The Castellan shivered as one in an ague.
"Every Friday at midnight the Black Mass is said by one Bessarion, that is of unthinkable age—a hideous wizard and High Priest of Satan. It is he who has cast the spell over me."
Hope mounted high in Tristan. The alert confidence of his companion animated him and he felt almost as if the great ordeal was over. A distant bell was tolling. Its tones came in muffled cadence into the night wrapt corridors of the Emperor's Tomb.
Nevertheless he shivered at the Castellan's confession. Maraglia, then, was under the spell of this Wizard of Hell.
"I have seen him stalking through these galleries," he turned to his gaoler. "But I possess a spell which renders him harmless. He cannot touch me—nor breathe his evil breath into my soul. I can compel him to take away the spell he has cast over you—that is, if you so wish it."
The Castellan squeaked and waved his arms.
"You would do this for me?"
"If you will not betray me. For only a more powerful spell than that which he possesses can take away the curse he has put upon you."
"Ah! If you would do this! It is coming upon me now. I am going mad. I am a bat!"
And Maraglia squeaked like a whole company of dusky mice, and flapped his arms as if he were about to fly away.