Harry sprang to his feet, and would have fired then and there at von Hardenberg had not Cortes held him down by force.
"It was murder!" he whispered.
"If you fire, we are lost," cried Cortes. "It is too dark to shoot straight, and the Black Dog will escape us."
Harry resumed his kneeling position and waited.
A horrid silence reigned in the great, domed chamber. The scene was more tragic, more fantastic than ever. The shafts of light from above struck the body of the murdered man; the lamp still flickered before the altar. Even yet, the echoes of the shots were murmuring in the deeper recesses of the place.
Captain von Hardenberg stood stock-still, his revolver in his hand, thin wreaths of smoke issuing from the muzzle. From out of the heart of the stillness there came a chuckle: the Black Dog was pleased to laugh.
Murder was nothing to him. He had dealt for years in human lives. He was implacable, relentless. And even at that same moment he himself contemplated a greater crime, for the commission of which he was hiding in the darkness like a snake, biding his time to strike.
Captain von Hardenberg took two steps towards the body and turned it over with his foot.
"He is dead," said he in German.
The old man, who had been so terrible in life by reason of his madness, now looked sane and beautiful in death. The worn, agonized expression had gone altogether from his features, which were now calm and wholly at peace. With his white hair and ragged clothes, he was like one of the patriarchs of old.