He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“Never heard of vampires? It is the nature of spirits; Virginius and his set often more so than us.”
By this time the car had reached us and was passing. Just as they came below us the bound figure made a desperate struggle to rise, and gave once more that terrible cry which we had heard before.
A hundred bony hands strong and cruel pressed forward upon the throat and lips. Others shook their fists, others cursed and swore and called her every name which they themselves had doubtless been before her. One old hag rushed forward and struck a cruel blow upon the white breast.
Almost immediately a black swollen bruise appeared.
“Rotten,” cried Plucritus, and he laughed. Then he repeated, “Fragile, perishable,” and laughed again. “Look at that hag who struck the blow,” he continued. “She has an interesting history. She was once more beautiful than the figure lying there; but that was a very, very long time ago, for then she was a great queen.”
I followed her with interest, almost unable from her appearance to believe his words. The victim they were bearing along had sunk back, but her eyes were open, and they expressed all that fear and despair which go to form the greater part of hell. I watched them pass with an ever-growing heaviness and oppression at my heart.
“Let us go to see the incarceration,” he suggested, turning to me.
“I had rather be excused,” I answered coldly.
“Come,” he said, laying hold of my arm again. “They are like animals at the slaughter-house—they will fly anywhere to get away from the right door, and tear and scratch all who approach them. This woman, when she sees the place prepared for her, will fight like a wild animal to escape.”