A pale green light, whose source was invisible, and through which objects could but be dimly seen as through a mist, was streaming through the cellar. To Richard Mortimer’s excited imagination it seemed to proceed from the bodies of two persons who were slowly approaching him from the opposite end of the apartment—one a very aged man, and the other a youth who looked remarkably like White-horse Fred. They were walking side by side, gazing into each other’s faces, and appeared to be conversing earnestly, for their hands were constantly employed in gesticulating, and their lips moved, although no sound came forth. The light, which gave a strange and unearthly appearance to their features, seemed to move as they moved; and, instead of diffusing itself about the room, was confined to a narrow space in the immediate vicinity of the figures. Richard Mortimer gazed, and as he gazed felt his courage oozing out at the ends of his fingers. His first impulse was to turn and take to his heels, but the weakness was only momentary. Recovering himself by a strong effort, he advanced boldly into the store-room, but its mysterious occupants took no notice of him. He drew one of his Derringers from his pocket, and leveled it at the old man’s breast.
“I have just one bullet apiece for you, my friends,” said he, his voice trembling in spite of his efforts to control it, “and unless you stop that pantomime and speak to me, I will bring this farce to an end in a way that you probably have not expected.”
He paused, but no answer was returned, nor was there the least change in the expression of the countenances of the two figures to show that his words had been heard. They continued to approach the place where he was standing, talking earnestly and gesticulating.
They were now quite near to him—so near that Richard Mortimer retreated a step or two, and as he did so his finger pressed the trigger. There was a bright flash, a stunning report, and when the smoke, which for a few seconds obscured his vision, cleared away so that he could see the effect of his shot, he dropped his empty weapon and staggered back as if he were about to fall. There stood the old man erect and unharmed, still talking with his companion, and neither of them seemed to have heard the report of the pistol.
To draw the other and discharge it was but the work of an instant, but it had no visible effect upon the objects of his vengeance, who continued to advance, the light keeping pace with them, and their faces appearing to assume a more ghostly and unearthly look the nearer they approached.
And now Richard Mortimer discovered something that had hitherto escaped his notice—a tiny stream of blood which was trickling down the old man’s temple, and two holes in the breast of his buckskin jacket. White-horse Fred was as wet as if he had just come out of the lake, and the water dripped from his garments as he moved along. The sight reminded Richard Mortimer of one memorable night when scenes of horror and bloodshed had been enacted at the rancho, and drove away every particle of his courage. With a wild shriek of terror he turned and fled like the wind.