And she, the abominable accomplice of the sorceress, still clung to him,—the vampire!
The pale moon had risen, and now bathed the attic in silver rays tinged with blue.
Rika sank to the ground beneath the unrecognizing glance of Kors; she stretched out her hands to ward off what she felt must come.
In Black Kors's contracted, bloodless hand, the open knife shone as on the night of the charm.
Between two harsh and vibrating strains of music which came from the Golden Swan, a discordant burst of laughter echoed across the silent tragic plain surrounding Verhulst Farm.
At that moment, Kors in a fit of delirium plunged the knife into Rika's breast.... She fell without uttering a cry.
Did not the incantation run:—"I command thee, charmed plant, to bring me the man who will wound me as I wound thee"?