“Yes. Is it not beautiful?” he queried, and there was a twinkle of merriment in his eyes. “But,” he continued, “it is all put on. The soul has been puffed out and padded and stuffed, and in itself is loathsome. But we throw a very fine and artificial glamour over it and give it a semblance of beauty, so that all these little imps are mad with envy, and spite, and hatred, and long for the day when they shall have sucked all the juices away and left nothing but the dried-up skeleton of a spirit behind.” “Surely that is impossible,” I exclaimed. He raised his eyebrows quizzically. “Never heard of vampires? It is the nature of spirits; Virginius and his set often more so than us.” By this time the car had reached us and was passing. Just as they came below us the bound figure made a desperate struggle to rise, and gave once more that terrible cry which we had heard before. A hundred bony hands strong and cruel pressed forward upon the throat and lips. Others shook their fists, others cursed and swore and called her every name which they themselves had doubtless been before her. One old hag rushed forward and struck a cruel blow upon the white breast. Almost immediately a black swollen bruise appeared. “Rotten,” cried Plucritus, and he laughed. Then he repeated, “Fragile, perishable,” and laughed again. “Look at that hag who struck the blow,” he continued. “She has an interesting history. She was once more beautiful than the figure lying there; but that was a very, very long time ago, for then she was a great queen.” I followed her with interest, almost unable from her appearance to believe his words. The victim they were bearing along had sunk back, but her eyes were open, and they expressed all that fear and despair which go to form the greater part of hell. I watched them pass with an ever-growing heaviness and oppression at my heart. “Let us go to see the incarceration,” he suggested, turning to me. “I had rather be excused,” I answered coldly. “Come,” he said, laying hold of my arm again. “They are like animals at the slaughter-house—they will fly anywhere to get away from the right door, and tear and scratch all who approach them. This woman, when she sees the place prepared for her, will fight like a wild animal to escape.” “And how do you get them in?” I asked, interested despite myself. “We whip them in,” he replied softly. “Or rather our slaves do. They enjoy it, and are never particular when to stop. It is all we can do at times to call them off. It is their method of welcoming strangers. Come,” he added, “let us go.” “No,” I repeated. “I have seen enough of this place to last me some time.” He only laughed. “Come,” he said, “you must get accustomed to it. For aught I can tell, the next may be Deborah.” And then with a sudden strength, of which I had judged myself incapable since coming there, I threw his hand off.