When Hepworth Coleman suddenly found himself a prisoner in that close,
dark room, he did not at first suspect any treachery on the part of
Judge Favart de Caumartin. He expected that gentleman to return in the
course of a few minutes, but this favorable impression was soon removed
by certain startling events that crowded one upon another.

First a low, rumbling, clanging sound, like the beating of metallic
gongs in the distance, came through the walls and filled the cell. Then
as this died away to utter silence he heard tumultuous whispering all
around, above, below. The thousand voices all seemed to be saying the
same thing, which presently he made out to be the words: "The Krewe is
coming; make ready for the Krewe!" When the whispering ended little
purple lights began to flash here and there, but so mysteriously glinted
that he could not locate them, and these were followed by phantom faces,
wan, waxen, faintly luminous, appearing and fading instantly, succeeded
by intense darkness.

Now, Hepworth Coleman was a man of iron nerve, an athlete in body and
spirit, who, although full of romantic and poetic impulses, was at the
base of his character as brave and steadfast as a lion. Still, even the
best courage has its moment of faltering, and just at the point when one
whole wall of his cell was withdrawn, so that he stood in the full glare
of twenty brilliant chandeliers that lighted a large, gorgeously
decorated hall, he felt the blood grow stiflingly heavy on his heart.
Before him stood a file of fantastic figures, men oddly clad and
strangely armed, who clashed their brazen shields together and pointed
their swords at his breast. On the walls of the spacious room hung
weird-looking trophies, skulls, pictures of dead men, ghastly and livid,
pistols, swords, and strange banners. The floor was carpeted with heavy
Persian tapestry, thickly padded underneath.

Coleman stood gazing while the file of armed men--perhaps platoon would
be more correct--went through some silent but intricate evolutions after
beating their shields together and threatening him with their swords.
When the movements were ended one of the masters came up to him and
struck him lightly with the flat of his weapon across the cheek, saying
in a loud whisper:

"Beware! you are in imminent danger."

Coleman took him at his word and instantly let go a blow from the
shoulder. His close-set fist met the masker's jaw with a sound of
crushing pasteboard, a