Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!—he seemed to hear the fall of water in a fountain, which sparkled and glowed before his eyes, as his imagination conjured it there. He saw it in the moonlight of a soft Italian night, and the odor of a thousand flowers was brought to him with a passing breeze. He looked into the fountain, and a face smiled up at him. He saw it was the face of the man he hated, and he put out his strong hands to grasp it by the throat. There was no struggle. He was so strong that his enemy could not struggle. So he forced him down and held him beneath the surface of the water, watching him drown. It was a great delight to watch him drown.
The end came, and he relinquished his hold on that throat. Down, down to the bottom of the fountain sank the head, and there it lay looking up at him with wide-open, staring eyes. He nodded and smiled at it, saying: “I have conquered at last!” But it simply stared straight into his soul.
Those eyes made him shiver a little, they were so cold and glassy. Those eyes had cast upon him a fearful spell when their owner lived, but they were powerless now. Were they powerless? Dead though he knew they were, they seemed to take hold of him and possess him. He could not tear his gaze from them.
Slowly round the fountain he moved, trying to escape from those eyes. He did not see the head move, but it must have moved, for always those eyes were fixed upon him.
A great horror crept over him. What did it mean? Was he not the victor? He was seized by a fear that even in death Frank Merriwell remained his master.
Then he longed to shriek aloud, to run away, to do something. He could feel those dead eyes getting a stronger hold upon him. He knew he was becoming their victim. He had not conquered; Merriwell was still his master.
“Yes,” he said aloud, “I am coming; I am coming.”
Then, with a singular look on his drawn face, he rose, hat in hand, and started from the place. He walked like one in a trance, staring straight ahead, minding nothing around him.
“I am coming,” he murmured.