He nodded his head and smiled. "I suppose you are wondering why you're still alive, eh?" "You'll die when I die," I muttered wearily. "You are afraid to kill me, that is why." "Bosh!" he flashed back. "I have a better reason far. To-morrow she will be my wife indeed--a maid no longer--Pinsent. It was worth keeping you alive to gloat on that." "Oh! I see." "But you don't see everything, Pinsent. She insists upon seeing your body to-day in order to be sure that you are dead." "Ah!" "She still has a lingering doubt that I have tricked her, and she has sworn on the cross that unless I produce your corpse for her inspection she will take her own life rather than--you can guess what, Pinsent." "Yes--I can guess." "So you see the time draws nigh for you to die." "God only knows." The villain frowned. "But before you go you must do something for me." "And that?" "You must write her a letter telling her that your only hope of soul resurrection and salvation lies in her obeying me. She now considers me a dangerous magician, but I want her to regard me as a sort of deity." "I will not do it, Belleville. You ought to know me better by this." "I think you will," said he. "That is if you really care for her. You see it will save her a lot of--let's call it inconvenience. With such a weapon as your message I can rule her kindly. But rule her in any case I shall. If you deny me I'll gag you this moment so you can't make a sound, then I'll bring her here and beat her as I would a dog. How will you like that?" "I'll write the letter," I said huskily. A few minutes later the thing was done, and I had signed my name to the atrocious expressions of his demand. To transcribe them I am too ashamed. "What now?" I asked. "The last scene in the last act," said he, as he put the letter in his pocket. "I may tell you that I intend always to keep your body by me--for her to look at--if she ever shows a mind to mutiny." "In spirits?" I questioned. "The embalming oil of the princes of old Egypt. I found the receipt in Ptahmes' tomb," he answered. "I propose to convert you into a mummy." With that he took off his hat and coat, rolled up his sleeves and put on a huge oil-skin apron. "I'll not kill you till the last moment necessary," he observed. "In fact, you'll be half-mummy before you die; I have a curiosity to discover if the process of substitution is painful. I rather think it must be." He moved over as he spoke to the sarcophagus and began to shift the objects that sealed up the mouth. It took him some minutes to do so, and as he put down the couch, last of all, one of the castors crashed upon his toe. He cursed the misfortune like a madman and danced about the floor on one foot like a dervish, winding up by striking me brutally with closed fist on the lips. That gave him back his self-control.