The daily morning journal and courier., 1897-01-04

remarking at the oddity of the viands, as we'll as at their appetizing quali- l tles-he still said naught of himself, leaving us wondering the more at the Sieur de Belaire-that we never should have heard of him, and that any per son--even with millionaires power could produce such an effect.
 Tomorrow" said he, and l fancied l saw gleam of his eyes and twitch- 1 ing of his lips, II will explain. Now, I know you are weary Theodore will show you your lodgings, which hope may prove satisfactory"
 When we answered that nothing could be more pleasingly perfect than this choice hospitality to belated strangers, he bowed with sudden curt dismission, while the man, candle in hand beckoned to the door. Not wishing to press our appreciation in thus sudden display of haughtii- ness, we followed, through intermina- ble corridors, into a great damp tapes tried chamber, where the servant lit a score of candles that but seemed to increase a sense of gloom A great 1 bed, such as you may see in the muse- um of Cluny, was at one side, but the room was singularly cheerless as the | servants steps sounded and faded out side the closed door. Then we turn ed to question each others impressions; to express our wonder; to pause with sudden horror and amazement at 1 full-length portrait Of our host oppo- site the bed. There he stood looking at us in Henrl Quatre costume-the same restless eyes-the gleam of white teeth under thin exasperating lips. And watching, I grew to fear and hate that face.
 Plerson shared my feeling. The whole adventure had been so unac- countable, the object of our entertain er-even on the score of eccentricity-- so inexplicable, that sane and strong as we were. we readily agreed to lie down on the bed without removing our clothes and to leave the candles burn ing. A heavy key turned rustily in the lock. When crept to Pierson's | side he already seemed to be sunken in slumber, as was reasonable after our many weary miles that day. But I could not sleep, exhausted as I was. That striking portrait faced me and made me dread, and yet at last nature had her way.
 I awakened suddenly with the dread gripping my heart-awoke horribly in the pain of nightmare, my eyes on the portrait of the Sieur de Bellaire that the still flickering candles showed. Or was it the portrait? ] stared; I fear ed. An, such horrid fear that it was l sickeneing me even now. The Sieur de Bellaire was advancing out of his 1 frame-was nearing me-and, suddenly leaning forward, thrust his teeth into my throat. I could feel a stinging, bit ! ing pain; and then I had strength to exert myself against the Thing. We strove mightily-I for life the Thing 1 for desire. I know of nothing more nothing else that sends chill like that | of death through the veins even now. For this was a struggle of life and death; the Thing was ice that froze my l heart, that wanted my warm blood to ! thaw its own iciness of death; and as we rolled and struggled I heard no sound from Pierson. Was cruel thing with the ibestial fangs had the better; I and the desire for my own life was 1 greater than its desire for it. And I mastered it. Yes, life mastered the 1 thing of death that fought for the life in me; and when I knew that had thrust it from me my life went out of | me.
 And yet don't know. If it had been that I died-that Pierson died- should not be telling this story. I awoke, with a sense of warmth, among tall grass, and the life-giving sun on my face; and raising myself, I looked out on far reach of moor, the sun of the daybreak caught in the vel low grasstops. No person-no living thing was in view; yes, there was a house on near road; but whefe was the battlemented house of the night be- fore? And saw Pierson sleeping at my side, and then, raising himself he turned on me a fearful, questioning stare. I noticed our wheels lying at our sides, as if we had fallen from | them where we were. And then had pain at the throat, and, feeling there, knew it had been torn and was still bleeding, and Persons throat had some unaccountable mark.
 Shortly we began to question each other in hoarse. unnatural voices, and l his story was as mine. Yet we said nothing in surprise. We did not call each other liars! For we knew. And so, too lame to mount even when we found the path we turned toward the house we had seen--limping with ach- ing muscles.
 The house proved to be the inn we had been seeking in the nights storm. There we breakfasted, and then began to ask in the taproom of the Sieur de Bellaire, of the House of the Bronze Fox. Perhaps they did not under stand, for as we questioned they slunk away. But a barefooted mendicant a brown cowled monk, who was lis tening came forward crossing himself and surprising us with excellent Eng | fish.
 You passed a night In the House of | the Bronze Fox?"
 "Yes. Who is this Sieur de Bel | laire?"
 There is none. He died in Henri | Quatres reign"
 i 'He died? And the house?" '"There is only the cellar where the house was"
 And what of that we saw" 'rWho knows ?" The monk pauSed