of the talisman, seemed, from his good humour, to have forged some device by which he could counteract it. Marquard threw his scruples to the wind, and rammed the amulet into the pistol. "I will bring your royal insolence a-dust," he cried, "in hackneyed, unoriginal death for all that you are the devil's fetch and carry!" He fired. Thunder shook the furthest stars. The room was full of fœtid smoke. As it partially cleared away, the galley-slave saw his enemy lying supine upon the ground. He crept up to him, still misdoubting, and touched him gingerly. He was dead. But when Marquard came to look upon his face, he started back surprised, all trace of the ring had entirely disappeared. Both the sorcerer's eyes were open, and both were now a match. But whence had come back this long-lost eye? It was the ball which the witch had handed over to Marquard--the ball which Marquard had loaded into his pistol--the ball which had steered unerring to its ancient seat, and ousted the usurper which it found there. Marquard reverently lifted the fallen pride of wizardry and carried him gently to the outer gate. This man upon whom he had served the warrant of that bowelless catch-poll--Death, this clay, after all was said and done, had once been boyhood like himself. Lovers of one girl the tunes of their two lives were built upon the same bottom note. It was with tenderness that Marquard tossed the body into the abyss. He did not know how soon he was to follow it. It had scarcely disappeared when he became aware from the thinning of the castle that he had unwittingly got rid of the power which enabled him to cross the bridge. The golden railing had already vanished. He started to run, but the marble under his feet was softening, and he sank in it to the ankles at every step. A little further and his legs went through to the knee. With incredible exertions he reached the centre, but could go no further. He floundered in the fast ebbing material, hopelessly, to the waist. Then he sank to his armpits--spread out his arms so as to hold yet a second to life--but finally the last remnants of the bridge evaporated, and he fell plumb into the gulf, turning over and over in his fall. THE WITCHES' SABBATH.