ing step, the
creature reappeared, traversed the hall like a huge automaton and
mechanically descended the stairs. Recovering from his surprise, the
fool again resumed his position commanding the scene below, and
breathlessly awaited the sequel to the singular pantomime he had
witnessed.

"Well, is it done?" asked the harsh voice of the master of the boar.

"Yes; done!" was the submissive answer.

"Good! Now to get the sword."

"Not so fast," broke in the landlord. "Do you kill, morio, without
drawing blood? Look at his dagger."

The leader took the blade, examined it, and then began to call down
curses on the head of the imbecile monster. "Clean, save for a thread
of cotton," he cried angrily. "You never went near him."

"Yes, yes, master!" replied the creature, eagerly.

"Then, perhaps, you strangled him?" suggested the man.

"No; stab! stab!" reiterated the morio, in an almost imploring tone,
shrinking from the glances cast upon him.

"Bah! You stabbed the bed, fool; not the man," roughly returned the
other. "The rogue has guessed our purpose and left the room," he
continued, addressing the others. "But he's skulking somewhere. Well,
knaves, here's a little coursing for us all. Up with you, morio, and
find him. Perhaps, though, he may prefer to come down." And the
leader called out: "Give yourself up, rascal, or it will be the worse
for you."

To this paradoxical threat no answer was returned. Standing in the
shadow at the head of the stairs, the jester only gripped tighter the
hilt of the coveted sword, while across his vision flashed the picture
of the young girl, left helpless, alone! What mercy would they show?
The coarse words of the master of the boar and the gibing, loose
responses of the company recurred to him, and, setting his jaw firmer,
the plaisant peered, with gleaming eyes, down into the semi-gloom.

"You won't answer?" cried the leader, after a short interval. "Smell
him out then, rogues."

Knife in hand, the others at his heels, the morio slowly made his way
up the stairs. Goaded by the taunts of the outlaws, his face was
distorted with ferocity; through his lips came a fierce, sibilant
breathing; in the dim light his colossal figure and enormous head
seemed in no wise human, but rather a murderous phantasm. With head
rolling from side to side, stabbing in the air with his knife, he
continued to approach,--an object calculated to strike terror into any
breast.

"Oh