“It may,” was the dubious reply, “but I doubt it. I calculate if you could pile the hull range of the Rockies way back there it wouldn’t stop them wolf-men for more than a second or two. Their shanks seemed to be built of watch-springs. Anyway, with that old priest urgin’ ’em on, it’ll be little short of an earthquake as’ll check ’em. What the blazes is that?” A scream rang out through the silence, menacing and terrible. “Vampires!” cried Seymour, and examined the breech of his rifle. As he snapped to the lever an immense vampire dropped swiftly downward through the twilight. On the instant the baronet fired, and the brute, lurching, recovered itself with difficulty, and flapped out of sight. “Whatever was it?” gasped the scientist, amazed at the vast size of the creature, of whose shape he had caught but a fleeting glimpse. “A vampire,” Seymour replied; “the same kind of brute that attacked Silas and me as we were returning to the boat.” “I had forgotten for the moment,” returned Mervyn. “What terrible brutes they are! Who would have dreamed that such creatures existed? Truly this----” “Jupiter! If this don’t lick all! I guess we must ha’ struck a blamed cemetery!” There was good cause for the Yankee’s interruption, for, rounding a curve of the gorge, the adventurers had come suddenly upon a valley. On either hand towered monster fungi, their unearthly radiance making the valley as light as day; and between the growths the ground was thickly covered with bones. Everywhere the bleached and ghastly relics lay, a veritable harvest of death. The bones were, for the most part, those of animals, but here and there among them a human skull grinned up mockingly at the intruders. “What can it mean?” the Professor asked in a hoarse whisper, stepping cautiously amid the gleaming piles. “I assume this is the feedin’ ground of the vampires,” the Yankee answered. As he spoke there was a rustle amid a fungi-clump some yards away, and a huge, black form emerged, to flap heavily away into the shadow of the surrounding cliffs. Parting the fungi, Haverly peered down at the spot whence the creature had arisen. Lying with outstretched limbs, its ghastly outline revealed with hideous distinctness by the glistening growth around, was the carcase of a wolf-man. But something else caught the Yankee’s eye. In the hand of the savage, tightly clenched in the stiffened fingers, was a white handkerchief! A whistle of astonishment escaped Silas. What brought the wolf-man with that in his possession? Kneeling, Haverly forced open the hand of the dead savage, and, removing the handkerchief, held it out for the inspection of his friends. “It’s Wilson’s,” cried Seymour. “See, here are his initials,” pointing to the letters, “T. W.” embroidered in one corner. “How the dickens did it get here?” he continued.