“Now we are ready for business, Brandon; but excuse me for a moment,” and he passed out through the opening through which Roderick had come and went.
“Well, that beats me,” muttered Strange, when he found himself alone; “the idea of these rocky walls parting at the touch of their inmates. Wonder if they will part at my touch?” and rising, he advanced to the wall through which they had entered the room, and touched the little projecting rock that he had seen Duval touch when they entered, expecting to see the walls roll back. But he was disappointed; they remained immovable as the rock of ages, and after several fruitless efforts to possess himself of the secret, he took his seat.
A few minutes later Dungarvon entered the room, followed by a score of his men, rough, burly-looking fellows, whose waists were girded with knives and pistols.
Dungarvon introduced his men to the supposed Black Bear, then said:
“Well, Brandon, we’re ready.”
“And so am I,” returned Strange.
“Then advance through that opening into the adjoining chamber nine paces and stop,” said the chief.
Strange advanced into the chamber, which was black as Hades, and which, from the hollow, sepulchral echo of his footfalls, he knew was large and capacious. Had it been the real Blufe Brandon, his cowardly heart would have shrunk with terror, knowing what was coming.
Through the dark nine paces, Solomon Strange groped his way, then stopped. At that instant the room was suddenly lit up by a glowing light from behind. And, horrors!
He stood on one side of a long table, while facing him on the other side, sat, bolt upright, in arm-chairs, with black cloaks thrown over their shoulders, a dozen human skeletons glaring at him in a ghastly, horrifying manner. Each one clutched in its bony hand, which protruded from under the cloak, a small glittering dagger. On the table in front of each one sat a small glass goblet filled with some red liquid resembling blood. Not a living soul was to be seen in the room.