and trembled. With hands raised they took
the oath, terrible, relentless, overpowering, gripping them from now on
as in a vice; both sexes alike, with voices spent and faint with
emotion.

"_In the name of the Black Cross I do now pledge myself, an instrument
in the service of Justice and Retribution. On whomsoever the choice of
Fate shall fall, I vow the sentence of Death shall be fulfilled, by
mine own hands if needs be, without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy.
And if by any untoward chance this hand should fail, I swear--I swear,
before the third day shall have passed, to die instead--to
die--instead._"

The words ended in a whisper, low, intense, prescient of a woe not to
be borne.

"_I swear--I pledge myself--by mine own hands if needs be._"

A sigh broke the stillness. The masks stirred, recovered themselves
and bent over the bier, drawing out, one after the other, a slip of
paper folded. There were thirteen slips. Twelve were blank; on one
was a Black Cross graven.

They drew in silence; no start, no movement, no trembling of the
muscles betrayed the one fated. Twelve drew blanks. Which of them had
the Cross; which? They stared dumbly, questioningly, fearfully from
one to the other. One was the assassin. Which? The answer was
shrouded behind the masks.

Lower and lower the candles burned in their sockets, flickering
fitfully. The room grew darker and the figures, cloaked and hooded,
seemed to melt back into the shadows from whence they had emerged, less
and less distinct, until finally the shadow was one, more and more
vapoury, filling the darkness.

Suddenly, a scream cut the silence, like a knife rough and jagged. In
a twinkling the lights went out. There was a scuffling, a struggling
in the corridor, cries and shouting, the sound of wood splintering, the
blows of an axe,--a rushing forward of heavy bodies and the trampling
of feet. The doors burst open, and a cordon of police dashed over the
wreckage, cursing, shouting--and then stopped on the threshold, staring
in amazement and panting with mouths wide open.

"Oi!--Oi! Tysyacha chertei!"

The room was empty, dark, deserted save for an old woman, half-witted,
who was crouching on the floor before the sacred Icon, rocking herself
and mumbling. They questioned her, but she was deaf and answered at
random:

"Eh, gracious sirs--my lords--eh? So old--so poor, so wretched! See,
there is nothing!--A copeck, for the love of heaven--ha