Nathalie stood at the door with a lantern in her hand.

Dirk was returning; the witch held up the light to catch a glimpse of his face, then, whispering and crying under her breath, followed into the house.

“There is blood on your shoes and on your breast,” she whispered, when they reached the long chamber at the back.

Dirk flung himself on a chair and moaned; the snow lay still on his hair and his shoulders; he buried his face in the bend of his arm.

“Zerdusht and his master have forsaken us,” whimpered the witch. “I could work no spells tonight, and the mirror was blank.”

Dirk spoke in a muffled voice, without raising his head.

“Of what use magic to me? I should have stayed in Frankfort.”

Nathalie drew his wet cloak from his shoulders. “Have I not warned you? has not the brass head warned you that the young scholar will be your ruin, bringing you to woe and misery and shame?”

Dirk rose with a sob, and turned to the fire; the one dim lamp alone dispelled the cold darkness of the room, and the thin flames on the hearth fell into ashes before their eyes.

“Look at his blood on me!” cried Dirk, “his blood! Balthasar and Ysabeau make merry with his lands, but my hate shall mean something to them yet — I should not have left Frankfort.”

He rested his head against one of the supports of the chimney-piece, and Nathalie, peering into his face, saw that his eyes were wet.

“Alas! who was this man?”

“I did all I could,” whispered Dirk...“the Empress shall burn in hell.”

The sickly creeping flames illuminated his pallid face and his small hand, hanging clenched by his side.

“This is an evil day for us,” moaned the witch, “the spirits will not answer, the flames will not burn...some horrible misfortune threatens.”

Dirk turned his gaze into the half-dark room.

“Where is Theirry?”

“Gone.” Nathalie rocked to and fro on her stool.

“Gone!” shivered Dirk, “gone where?”

“Soon after you left he crept from his chamber, and his face was evil — he went into the street.” Dirk paced up and down with uneven steps.

“He will come back, he must come back! Ah, my heart! You say Zerdusht will not speak tonight?”

The witch moaned and trembled over the fire.

“Nay, nor will the spirits come.”

Dirk shook his clenched fist in the air.

“They shall answer me.”

He went to the window, opened it and looked out into blackness.

“Bring the lamp.”

Nathalie obeyed; the faint light showed the hastening snowflakes, no more.

“Maybe they will listen to me, nay, as I say, they shall.”

The witch followed with the swinging lamp in her hand, while they made their way in silence through the darkness and the snow, in between the bare rose bushes, over the wet, cold earth until they reached the trap-door at the end of the garden that led to the witch’s kitchen. Here she paused while Dirk raised the stone.

“Surely the earth shook then,” he said. “I felt it tremble beneath my feet — hush, there is a light below!”

The witch peered over his shoulder and saw a faint glow rising from the open trap, while at that moment her own lamp went suddenly out.

They stood in outer darkness.

“Will you dare descend?” muttered Nathalie. “What should I fear?” came the low, wild answer, and Dirk put his foot on the ladder...the witch followed...they found themselves in the chamber, and saw that it was lit by an immense fire, seated before which was an enormous man, with his back towards them; he was dressed in black, and at his feet lay stretched a huge black hound.

The snow dripped from the garments of the newcomers as it melted in the hot air; they stood very still.

“Good even,” said Dirk in a low voice.

The stranger turned a face as black as his garments; round his neck he wore a collar of most brilliant red and purple stones.

“A cold night,” he said, and again it seemed as if the earth rumbled and shook.

“You find our fire welcome,” answered Dirk, but the witch crouched against the wall, muttering to herself.

“A good heat, a good heat,” said the Blackamoor.

Dirk crossed the room, his arms folded on his breast, his head erect.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Warming myself, warming myself.”

“What have you to say to me?”

The Blackamoor drew closer to the fire.

“Ugh! how cold it is!” he said, and stuck out his leg and thrust it deep into the seething flames. Dirk drew still nearer.

“If you be what I think you, you have some reason coming here.”

The black man put his other leg into the fire, and flames curled to his knees.

“I have been to the palace, I have been to the palace. I sat under the Empress’s chair while she talked to a pretty youth whose name is Theirry — a-ah! it was cold in the palace, there was snow on the youth’s garments, as there is blood on yours, and the Emperor was there...” All this while he looked into the fire, not at Dirk.

“Theirry has betrayed me,” said the youth.

The Blackamoor took his legs from the fire unscorched and untouched, and the hell-hound rose and howled.

“He has betrayed you, and Ysabeau accuses you to save herself; but the devils are on your side since there is other work for you to do; flee from Frankfort, and I will see that you fulfil your destiny.”

And now he glanced over his shoulder.

“The witch comes home to-night, to-night, the work here is done, take the road through Frankfort.”

He stood up, and his head touched the roof; the gems on his throat gave out long rays of light... the fire grew dim; the Blackamoor changed into a thick column of smoke...that spread...“Hell will not forsake you, Ursula of Rooselaare.”

Dirk fell back against the wall, thick vapours encompassing him; he put his hands over his face...When he looked up again the room was clear and lit by the beams of the dying fire; he gazed round for the witch, but Nathalie had gone.

With a thick sob in his throat he sprang up the ladder into the outer air, and rushed towards the desolate house.

Desolate indeed; empty, dark and cold it stood, the snow drifting in through the open windows, the fires extinguished on the hearths, a dead place never more to be inhabited.

Dirk leant against the door, breathing hard.

Here was a crisis of his fate; betrayed by the one whom he loved, deserted, too, it seemed, since Nathalie had disappeared...the Blackamoor...he remembered him as a vision...a delusion perhaps.

Oh, how cold it was! Would his accusers come for him to-night? He crept to the gate that gave on to the street and listened.

“Nathalie!” he cried forlornly.

Out of the further darkness came a distant hurry and confusion of sound.

Horses, shouting, eager feet; a populace roused, on the heels of the dealer in black magic, armed with fire and sword for the witches.

Dirk opened the gate, for the last time stepped from the witch’s garden; he wondered if Theirry was with the oncoming crowd, yet he did not think so, probably he was in the palace, probably he had repented already of what he had done; but the Empress had found her chance; her accusation falling first, who would take his word against her?

He wore neither cloak nor hat, and as he waited against the open gate the thick snow covered him from head to foot; his spirit had never been afraid, was not afraid now, but his frail body shivered and shrank back as when the angry students fronted him at Basle.

He listened to the noises of the approaching people, till through these another sound, nearer and stranger, made him turn his head.

It came from the witch’s house.

“Nathalie!” called Dirk in a half hope.

But the blackness rippled into fire, swift flames sprang up, a column of gold and scarlet enveloped house and garden in a curling embrace.

Dirk ran out into the road, where the glare of the fire lit the swirling snow for a trembling circle, and shading his eyes he stared at the flames that cons............