They all laughed,—even Denzil Murray’s sullen features cleared for the moment into the brightness of a smile.
“Where did you paint the Princess’s picture?” inquired Ross Courtney suddenly.
“In her own house,” replied Gervase. “But we were not alone, for the fascinating fair one had some twenty or more armed servants within call.” There was a movement of surprise among his listeners, and he went on: “Yes; Madame is very well protected, I assure you,—as much so as if she were the first favorite in a harem. Come now, and see my sketch.”
He led the way to a private sitting-room which he had secured for himself in the hotel at almost fabulous terms. It was a small apartment, but it had the advantage of a long French window which opened out into the garden. Here, on an easel, was a canvas with its back turned towards the spectator.
“Sit down,” said Gervase abruptly addressing his guests, “and be prepared for a curiosity unlike anything you have ever seen before!” He paused a moment, looking steadily at Dr. Dean. “Perhaps, Doctor, as you are interested in psychic phenomena, you may be able to explain how I got such a face on my canvas, for I cannot explain it to myself.”
He slowly turned the canvas round, and, scarcely heeding the exclamation of amazement that broke simultaneously from all the men present, stared at it himself, fascinated by a singular magnetism more potent than either horror or fear.
CHAPTER IX.
What a strange and awful face it was!—what a thing of distorted passion and pain! What an agony was expressed in every line of the features!—agony in which the traces of a divine beauty lingered only to render the whole countenance more repellent and terrific! A kind of sentient solemnity, mingled with wrath and terror, glared from the painted eyes,—the lips, slightly parted in a cruel upward curve, seemed about to utter a shriek of menace,—the hair, drooping in black, thick clusters low on the brow, looked wet as with the dews of the rigor mortis,—and to add to the mysterious horror of the whole conception, the distinct outline of a death’s-head was seen plainly through the rose-brown flesh-tints. There was no real resemblance in this horrible picture to the radiant and glowing loveliness of the Princess Ziska, yet, at the same time, there was sufficient dim likeness to make an imaginative person think it might be possible for her to assume that appearance in death. Several minutes passed in utter silence,—then Lord Fulkeward suddenly rose.
“I’m going!” he said. “It’s a beastly thing; it makes me sick!”
“Grand merci!” said Gervase with a forced smile.