“Djamouk! Yaddin-ed-Din!” cried Tressa in a terrible voice. But quick as a flash Yulun tore a white sheet from the bed, flung it on the floor, and, whipping a tiny, jewelled knife from her sleeve, threw it glittering upon the sheet at the feet of the two men. “One shroud for two souls!” she said breathlessly, “—and a knife like that to sever them from their bodies!” The two men sprang backward as the sheet touched their feet, and now they stood there as though confounded. “Djamouk, Kahn of the Fifth Tower!” cried Tressa in a clear voice, “you have put off your body like a threadbare cloak, and your form that stands there is only your mind! And it is only the evil will of Yaddin in the shape of his body that confronts us in this room of a man you have doomed!” Yulun, intent as a young leopardess on her prey, moved soundlessly toward Yaddin. “Tougtchi!” she said coldly, “you did murder this day, my Banneret, and the Toug of Djamouk has been greased. Now look out for yourself!” “Don’t stir!” came Tressa’s warning voice, as Benton snatched his pistol from the pillow. “Don’t fire! Those men have no real substance! For God’s sake don’t fire! I tell you they have no bodies!” Suddenly something—some force—flung Benton on the bed. The two men did not seem to touch him at all, but he lay there struggling, crushed, held by something that was strangling him. Through his swimming eyes he saw Yaddin trying to drive a long nail into his skull with a hammer,—felt the piercing agony of the first crashing blow,—struggled upright, drenched in blood, his ears ringing with the screaming of Yaddin. Then, there in the little rococo bedroom of the Ritz-Carlton, began a strange and horrible struggle—the more dreadful because the struggle was not physical and the combatants never touched each other—scarcely moved at all. Yaddin, still screaming, confronted Yulun. The girl’s eyes were ablaze, her lips parted with the violence of her breathing. And Yaddin writhed and screamed under the terrible concentration of her gaze, his inferior but ferocious mind locked with her mind in deadly battle. The girl said slowly, showing a glimmer of white teeth: “Your will to do evil to my young lord is breaking, Yaddin-ed-Din.... I am breaking it. The nail and hammer were but symbols. It was your brain that brooded murder—that willed he should die as though shattered by lightning when that blood-vessel burst in his brain!” “Sorceress!” shrieked Yaddin, “what are you doing to my heart, where my body lies asleep in a berth on the Montreal Express!” “Your heart is weak, Yaddin. Soon the valves shall fail. A negro porter shall discover you dead in your berth, my Banneret!” The man’s swarthy face became livid with the terrific mental battle. “Let me go back to my body!” he panted. “What are you doing to me that I can not go back? I will go back! I wish it!—I——”