s gaze
swept up the slope of the stairway to the altar at its head, lingered
on the phosphorescent eye of light still glowing there. Then he
shrugged grimly and moved on to the doorway in the wall. Warily he
peered in.

As his eyes adjusted themselves to the greater darkness, he saw a
narrow stairway leading downward into a shadowy corridor. Somewhere in
the tunnel's depths a faint light shone. He could see nothing more. He
moved stealthily down the damp, dank stairs.

At the bottom he paused, listening. He could hear nothing. A hundred
feet ahead, the corridor divided in two; a burning torch was thrust in
the wall at the junction. Cliff nodded with satisfaction. Corio _must_
be somewhere near by; for only a human needed light.

Silently Cliff strode along the corridor. At the fork he hesitated,
then chose the right branch, for light glowed faintly along that
passageway. The other led downward, black as the pits of hell.

A doorway appeared in the wall ahead, and he moved warily, with fists
clenched. Flickering torchlight filtered into the corridor. There was
no audible sound. Now Cliff peered into a small chamber, and gasped in
sudden horror, his eyes staring unwinkingly at a spectacle incredibly
pitiful.

Here were the passengers of the _Ariel_, whitely naked, and lying in
little groups on the cold stone floor, huddled together for warmth.
Their faces turned toward Darrell as he stood in the doorway, but
there was no recognition in the vacuous eyes, no thought, no
intelligence, and little life in the wide-mouthed stares. It seemed as
though their souls had been drained from their bodies with their
blood.

Sickened, Cliff turned away, cursing his own helplessness to aid them,
cursing Leon Corio who was responsible for their plight. Black wrath
gripped him as he moved on.

Again the corridor branched, and again he kept to the right. Suddenly
he halted, ears straining. He heard the sound of a voice--the hollow
voice of Corio! It came faintly but clearly from a room at the end of
the passageway. Cliff went forward slowly.

"And so, my dear," Corio was saying, "we entered into a pact with
the--Master, a pact sealed with blood. In exchange for our lives we
three were to bring other humans to this island for the feasting of
the dead-alive. Every third month each of us must return with our
cargo when the moon is full; and since we come back on alternating
months, they have a constant supply of fresh blood. Usually