must have some basis in the actual experience of mankind?"

Ernest's brow became very clouded, and infinite numbers of hidden
premature wrinkles began to show. How wan he looked and how frail! He
was as one lost in a labyrinth in which he saw no light, convinced
against his will, or rather, against his scientific conviction, that she
was not wholly mistaken.

"Still," he observed triumphantly, "your vampires suck blood; but
Reginald, if vampire he be, preys upon the soul. How can a man suck
from another man's brain a thing as intangible, as quintessential as
thought?"

"Ah," she replied, "you forget, thought is more real than blood!"




XXV


Only three hours had passed since Ethel had startled Ernest from his
sombre reveries, but within this brief space their love had matured as
if each hour had been a year. The pallor had vanished from his cheeks
and the restiveness from his eyes. The intoxication of her presence had
rekindled the light of his countenance and given him strength to combat
the mighty forces embodied in Reginald Clarke. The child in him had made
room for the man. He would not hear of surrendering without a struggle,
and Ethel felt sure she might leave his fate in his own hand. Love had
lent him a coat of mail. He was warned, and would not succumb. Still she