Trembling at the sound of her own voice, the girl commanded herself to say:
"Yes; who was she?"
"I don't know," he replied, seriously. "She was beautiful and fresh; she was almost as fair as you," letting his wild eyes roam over her. "I was getting away from that cursed place. Think of confining a man of my learning in a madhouse! But that was just it. I had mastered the new theory—the transfusion of blood. They wanted to steal my glory, so they locked me in. But I outwitted them; I captured these and ran away."
Laughing wildly but still under his breath, he took from his jacket a black case of bright, new surgical instruments.
"These were what I needed," he continued, with a low chuckle; "I could not attain the goal without these beauties." Caressingly he went over them. "Lancet, probe, trocar, bistoury, tourniquet,"—mentioning the collection, while he passed his fingers affectionately along the small sharp knives.
"For years and years," he went on, "I have studied this theory. The only thing is to find a young, strong, healthy subject; I found her. I was hiding in the bushes; she was on the highway; but she would not listen to me."
"You did not kill her?" the girl forced her dry lips to ask.
"Nay, nay; that is an ugly word. I had to sacrifice her—I did not kill. Then the foolish mob came and I fled hither. But I had a bit of bread and meat; she dropped her basket of lunch. I've been hiding in yonder tower," pointing upward. "I thought I might find what I want; and now, my dear, you will help me, won't you?" This he said coaxingly.
"Help you? What can I do?"
"Such a simple thing. Hold very still while I draw the rich red blood from your pretty white throat."