All this was horrid enough, but that was not the worst of it, and I own that I hesitate to write that which I saw. Yet, for the sake of the truth, tell I must and will. The cavern was very high in the midst, but at the sides not so high—rather like the sloping roof of an attic which slants quickly down from the rooftree. But that which took my eye amid the smoke were certain vague shapes, as it had been of the limbs of human beings, shrunk and blackened, which hung in rows on either side of the cave. At first it seemed that my eyes must certainly deceive me, for the reek drifted hither and thither, and made the rheum flow from them with its bitterness. But after a little study of these wall adornments, I could make nothing else of it, than that these poor relics, which hung in rows from the roof of the cave like hams and black puddings set to dry in the smoke, were indeed no other than the parched arms and legs of men and women who had once walked the upper earth—but who by misfortune had fallen into the power of this hideous, inconceivable gang of monstrous man-eaters. Then the true interpretation of all the tales that went floating about the countryside, and which I had hitherto deemed wholly vain and fantastical, burst upon me. But there was that nearer to me which smote me down like a blow taking a man at unawares. As I stood up to look, gripping nervously at my sword and peering over, there came a gust off the sea, roaring up the passages of the cavern. For with the moon the wind had risen without. The fire on the floor flickered upward and filled the place with light. I felt something touch my cheek. Speedily I turned, and, lo! it was a little babe’s hand that swung by a cord. The wind had caught it, so light it was, and it had rubbed my cheek. By the Lord, it was enough and more than enough. I sank down and the spirit within me became water because of that soft, sliding little hand. Had the naked devils come on to me then, I declare I had not found power to lift my hand against them, nor so much as to set a finger to the latch of a pistol. But in a little while I was strengthened, for now, as though I had never seen her before, I saw the true face of the brave lass Nell Kennedy. And it is passing sweet, even in the presence of death, to see the eyes of the beloved for the first time after declared and unashamed love has come into them. She never took her sad, steadfast regard from my face, and, as I say, I was infinitely strengthened thereby. I could also mark Marjorie Kennedy. And since she stood erect, I knew that she had seen all the blasting horrors I had witnessed—except, perhaps, the babe’s hand a-swing by its cord. Yet there was no blanching of her face. Rather, she stood and eyed the scene with a calm and assured countenance, like to a stake-kissing martyr ere the flames are lit.