suffer. So I pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive me. Van Helsing. Telegram. Mrs. Harker, to Van Helsing. 25th of September. Come to-day, by quarter-past ten train, if you can catch it. Can see you any time you call. Willa Mina Harker. Mina Harker's Journal. 25th of September. I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that it will throw some light upon Jonathan's sad experience, and as he attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness he can tell me all about her. That is the reason of his coming. It is concerning Lucy and her sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real truth now, how silly I am, that awful journal gets hold of my imagination, and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten, in my own affairs, how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about it, and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs. Westenra. I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope too Dr. Van Helsing will not blame me. I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late, that I feel I cannot bear more just at present. I suppose a cry does us all good at times, clears the air as other rain does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. It is two o'clock, and the doctor will be here soon now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan's journal unless he asks me. I am so glad I have typewritten out my own journal, so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to him. It will save much questioning. Later. He has come and gone.  I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan's journal first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! how he must have suffered! Please, the good God, all this may not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it, but it may be even a consolation and a help to him, terrible though it be and awful in its consequences, to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt which haunts him, that when the doubt is removed, no matter which, waking or dreaming, may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur's friend and Dr. Seward's, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he is good and kind, and of a noble nature. When he comes to-morrow I shall ask him about Jonathan, and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good end. I used to think I would like to practice interviewing. Jonathan's friend on the Exeter News told him that memory was everything in such work, that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview. I shall try to record it verbatim. It was half past two o'clock when the knock came. I took my courage, I do mine, and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door and announced, Dr. Van Helsing. I rose and bowed, and he came towards me, a man of medium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest, and the neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise of the head strikes one at once, as indicative of thought and power. The head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears.  The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost straight, and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart. Such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart, and are quick and tender, or stern with the man's moods. He said to me, "'Miss Harker, is it not?' I bowed assent. "'That was Miss Mina Murray?' Again I assented. "'It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear child, Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the debt I come. "'Sir,' I said, you could have no better claim on me than that you were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra. And I held out my hand. He took it and said tenderly, "'Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be good. But I had yet to learn.' He finished his speech with a courtly bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about. So he at once began. "'I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary. You need not look surprised, Madam Mina. It was begun after you had left, and was in imitation of you. And in that diary she traces by inference certain things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember. "'I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.' "'Ah! Then you have good memory for facts, for details. It is not always so with young ladies.' "'No, Doctor. But I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you if you like.' "'Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful. You will do me much favour.' I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit. I suppose it is some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our mouths. So I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful bow, and said, "'May I beat it?' "'If you wish,' I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed. "'Oh, you so clever woman,' he said. I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a man of much thankfulness. But see, his wife have all the good things. And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas, I know not the shorthand.' By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed. So I took the type-written copy from my work-basket and handed it to him. "'Forgive me,' I said. I could not help it, but I had been thinking that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have time to wait—not on my account, but because I know your time must be precious—I have written it out on the typewriter for you.' He took it, and his eyes glistened. "'You are so good,' he said, and may I read it now. I may want to ask you some things when I have read.' "'By all means,' I said, read it over whilst I order lunch, and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat.' He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch, chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. When I came back I found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me, and took me by both hands. "'Oh, Madam Mina,' he said, "'how can I say what I owe to you? This paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am days. I am dazzle with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that you do not cannot comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you. You so clever woman! Madam,' he said this very solemnly, "'if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know. It will be a pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend. As a friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do shall be for you and those you love. There are darknesses in life and there are lights. You are one of the lights.  I, who am old, and who have studied all my life, men and women? I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to him, and all that follow from him? And I have read your diary that you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you. Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels can read, and we men who wish to know have in us something of angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature and your noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your husband—tell me of him—is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?" I saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said. He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins' death. He interrupted. "'Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters.' I went on. "'I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he had a sort of shock. A shock, and after a brain fever so soon—that was not good. What kind of a shock was it?' He thought he saw someone who recalled something terrible, something which led to his brain fever. And here the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands and raised me up and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me. He held my hand in his and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness. My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not had much time for friendships. But since I have been summoned to hear by my friend John Seward, I have known so many good people and seen such nobility that I feel more than ever.  Believe me, then, that I come here full of respect for you, and you have given me hope—hope, not in what I am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life happy—good women whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may hear be of some use to you, for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do all for him that I can, all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy one. Now you must eat! You are overwrought, and perhaps over-anxious. Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale, and what he not like where he love is not to his good. Therefore, for his sake, you must eat and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it lest it distress. I shall stay and exit her to-night, for I want to think much over what you have told me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now. Afterwards you shall tell me all. After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room he said to me, and now tell me all about him. When it came to speaking to this great learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman.  I have been since yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt. You must be kind to me, and not think me foolish, that I have even half-believed some very strange things. He reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said, Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep an open mind, and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane. Thank you, thank you a thousand times. You have taken a weight off my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble, and Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that happened. I dare not say anything of it. You will read for yourself, and judge, and then when I see you, perhaps you will be very kind, and tell me what you think. I promise, he said, as I gave him the papers. I shall in the morning, so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may. Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch with us, and see him then. You could catch the quick three-thirty-four train, which will leave you at Paddington before eight. He was surprised at my knowledge of the trains offhand, but he does not know that I have made up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in case he is in a hurry. So he took the papers with him, and went away, and I sit here thinking, thinking I don't know what. Let her, by hand, van Helsing to Mrs. Harker, twenty-fifth of September, six o'clock. Dear Madam Mina, I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep without doubt, strange and terrible as it is, it is true. I will pledge my life on it. It may be worse for others, but for him and you there is no dread. He is a noble fellow, and let me tell you from experience of men that one who would do as he did in going down that wall, and to that room. I, and going a second time, is not one to be injured in permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right. This, I swear, before I have even seen him. So be at rest. I shall have much to ask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for I have learned all at once so much that again I am dazzle, dazzle more than ever, and I must think. Here's the most faithful. Abraham Van Helsing. Letter, Mrs. Harker, to Van Helsing, 25th of September, six thirty p.m. My dear Dr. Van Helsing, a thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the six twenty-fifths to-night from Launceton, and will be here to-night at ten and eighteen, so that I shall have no fear to-night. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock, if this be not too early for you? You can get away if you are in a hurry by the ten-thirty train, which will bring you to Paddington by two-thirty-five. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not hear, you will come to breakfast. Believe me, your faithful and grateful friend, Nina Harker. Jonathan Harker's Journal. 26th of September. I never thought to write in this diary again, but the time has come. When I got home last night, Nina had supp'er ready, and when we had supp'd, she told me of Van Helsing's visit, and of her having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me. She showed me in the doctor's letter that all I wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design getting to London. And it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what Nina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Nina is dressing, and I shall call at the hotel in a few minutes, and bring him over. He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my face round to the light, and said after a sharp scrutiny, But Madam Nina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock. It was so funny to hear my wife called Madam Nina by this kindly strong-faced old man. I smiled and said, I was ill, I have had a shock, but you have cured me already. And how? By your letter to Nina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know what to do, and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I distrusted myself. Doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt everything, even yourself. No, you don't. You couldn't, with eyebrows like yours. He seemed pleased, and laughed, as he said. So, you are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast.  I would listen to him go on praising Nina for a day, so I simply nodded, and stood silent. She is one of God's women, fashioned by his own hand, to show us men and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little and egoist, and that, let me tell you, is much in this age so sceptical and selfish. And you, sir, I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from the knowing of others, but I have seen your true self since last night. You will give me your hand, will you not, and let us be friends for all our lives. We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite jokey. And now, he said, may I ask you for some more help? I have a great task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here. Can you tell me what went before you are going to Transylvania? Later on I may ask more help, and of a different kind. But at first this will do. Look here, sir, I said. Does what you have to do concern the count? It does, he said solemnly. Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the ten-thirty train you will not have time to read them, but I shall get the bundle of papers. You can take them with you and read them in the train. After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he said, Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take madam Mina too. We shall both come when you will, I said. I had got him the morning papers, and the London papers of the previous night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the train to start, he was turning them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to catch something in one of them. The Westminster Gazette. I knew it by the colour. And he grew quite white. He read something intently, groaning to himself. Mine got, mine got, so soon, so soon. I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just then the whistle blew, and the train moved off. This recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out, Love to madam Mina, I shall write so soon as ever I can. Dr. Seward's Diary. 26th of September. Truly there is no such thing as finality, not a week since I said Phine, and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather going on with the same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business, and he had just started in the spider-line also, so he had not been of any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincy Morris is with him, and that is much of a help for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. Quincy wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy. So as to them all, my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming sycotrized. Everything is, however, now reopened, and what is to be the end God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to Exeter yesterday and stayed there all night. Today he came back, and almost bounded into the room at about half past five o'clock, and thrust last night's Westminster Gazette into my hand. What do you think of that? he asked, as he stood back and folded his arms. I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant, but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me until I reached the passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. An idea struck me and I looked up. Well, he said. It is like poor Lucy's. And what do you make of it? Simply that there is some cause in common, whatever it was that injured her has injured them. I did not quite understand his answer. That is, drew indirectly, but not directly. How do you mean, Professor? I asked. I was a little inclined to take his seriousness lightly, for after all four days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one's spirits. But when I saw his face it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern. Tell me, I said. I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture. Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to what poor Lucy died of, not after all the hints given, not only by events but by me? Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood. And how the blood lost or waste? I shook my head. He stepped over and sat down beside me and went on. You are clever, man, friend John.  You do not let your eyes see, nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are, that some people see things that others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by man's eyes, because they know, or think they know, some things which other men have told them. It is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all, and if it explained not, then it says there is nothing to explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs which think themselves new, and which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young, like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do not believe in corporeal transference? No. Nor in materialization. No. Nor in astral bodies. No. Nor in the reading of thought. No. Nor in hypnotism. Yes, I said. Charcot has proved that pretty well. He smiled as he went on. Then you are satisfied as to it, yes? And, of course, then you understand how it acts and can follow the mind of the great Charcot, alas that he is no more into the very soul of the patient that he influence? No. Then friend John, am I to take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a blank? No. Then tell me, for I am student of the brain, how you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done today in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered electricity, who would themselves not so long before have been burned as wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, an old par one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins, could not live even one day? For had she lived one more day we could save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy, and can say wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men and not in others? Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church, and grew and grew till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps?  Good God, Professor, I said, starting up, do you mean to tell me that Lucy was bitten by such a bat, and that such a thing is here in London in the nineteenth century? He waved his hand for silence and went on. Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of men? Why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties? And why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint? Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are some few who live on always if they be permit? That there are men and women who cannot die?  Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die and have been buried and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again? And then men come and take away the unbroken seal, and that there lie the Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before. Here I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered. He so crowded on my mind his list of nature's eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my imagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam, but he used then to tell me the thing so that I could have the object of thought in mind all the time. But now I was without this help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I said, Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in my mind from point to point as a madman, and not a sane one follows an idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a mist, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without knowing where I am going. That is a good image, he said. Well, I shall tell you, my thesis is this. I want you to believe. To believe what? To believe in things you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once of an American who so defined faith. That faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue. For one I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth first. Good, we keep him, and we value him. But all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in the universe. Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read your lesson a right? Ah, you are my favourite people still. It is worth to teach you. Now that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to understand. You think, then, that those so small holes in the children's throats were made by the same that made the hole in Miss Lucy? I suppose so. He stood up and said solemnly. Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so, but alas no. It is worse. Far, far worse. In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean? I cried. He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair and placed his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke. They were made by Miss Lucy. For a while sheer anger mastered me. It was as if he had during her life struck Lucy on the face. I smoked the table hard and rose up as I said to him. Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad? He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once. Would I were, he said. Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my friend, why, thank you, did I go so far round? Why take so long to tell you so simple a thing?  Was it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted, now so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life and from a fearful death? Ah, no. Forgive me, I said. He went on. My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the breaking to you, for I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But even yet I do not expect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at once any abstract truth that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always believed the know of it. It is more hard still to accept so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. Tonight I go to prove it. Dare you come with me? This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth. Byron accepted from the category Jealousy. And prove the very truth he most abhorred. He saw my hesitation and spoke. The logic is simple. No madman's logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock in a misky bog. If it be not true, then proof will be relief. At worst it will not harm. If it be true, ah, there is the dread. Yet very dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief. Come, I tell you what I propose. First, that we go off now and see that child in the hospital. Dr. Vincent of the North Hospital, where the papers say the child is, is a friend of mine, and I think of yours, since you were in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he will not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we wish to learn. And then... And then... He took a key from his pocket, and held it up. And then we spend the night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is the key that locked the tomb. I had it from the coffin-man to give to Arthur. My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful ordeal before us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what heart I could, and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was passing. We found the child awake. It had had asleep and taken some food, and altogether was going on well. Dr. Vincent took the bandage from its throat, and showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the similarity to those which had been on Lucy's throat. They were smaller, and the edges looked fresher. That was all. We asked Vincent to what he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of some animal, perhaps a rat, but for his own part he was inclined to think it was one of the bats, which are so numerous on the northern heights of London. Out of so many harmless ones, he said, there may be some wild specimen from the south of a more malignant species. Some sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to escape. Or even from the zoological gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred there from a vampire. These things do occur, you know. Only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, I believe, traced up in this direction. For a week after the children were playing nothing but red writing-hood on the heath, and in every alley in the place until this blufer-lady scare came along, since when it has been quite a gallot-time with them. Even this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked the nurse if he might go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted to play with a blufer-lady. I hope, said Vincent Helsing, that when you are sending the child home you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies to stray are most dangerous, and if the child were to remain out another night it would probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will not let it away for some days. Certainly not. Not for a week at least. Longer if the wound is not healed. Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and the sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it was, he said, There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way. We dined at Jack Straw's Castle, along with a little crowd of bicyclists, and others who were genially noisy. About ten o'clock we started from the inn. It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual radius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he went on, unhesitatingly, but as for me I was in quite a mix-up as to locality. As we went further we met fewer and fewer people, till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse-police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little difficulty, for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us, we found the western round tomb. The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door, and, standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to proceed him. There was a delicious irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. My companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door, too, after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring one. In the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. Then he fumbled in his bag, and, taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light. The tomb in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough, but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust, and their greens to browns, when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance, when time discoloured stone, and dust encrusted mortar, and rusty dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been imagined. It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life, animal life, was not the only thing which could pass away. Van Helsing went about his work systematically, holding his candle so that he could read the coffin-plates, and so holding it that the sperm dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal. He made assurance of Lucy's coffin. Another search in his bag, and he took out a turn-screw. What are you going to do, I ask? To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced. Straight away he began taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the casing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too much for me. It seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have stripped off her clothing in her sleep, whilst living. I actually took hold of his hand to stop him.  Striking the turn-screw through the lead with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point of the saw. I had expected a rush of gas from the weak old corpse. We doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed to such things, and I drew back towards the door. But the Professor never stopped for a moment. He sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking the edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the coffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned me to look. I drew near, and looked. The coffin was empty. It was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but Van Helsing was unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground, and so emboldened to proceed in his task. Are you satisfied now, friend John? he asked. I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me, as I answered him. I am satisfied that Lucy's body is not in that coffin, but that only proves one thing. And what is that, friend John? That it is not there. That is good logic, he said, so far as it goes. But how do you—how can you—account for it not being there? Perhaps a body snatcher, I suggested. Some of the undertaker's people may have stolen it. I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet it was the only real cause which I could suggest. The Professor sighed. Ah, well, he said. We must have more proof. Come with me. He put on the coffin lid again, gathered up all his things, and placed them in the bag, blew out his light, and placed the candle also in the bag. We opened the door and went out. Behind us he closed the door and locked it. He handed me the key, saying, Will you keep it? You had better be assured. I laughed. It was not a very cheerful laugh, I am bound to say. As I motioned him to keep it. A key is nothing, I said. There may be duplicates, and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of that kind. He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he told me to watch at one side of the churchyard, whilst he would watch at the other. I took up my place behind a yew-tree, and I saw his dark figure move, until the intervening headstones and trees hit it from my sight. It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a distant clock strike twelve, and in time came one, and two. I was chilled and unnerved, and angry with the Professor for taking me on such an errand, and with myself for coming. I was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust, so altogether I had a dreary, miserable time. Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white streak moving between two dark yew-trees at the side of the churchyard farthest from the tomb. At the same time a dark mass moved from the Professor's side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I too moved, but I had to go round headstones and railed off tombs, and I stumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and somewhere far off, an early cock-crew. A little way off, beyond a line of scattered juniper trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white, dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The tomb itself was hidden by trees, and I could not see where the figure disappeared. I heard the rustle of actual movement, where I had first seen the white figure, and, coming over, found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny child. When he saw me, he held it out to me, and said, Are you satisfied now? No, I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive. Do you not see the child? Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded? I asked. We shall see, said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child. When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child's throat. It was without a scratch or scar of any kind. Was I right? I asked triumphantly. We were just in time, said the Professor, thankfully. We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted about it. If we were to take it to a police station, we should have to give some account of our movements during the night. At least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we had come to find the child. So finally we decided that we would take it to the Heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, we would leave it where he could not fail to find it. We would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. All fell out well. At the edge of Hampstead Heath we heard a policeman's heavy tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. We heard his exclamation of astonishment, and then we went away silently. By good chance we got a cab near the Spaniards, and drove to town. I cannot sleep, so I make this entry, but I must try to get a few hours' sleep as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists that I shall go with him on another expedition. 27th of September. It was two o'clock before we found a suitable opportunity for our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all completed, and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of alder trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him. We knew then that we were safe till morning did we desire it, but the Professor told me that we should not want more than an hour at most. Again I felt that horrid sense of the reality of things in which any effort of imagination seemed out of place, and I realized distinctly the perils of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was also useless. Outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty. I shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for Van Helsing had a way of going on his own road, no matter who remonstrated. He took the key, opened the vault, and again courteously motioned me to proceed. The place was not so gruesome as last night, but oh how unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine streamed in. Van Helsing walked over to Lucy's coffin, and I followed. He bent over, and again forced back the leaden flange, and then a shock of surprise and dismay shot through me. There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever, and I could not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay, redder than before, and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom. "'Is this a juggle?' I said to him. "'Are you convinced now?' said the professor in response, and as he spoke he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the dead lips and showed the white teeth. "'See,' he went on, "'see, they are even sharper than before, with this and this.' And he touched one of the canine teeth, and that below it. The little children can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend John?' Once more argumentative hostility woke within me. I could not accept such an overwhelming idea as he suggested, so with an attempt to argue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said, "'She may have been placed here since last night.'" Indeed, that is so, and by whom? I do not know. Someone has done it. And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would not look so. I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not seem to notice my silence. At any rate, he showed neither sugar and nor triumph. He was looking intently at the face of the dead woman, raising the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and examining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said, "'Here there is one thing which is different from all recorded. Here is some dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the vampire when she was in a trance. Sleepwalking.' "'Oh, you start. You do not know that, friend John, but you shall know it all later. And in trance could he best come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in trance she is undead too. So it is that she differ from all other, usually when the undead sleep at home.' As he spoke, he made a comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was, home. Their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was when she not undead, she go back to the nothings of the common dead. There is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that I must kill her in her sleep.  But if she were really dead, what was there of terror in the idea of killing her? He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he said almost joyously, "'Ah, you believe now?' I answered, "'Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to accept.   It made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the woman whom I had loved. And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had expected. I was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of this being, this undead, as Van Helsing called it, and to loat it. Is it possible that love is all subjective, or all objective? I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as if wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with a snap, and said, I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. If I did simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment, what is to be done. But there are other things to follow, and things that are a thousand times more difficult, in that then we do not know. This is simple. She have yet no life taken, though that is of time, and to act now would be to take danger from her for ever. But then we may have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If you, who saw the wounds on Lucy's throat, and saw the wounds so similar on the childs at the hospital, if you, who saw the coffin empty last night, and full to-day, with a woman who have not changed, only to be more rose, and more beautiful in a whole week after she died. If you know of this, and know of the white figure last night, that brought the child to the churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can I expect Arthur, who know none of those things, to believe? He doubted me when I took him from her kiss, when she was dying. I know he has forgiven me, because in some mistaken idea I have done things that prevent him say goodbye as he ought, and he may think that in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive, and that in most mistake of all we have killed her. He will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that have killed her by our ideas, and so he will be much unhappy always. Yet he never can be sure, and that is the worst of all. And he will sometimes think that she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she must have suffered, and again he will think that we may be right, and so his so beloved was after all an undead. No, I told him once, and since then I learned much. Now, since I know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do I know that he must pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow, must have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him. Then we can act for good all round, and send him peace.  Let us go. You return home for to-night to your asylum, and see that all be well. As for me, I shall spend the night here in this churchyard in my own way. To-morrow night you will come to me to the Berkeley Hotel at ten o'clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too, and also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we shall all have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly, and there dine, for I must be back here before the sunset. So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to Piccadilly. Note, left by Van Helsing in his portmanteau, Berkeley Hotel directed to John Seward M.D. Not delivered. Twenty-seventh of September. Friend John, I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to watch in that churchyard. It pleases me that the undead Miss Lucy shall not leave to-night, that so on the morrow night she may be more eager. Therefore I shall fix some things she not like, garlic and a crucifix, and so seal up the door of the tomb. She is young as undead, and will heed. Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out. They may not prevail on her wanting to get in, for then the undead is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance, whatsoever it may be. I shall be at hand all the night from sunset till after the sunrise, and if there be ought that may be learned, I shall learn it. For Miss Lucy, or from her, I have no fear. But that other to whom is there that she is undead, he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter. He is cunning, as I know from Mr. Jonathan, and from the way that all along he have fooled us when he played with us for Miss Lucy's life, and we lost, and in many ways the undead are strong. He have always the strength in his hand of twenty men, even we four who give our strength to Miss Lucy, it also is all to him. Besides, he can summon his wolf, and I know not what. So if it be that he come there on this night, he shall find me, but none other shall, until it be too late. But it may be that he will not attempt the place. There is no reason why he should. His hunting-ground is more full of game than the churchyard, where the undead women sleep, and the one old man watch. Therefore I write this in case. Take the papers that are with this, the diaries of Parker and the rest, and read them, and then find this great undead, and cut off his head, and burn his heart, or drive a stake through it, so that the world may rest from him. If it be so, fare well. Van Helsing. Dr. Seward's Diary. 28th of September. It is wonderful what a good night's sleep will do for one. Yesterday I was almost willing to accept Van Helsing's monstrous ideas, but now they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on common sense. I have no doubt that he believes it all. I wonder if his mind can have become in any way unhinged. Surely there must be some rational explanation of all these mysterious things. Is it possible that the Professor can have done it himself? He is so abnormally clever that if he went off his head he would carry out his intent with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful way. I am loath to think it, and indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the other to find that Van Helsing was mad, but anyhow I shall watch him carefully. I may get some light on the mystery. 29th of September. Morning. Last night, at a little before ten o'clock, Arthur and Quincy came into Van Helsing's room. He told us all that he wanted to do, but especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all our wills were centred in his. He began by saying that he hoped we would all come with him too, for, he said, there is a grave duty to be done there. You were doubtless surprised at my letter. This query was directly addressed to Lord Godalming. I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble around my house of late that I could do without any more. I have been curious too as to what you mean. Quincy and I talked it over, but the more we talked, the more puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself that I am about up a tree as to any meaning about anything. Me too, said Quincy Morris laconically. Oh, said the Professor, then you are nearer the beginning, both of you, than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he can even get so far as to begin. It was evident that he recognized my return to my old doubting frame of mind without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he said with intense gravity, I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I know, much to ask, and when you know what it is I propose to do, you will know, and only then, how much. Therefore, may I ask that you promise me in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a time, I must not disguise from myself the possibility that such may be. You shall not blame yourselves for anything. That's Frank anyhow, broke in Quincy. I'll answer for the Professor. I don't quite see his drift, but I swear he's honest, and that's good enough for me. I thank you, sir, said Van Helsing proudly. I have done myself the honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear to me. He held out a hand, which Quincy took. Then Arthur spoke out. Dr. Van Helsing, I don't quite like to buy a pig in a poke, as they say in Scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a gentleman or my faith as a Christian is concerned, I cannot make such a promise. If you can assure me that what you intend does not violate either of these two, then I give my consent at once, though for the life of me I cannot understand what you are driving at. I accept your limitation, said Van Helsing, and all I ask of you is that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first consider it well, and be satisfied that it does not violate your reservations. Agreed, said Arthur, that is only fair, and now that the paupallaires are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?  Arthur's face fell, as he said, in an amazed sort of way. Where poor Lucy is buried? The Professor bowed. Arthur went on. And when there? To enter the tomb. Arthur stood up.  Pardon me, I see that you are an earnest. He sat down again, but I could see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. There was silence until he asked again. And when in the tomb? To open the coffin. This is too much, he said, rising angrily again. I am willing to be patient in all things that are reasonable, but in this, this desecration of the grave, of one who? He fairly choked with indignation. The Professor looked pityingly at him. If I could spare you one pang, my poor friend, he said, God knows I would, but this night our feet must tread in thorny paths, or later, and for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame.  Would it not be well to hear what I have to say, said Van Helsing, and then you will at least know the limit of my purpose? Shall I go on? That's fair enough, broken Morris. After a pause Van Helsing met on, evidently with an effort. Miss Lucy is dead, is it not so? Yes, then there can be no wrong to her, but if she be not dead. Arthur jumped to his feet. Good God! he cried. What do you mean? Has there been any mistake? Has she been buried alive? He groaned in anguish that not even hope could soften. I did not say she was alive, my child. I did not think it. I go no further than to say that she might be undead. Undead? Not alive? What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare or what is it? There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of one, but I have not done.  Heavens and earth know, cried Arthur, in a storm of passion, not for the wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr. Van Helsing, you try me too far. What have I done to you that you should torture me so? What did that poor sweet girl do that you should want to cast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad that speak such things? Or am I mad to listen to them? Don't dare to think more of such a desecration. I shall not give my consent to anything you do. I have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage, and by God I shall do it. Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and said, gravely and sternly, My Lord Godalming, I too have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead, and by God I shall do it. All I ask you now is that you come with me, that you look and listen, and if, when later I make the same request, you do not be more eager for its fulfilment even than I am, then—then I shall do my duty, whatever it may seem to me, and then, to follow of your Lordship's wishes, I shall hold myself at your disposal, to render an account to you when and where you will.  But, I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me, in a long life of acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did ring my heart, I have never had so heavy a task as now. Believe me, that if the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one look from you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what a man can to save you from sorrow. Just think, for why should I give myself so much of labour, and so much of sorrow? I have come here from my own land, to do what I can of good, at the first to please my friend John, and then to help a sweet young lady, whom, too, I came to love. For her, I am ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness. I gave what you gave, the blood of my veins.  I gave to her my nights and days, before death, after death, and if my death can do her good even now, when she is the dead, undead, she shall have it freely. He said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much affected by it. He took the old man's hand and said in a broken voice, Oh, it is hard to think of it, and I cannot understand, but at least I shall go with you, and wait. CHAPTER XVI It was just a quarter before twelve o'clock when we got into the churchyard over the low wall. The night was dark, with occasional gleams of moonlight between the rents of the heavy clouds that scutted across the sky. We all kept somehow close together, with Van Helsing slightly in front as he led the way. When we had come close to the tomb I looked well at Arthur, for I feared that the proximity to a place laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him, but he bore himself well. I took it that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some way a counteractant to his grief. The professor unlocked the door, and seeing a natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the difficulty by entering first himself. The rest of us followed, and he closed the door. He then lit a dark lantern, and pointed to the coffin. Arthur stepped forward hesitatingly. Van Helsing said to me, You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that coffin? It was. The professor turned to the rest, saying, You here, and yet there is no one who does not believe with me. He took his screwdriver, and again took off the lid of the coffin. Arthur looked on, very pale, but silent. When the lid was removed he stepped forward. He evidently did not know that there was a lead in coffin, or at any rate had not thought of it. When he saw the rent in the lid the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away again so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness. He was still silent. Van Helsing forced back the lead in flange, and we all looked in, and recoiled. The coffin was empty. For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by Quincy Morris. Professor, I answered for you.  I wouldn't ask such a thing ordinarily. I wouldn't so dishonour you as to imply a doubt, but this is a mystery that goes beyond any honour or dishonour. Is this your doing? I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed nor touched her. What happened was this. Two nights ago my friend Seward and I came here, with good purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin, which was then sealed up, and we found it as now empty. We then waited, and saw something white come through the trees. The next day we came here in daytime, and she lay there. Did she not, friend John? Yes. That night we were just in time. One more so small child was missing, and we find it, thank God, unharmed, amongst the graves. Yesterday I came here before sundown, for at sundown the undead can move. I waited here all the night till the sun rose, but I saw nothing. It was most probable that it was because I had laid over the clamps of those doors garlic, which the undead cannot bear, and other things which they shun. Last night there was no exodus, so to night before the sundown I took away my garlic and other things. And so it is we find this coffin empty, but bear with me. So far there is much that is strange. Wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be.  Now to the outside. He opened the door, and we filed out, he coming last, and locking the door behind him. Oh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of that vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds raced by, and the passing gleams of the moonlight between the scutting clouds crossing and passing, like the gladness and sorrow of a man's life! How sweet it was to breathe the fresh air that had no taint of death and decay! How humanizing to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city! Each in his own way was solemn and overcome. Arthur was silent, and was, I could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the mystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to throw aside doubt and to accept van Helsing's conclusions. Quincy Morris was fligmatic in the way of a man who accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery, with hazard of all he has to stake. Not being able to smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of tobacco, and began to chew. As to van Helsing, he was employed in a definite way. First he took from his bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white napkin. Next he took out a double handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. He crumbled the wafer up fine, and worked it into the mass between his hands. This he then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb. I was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close asked him what it was that he was doing. Arthur and Quincy drew near also, as they too were curious. He answered, I am closing the tomb, so that the undead may not enter. And is that stuff you have put there going to do it? asked Quincy. Great Scott, is this a game? It is. What is that which you are using? This time the question was by Arthur. Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered. The host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an indulgence. It was an answer that appalled the most skeptical of us, and we felt individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the professors, a purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was impossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took the places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any one approaching. I pitied the others, especially Arthur. I had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching horror, and yet I, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white. Never did Cyprus, or you, or Juniper so seem the embodiment of funerial gloom. Never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously.  There was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and then from the professor a keen sssss. He pointed, and far down the avenue of views we saw a white figure advance, a dim white figure, which held something dark at its breast. The figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds, and showed in startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the seriments of the grave. We could not see the face, for it was bent down over what we saw to be a fair-haired child.  We were starting forward, but the professor's warning hand, seen by us as he stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back, and then as we looked the white figure moved forwards again. It was now near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice, and I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as we recognized the features of Lucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet, how changed? The sweetness was turned to adamantine heartless cruelty and the purity to voluptuous wantonness. Van Helsing stepped out, and, obedient to his gesture, we all advanced too, the four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. Van Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide, by the concentrated light that fell on Lucy's face, we could see that the lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her chin, and stained the purity of her long death-robe. We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that even Van Helsing's iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and if I had not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen. When Lucy—I called the thing that was before us Lucy, because it bore her shape—saw us, she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken unawares. Then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy's eyes in form and colour, but Lucy's eyes unclean and full of hellfire, instead of the pure gentle orbs that we knew. At that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing. Had she then to be killed, I could have done it with savage delight.  Oh, God! how it made me shudder to see it! With a careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls over a bone.  There was a cold bloodedness in the act which rung a groan from Arthur. When she advanced to him without stretched arms and a wanton smile, he fell back and hid his face in his hands. She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace said, Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband. Come. There was something diabolically sweet in her tones, something of the tingling of glass when struck, which rang through the brains even of us who heard the words addressed to another. As for Arthur, he seemed under a spell. Moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his arms. She was leaping for them, when Van Helsing sprang forward and held between them his little golden crucifix. She recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb. When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if arrested by some irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face was shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no quiver from Van Helsing's iron nerves. Never did I see such baffled malice on a face, and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen again by mortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw out sparks of hellfire, the brows were wrinkled, as though the folds of the flesh were the coils of Medusa's snakes, and the lovely blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of the Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death, if looks could kill, we saw it at that moment. And so, for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of entry. Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur. Answer me, oh my friend, am I to proceed in my work? Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands as he answered, Do as you will, friend, do as you will, there can be no horror like this ever, any more. And he groaned in spirit. Quincy and I simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. We could hear the click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it down. Coming close to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred emblem which he had placed there. We all looked on in horrified amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our own, pass in through the interstice where scarce a knife-blade could have gone. We all felt a glad sense of relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the strings of putty to the edges of the door. When this was done, he lifted the child and said, Come now, my friends, we can do no more till to-morrow. There is a funeral at noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. The friends of the dead will all be gone by to, and when the sexton lock the gate, we shall remain. Then there is more to do, but not like this of to-night. As for this little one, he is not much harm, and by to-morrow night he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police will find him, as on the other night, and then to home. Coming close to Arthur, he said, My friend Arthur, you have had a sore trial, but after, when you look back, you will see how it was necessary. You are now in the bitter waters, my child. By this time to-morrow you will, please God, have passed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters, so do not mourn over much. Till then I shall not ask you to forgive me. Arthur and Quincy came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other on the way. We had left the child in safety, and were tired, so we all slept with more or less reality of sleep. 29th of September. Night. A little before twelve o'clock, we three, Arthur, Quincy Morris, and myself, called for the Professor. It was odd to notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of course Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct. We got to the churchyard by half-past one, and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the gravediggers had completed their task, and at the sexton, under the belief that everyone had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to ourselves.  It was manifestly of fair weight. When we were alone, and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the Professor to the tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us. Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient to work by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy's coffin we all looked. Arthur trembling like an aspen, and saw that the body lay there in all its death-beauty. But there was no love in my own heart, nothing but loathing for the foul thing which had taken Lucy's shape without her soul. I could see even Arthur's face grow hard as he looked. Presently, he said to Van Helsing, Is this really Lucy's body, or only a demon in her shape? It is her body, and yet not it, but wait a while, and you all see her as she was, and is. She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there, the pointed teeth, the bloodstained voluptuous mouth, which it made one shudder to see, the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance seeming like a devilish muckery of Lucy's sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and placing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and some plumbing solder, and then a small oil lamp, which gave out, when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue flame, then his operating knives, which he placed to hand, and last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick, and about three feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring it in the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households is used in the coal cellar for breaking the lumps. To me, a doctor's preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur and Quincy was to cause them a sort of consternation. They both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet. When all was ready Van Helsing said, Before we do anything let me tell you this. It is out of the lore and experience of the ancients, and of all those who have studied the powers of the undead. When they become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality. They cannot die, but must go on, age after age, adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world. For all that die from the praying of the undead become themselves undead, and pray on their kind. And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which you know of before poor Lucy died, or again, last night when you opened your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died, have become Nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would all time make more of those undeads that so have filled us with horror. The career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun.  But if she die in truth, then all cease. The tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their place, unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when this now undead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by night, and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by day, she shall take her place with the other angels. So that, my friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free. To this I am willing. But is there none amongst us who has a better right? Will it be no joy to think of her after in the silence of the night when sleep is not? It was my hand that sent her to the stars. It was the hand of him that loved her best, the hand that of all she would herself have chosen had it been to her to choose.  We all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore Lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy memory. He stepped forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as snow. My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not falter. Then Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder and said, Brave lad, a moment's courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through her. It will be a fearful ordeal. Be not deceived in that. But it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great. From this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun.  Go on, said Arthur Horsley. Tell me what I am to do. Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the heart, and the hammer in your right. Then, when we begin our prayer for the dead, I shall read him, I have here the book, and the other shall follow. Strike in God's name, so that all may be well with the dead that we love, and that the undead pass away. Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on action, his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened his missile and began to read, and Quincy and I followed as well as we could. Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might. The thing in the coffin writhed, and a hideous blood curdling screech came from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions. The sharp white teeth champed together till the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his untrumbling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. His face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it. The sight of it gave us courage, so that our voices seemed to ring through the little vault. And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the teeth seemed to chump, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The terrible task was over. The hammer fell from Arthur's hand. He reeled and would have fallen had we not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead and his breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain on him, and had he not been forced to his task by more than human considerations he could never have gone through with it. For a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that Arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked too, and then a glad strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of horror that lay upon it. There, in the coffin, lay no longer the foul thing that we had so dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy, as we had seen her in her life, with her face of unequaled sweetness and purity. True that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and pain and waste, but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth to what we knew.  Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder and said to him, And now, Arthur, my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven? The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man's hand in his, and raising it to his lips pressed it, and said, Forgiven! God bless you, that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me peace. He put his hands on the professor's shoulder and laying his head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood unmoving. When he raised his head, Van Helsing said to him, And now, my child, you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips, if you will, as she would have you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning devil now, not any more a foul thing for all eternity. No longer is she the devil's undead. She is God's true dead, whose soul is with him. Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincy out of the tomb. The professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body.   When the professor locked the door he gave the key to Arthur. Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. It was gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy. Before we moved away Van Helsing said, Now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves, but there remains a greater task, to find out the author of all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. I have clues which we can follow, but it is a long task and a difficult, and there is danger in it and pain. Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all of us, is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes, and do we not promise to go on to the bitter end? Each in turn we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said the professor as we moved off. Two nights hence you shall meet with me, and dine together at seven o'clock with friend John. I shall entreat two others, two that you know not as yet, and I shall be ready to all our work show and our plans unfold. Friend John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult about and you can help me. After night I leave for Amsterdam, but shall return tomorrow night, and then begins our great quest. But first I shall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread. Then our promise shall be made to each other anew, for there is a terrible task before us, and once our feet are on the plow-share, we must not draw back. CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVII Dr. Seward's Diary continued. When we arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram waiting for him. I am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news. Mina Harker. The Professor was delighted. Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina, he say. Pearl among women. She arrived, but I cannot stay. She must go to your house, friend John. You must meet her at the station. Telegraph her en route, so that she may be prepared. When the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea. Over it he told me of a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker's diary at Whitby. With these, he said, and study them well. When I have returned you will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter on our inquisition. Keep them safe, for there is in them much of treasure. You will need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience as that of today. What is here told? He laid his hand heavily and gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke. May be the beginning of the end to you and me and many another. Or it may sound the knell of the undead who walk the earth. Read all I pray you with the open mind, and if you can add in any way to the story here told, do so, for it is all important. You have kept diary of all these so strange things. Is it not so? Yes. Then we shall go through all these together when we meet. He then made ready for his departure, and shortly after drove off to Liverpool Street. I took my way to Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in. The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival platforms, and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty-looking girl stepped up to me, and, after a quick glance, said, Dr. Seward, is it not? And you are Mrs. Harker, I answered at once, whereupon she held at her hand. I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy, but—she stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face. The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow sent us both at ease, for it was a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a typewriter, and we took the underground to Venturet Street, after I had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting-room and bedroom prepared at once for Mrs. Harker. In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a shutter when we entered. She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as she had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my phonograph diary, whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the chance of looking at the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they lie open before me. I must get her interested in something, so that I may have an opportunity of reading them. She does not know how precious time is or what a task we have in hand. I must be careful not to frighten her. Here she is. Mina Harker's Journal. 29th of September. After I had tidied myself I went down to Dr. Seward's study. At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him talking with someone. As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I knocked at the door, and on his calling out to come in, I entered. To my intense surprise there was no one with him. He was quite alone, and on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the description to be a phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much interested. I hoped I did not keep you waiting, I said, but I stayed at the door as I heard you talking, and thought there was someone with you. Oh! he replied with a smile. I was only entering my diary. Your diary? I asked him in surprise. Yes, he answered. I keep it in this. As he spoke he laid his hand on the phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted out, Why, this beat's even shorthand. May I hear it say something? He replied with a lacquerty, and stood up to put it in the train for speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face. The fact is, he began awkwardly, I only keep my diary in it, and as it is entirely, almost entirely, about my cases, it may be awkward, that is, I mean, he stopped, and I tried to help him out of his embarrassment. You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died. For all that I know of her I shall be very grateful. She was very, very dear to me. To my surprise he answered, with a horror-struck look on his face. Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world. Why not, I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me. Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an excuse. At length he stammered out. You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular part of the diary. Even while he was speaking, an idea dawned upon him, and he said with unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naivete of a child. That's quite true, upon my honour, honest Indian. I could not but smile, at which he grimaced. I gave myself away that time, he said. But do you know that, although I have kept the diary for months past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any particular part of it, in case I wanted to look it up. By this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor who attended Lucy might have something to add to the sum of our knowledge of that terrible being. And I said boldly, and Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my typewriter. He grew to a positively deftly pallor, as he said. No, no, no, for all the world I wouldn't let you know that terrible story. Then it was terrible. My intuition was right. For a moment I thought, and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of typewriting on the table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and without his thinking followed their direction. As they saw the parcel he realized my meaning. You do not know me, I said. When you have read those papers, my own diary, and my husband's also, which I have typed, you will know me better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in this cause. But, of course, you do not know me, yet, and I must not expect you to trust me so far. He is certainly a man of noble nature. Poor dear Lucy was right about him. He stood up and opened a large drawer in which were arranged in order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and said, You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know you. But I know you now, and let me say that I should have known you long ago. I know that Lucy told you of me.  May I make the only atonement in my power, take the cylinders, and hear them. The first half dozen of them are personal to me, and they will not horrify you. Then you will know me better. Dinner will by then be ready. In the meantime, I shall read over some of these documents, and shall be better able to understand certain things. He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting-room and adjusted it for me. Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am sure, for it will tell me the other side of a true love episode, of which I know one side already. Dr. Seward's Diary. 29th of September. I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan Harker, and that other of his wife, that I let the time run on without thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to announce dinner, so I said, She is possibly tired. Let dinner wait an hour, and I went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs. Harker's diary when she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her eyes were flushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I have had cause for tears, God knows, but the relief of them was denied me, and now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened with recent tears, went straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could. I greatly fear I have distressed you. Oh no, not distressed me, she replied, but I have been more touched than I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine, but it is cruelly true. It told me in its very tones the anguish of your heart. It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken ever again. See, I have tried to be useful. I have copied out the words on my typewriter, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as I did. No one need ever know, shall ever know, I said in a low voice. She laid her hand on mine and said very gravely. Ah, but they must. Must? But why? I asked. Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor dear Lucy's death, and all that led to it. Because in the struggle which we have before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster, we must have all the knowledge and all the help which we can get. I think that the cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to know. But I can see that there are in your record many lights to this dark mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up to a certain point, and I see already, though your diary only took me to the seventh of September, how poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was being wrought out. Jonathan and I have been working day and night since Professor Van Helsing saw us. He has gone to Whitby to get more information, and he will be here to-morrow to help us. We need have no secrets amongst us. Working together, and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than if some of us were in the dark. She looked at me so appealingly, and at the same time manifested such courage and resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once to her wishes. You shall, I said, do as you like in the matter. God forgive me if I do wrong. There are terrible things yet to learn of, but if you have so far travelled on the road to poor Lucy's death, you will not be content, I know, to remain in the dark. Nay, the end, the very end, may give you a gleam of peace. Come, there is dinner. We must keep one another strong for what is before us. We have a cruel and dreadful task. When you have eaten, you shall learn the rest, and I shall answer any questions you ask, if there be anything which you do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were present. Mina Harker's Journal. 29th of September. After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He brought back the phonograph from my room, and I took my typewriter. He placed me in a comfortable chair, and arranged the phonograph so that I could touch it without getting up, and showed me how to stop it in case I should want to pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a chair, with his back to me, so that I might be as free as possible, and began to read. I put the forked metal to my ears, and listened. When the terrible story of Lucy's death, and—and all that followed, was done, I lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a fainting disposition. When Dr. Seward saw me, he jumped up with a horrified explanation, and hurriedly taking a case-bottle from a cupboard gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat restored me. My brain was all in a whorl, and only that there came through all the multitude of horrors the holy ray of light that my dear, dear Lucy was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it without making a scene. It is also wild, and mysterious, and strange, that if I had not known Jonathan's experience in Transylvania I could not have believed. As it was, I didn't know what to believe, and so got out of my difficulty by attending to something else. I took the cover off my typewriter, and said to Dr. Seward, Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing when he comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here when he arrives in London from Whitby. In this matter dates are everything, and I think that if we get all our material ready, and have every item put in chronological order, we shall have done much. You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let us be able to tell him when they come. He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I began to typewrite from the beginning of the seventh cylinder. I used manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done with all the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went about his work of going his round of the patience. When he had finished he came back and sat near me reading, so that I did not feel too lonely whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is! The world seems full of good men, even if there are monsters in it. Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the Professor's perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at the station at Exeter. So, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers, I borrowed the files of the Westminster Gazette and the Palmal Gazette, and took them to my room. I remember how much the Daily Graph and the Whitby Gazette, of which I had made cuttings, helped us to understand the terrible events at Whitby when Count Dracula landed. So I shall look through the evening papers since then, and perhaps I shall get some new light. I am not sleepy, and the work will help to keep me quiet. Dr. Seward's Diary. 30th of September. Mr. Harker arrived at nine o'clock. He had got his wife's wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can judge from his face, and full of energy. If this journal be true, and judging by one's own wonderful experiences it must be, he is also a man of great nerve. That going down to the vault a second time was a remarkable piece of daring. After reading his account of it I was prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet businesslike gentleman who came here to-day. Later. After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room, and as I passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter. They are hard at it. Mrs. Harker says that they are knitting together in chronological order every scrap of evidence they have. Harker has got the letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby, and the carriers in London who took charge of them. He is now reading his wife's type script of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it. Here it is. The letters that it never struck me that the very next house might be the Count's hiding-place. Goodness knows that we had enough clues from the conduct of the patient Renfield. The bundle of letters relating to the purchase of the house were with the type script. Oh, if we had only had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy. Stop. That way madness lies. Harker has gone back, and is again collating his material. He says that by dinner-time they will be able to show a whole connected narrative. He thinks that in the meantime I should see Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of index to the coming and going of the Count. I hardly see this yet, but when I get at the dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing that Mrs. Harker put my cylinders into type. We never could have found the dates otherwise. I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands folded, smiling benignly. At the moment he seemed as sane as any one I ever saw. I sat down and talked with him on a lot of subjects, all of which he treated naturally. He then, of his own accord, spoke of going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my knowledge during his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke quite confidently of getting his discharge at once. I believe that had I not had the chat with Harker and read the letters and the dates of his outbursts, I should have been prepared to sign for him after a brief time of observation. As it is, I am darkly suspicious. All those outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity of the Count. What, then, does this absolute content mean? Can it be that his instinct is satisfied as to the vampire's ultimate triumph? Stay. He is himself Zouophagus, and in his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the deserted house he always spoke of master. This all seems confirmation of our idea. However, after a while I came away. My friend is just a little too sane at present to make it safe to probe him too deep with questions. He might begin to think, and then. So I came away. I mistrust these quiet moods of his, so I have given the attendant a hint to look closely after him and to have a straight waist-cut ready in case of need. When I received Mr. Billington's courteous message that he would give me any information in his power, I thought it best to go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such inquiries as I wanted. It was now my object to trace that horrid cargo of the Count's to its place in London. Later we may be able to deal with it. Billington, Jr., a nice lad, met me at the station and brought me to his father's house, where they had decided that I must stay the night. They are hospitable with true Yorkshire hospitality, give a cast everything and leave him free to do as he likes. They all knew that I was busy and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had ready in his office all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes. It gave me almost a turn to see again one of the letters which I had seen on the Count's table before I knew of his diabolical plans. Everything had been carefully thought out and done systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been prepared for every obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of his intentions being carried out. To use an Americanism he had taken no chances, and the absolute accuracy with which his instructions were fulfilled was simply the logical result of his care. I saw the invoice and took note of it. Fifty cases of common earth to be used for experimental purposes. Also the copy of letter to Carter Patterson and their reply, of both of these I got copies. This was all the information Mr. Billington could give me, so I went down to the port and saw the coast guards, the customs officers, and the harbormaster. They had all something to say of the strange entry of the ship, which is already taking its place in local tradition, but no one could add to the simple description fifty cases of common earth. I then saw the stationmaster who kindly put me in communication with the men who had actually received the boxes. Their tally was exact with the list, and they had nothing to add except that the boxes were mean and mortal heavy, and that shifting them was dry work. One of them added that it was hard lines that there wasn't any gentlemen, such like as your self-squire, to show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form. Another put in a rider that the thirst then generated was such that even the time which had elapsed had not completely elated. Needless to add, I took care before leaving to Lyft, for ever and adequately, this source of reproach. 30th of September. The stationmaster was good enough to give me a line to his old companion, the stationmaster at King's Cross, so that when I arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival of the boxes. He too put me at once in communication with the proper officials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original invoice. The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here limited, and noble use of them had, however, been made, and again I was compelled to deal with the result in an ex-post-facto manner. From thence I went on to Carter Patterson's Central Office, where I met with the utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their day-book and letter-book, and at once telephoned to their King's Cross office for more details. By good fortune the men who did the teeming were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over, sending also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected with the delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I found the tally agreeing exactly. The carrier's men were able to supplement the paucity of the written words with a few details. These were, I shortly found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature of the job, and of the consequent thirst engendered in the operators. On my affording an opportunity, through the medium of the currency of the realm of the Allaying, at a later period, this beneficial evil, one of the men remarked, "'Veterhouse, Governor, is the rummiest I ever was in! Blimey! But it ain't been touched since a hundred years. It was dust that thick in the place that you might have slip on it without hurting of your bones, and the place was that neglected that you might have smelled old Jerusalem in it. But the old chapel, that took the cake, that did. Me and my mate, we thought we wouldn't never get out quick enough. Lore, I wouldn't take less nor a quid a moment to stay there at a dark. Having been in the house, I could well believe him, but if he knew what I know he would, I think, have raised his terms. Of one thing I am now satisfied, that all the boxes, which arrived at Whitby from Varna in the demeter, were safely deposited in the old chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of them there, unless any have since been removed. As from Dr. Seward's diary I fear. I shall try to see the Carter who took away the boxes from Carfax when Renfield attacked them. By following up this clue we may learn a good deal. Later. Meena and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers into order. Meena Harker's Journal. 30th of September. I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself. It is, I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which I have had, that this terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound might act detrimentally on Jonathan. I saw him leave for Whitby with as brave a face as I could, but I was sick with apprehension. The effort has, however, done him good. He was never so resolute, never so strong, never so full of volcanic energy as at present. It is just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing said.  He came back full of life and hope and determination. We have got everything in order for tonight. I feel myself quite wild with excitement. I suppose one ought to pity anything so hunted as the Count. That is just it. This thing is not human, not even beast. To read Dr. Seward's account of poor Lucy's death and what followed is enough to dry up the springs of pity in one's heart. Later. Lord Goodalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we expected. Dr. Seward was out on business and had taken Jonathan with him, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, where it brought back all poor dear Lucy's hopes of only a few months ago. Of course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van Helsing, too, has been quite blowing my trumpet, as Mr. Morris expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what to say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge, so they had to keep on neutral subjects. However I thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would be to post them in affairs right up to date. I knew from Dr. Seward's diary that they had been at Lucy's death, her real death, and that I need not fear to betray any secret before the time. So I told them, as well as I could, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and that my husband and I, having typewritten them, had just finished putting them in order. I gave them each a copy to read in the library. When Lord Goodalming got his and turned it over, it does make a pretty good pile, he said, Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker? I nodded and he went on. I don't quite see the drift of it, but you people are also good and kind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that all I can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. I have had one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man humble to the last hour of his life. Besides, I know you loved my poor Lucy.  I could hear the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the room. I suppose there is something in woman's nature that makes a man free to break down before her and express his feelings on the tender or emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his manhood. For when Lord Goodalming found himself alone with me, he sat down on the sofa and gave way utterly and openly. I sat down beside him and took his hand. I hope he didn't think it forward of me, and that if he ever thinks of it afterwards, he never will have such a thought. There I wrong him. I know he never will. He is too true a gentleman. I said to him, for I could see that his heart was breaking. I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you and what you were to her. She and I were like sisters. And now she is gone. Will you not let me be like a sister to you in your trouble? I know what sorrows you have had, though I cannot measure the depth of them. If sympathy and pity can help in your affliction, won't you let me be of some little service, for Lucy's sake? In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It seemed to me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence found event at once. He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open hands beat his palms together in a perfect agony of grief. He stood up and then sat down again and the tears rained down his cheeks. I felt an infinite pity for him and opened my arms unthinkingly.  We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above smaller matters when the mother spirit is invoked. I felt this big, sorrowing man's head resting on me, as though it were that of the baby that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he were my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all was. After a little bit his sob ceased, and he raised himself with unapology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me that for days and nights past, weary days and sleeveless nights, he had been unable to speak with anyone as a man must speak in his time of sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or with whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow was surrounded, he could speak freely. I know now how I suffered, he said, as he dried his eyes. But I do not know even yet, and none other can ever know, how much your sweet sympathy has been to me to-day. I shall know better in time, and believe me that, though I am not ungrateful now, my gratitude will grow with my understanding. You will let me be like a brother, will you not, for all our lives? For dear Lucy's sake?  I, and for your own sake, he added, for if a man's esteem and gratitude are ever worth the winning, you have won mine to-day. If ever the future should bring you to a time when you need a man's help, believe me, you will not call in vain. God grant that no such time may ever come to you to break the sunshine of your life. But if it should ever come, promise me that you will let me know. He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that I felt it would comfort him, so I said, I promise. As I came along the corridor, I saw Mr. Morris looking out of a window. He turned as he heard my footsteps. How is art? he said. Then, noticing my red eyes, he went on. Ah! I see you have been comforting him, poor old fellow, he needs it. No one but a woman can help a man when he is in trouble of the heart, and he had no one to comfort him. He bore his own trouble so bravely, that my heart bled for him. I saw the manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would realize how much I knew, so I said to him, I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will you let me be your friend, and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? You will know later on why I speak. He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and raising it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed but poor comfort to so brave and unselfish the soul, and impulsively I bent over and kissed him. The tears rose in his eyes, and there was a momentary choking in his throat. He said quite calmly, little girl, you will never regret that true hearted kindness so long as ever you live." Then he went into the study to his friend. Little girl, the very words he had used to Lucy, and, oh, but he proved himself a friend. End of Chapter 17, read by Kara Schellenberg, www.kra.org, on Thursday, July 7th, 2016, in Union City, California. CHAPTER XVIII OF DRACULA by Brahm Stoker. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER XVIII. Dr. Seward's Diary. 30th of September. I got home at five o'clock, and found that Godalming and Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the transcript of the various diaries and letters which Harker and his wonderful wife had made and arranged. Harker had not yet returned from his visit to the Carrier's Men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave us a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that, for the first time since I have lived in it, this old house seemed like home. When we had finished, Mrs. Harker said, Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr. Renfield. Do let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary interests me so much. She looked so appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and there was no possible reason why I should, so I took her with me. When I went into the room I told the man that a lady would like to see him, to which he simply answered, Why? She is going through the house and wants to see everyone in it, I answered. Oh, very well, he said, let her come in, by all means, but just wait a minute till I tidy up the place. His method of tidying was peculiar. He simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes, before I could stop him. It was quite evident that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference. When he had got through his disgusting task, he said cheerfully, Let the lady come in! and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised, so that he could see her as she entered. For a moment I thought that he might have some homicidal intent. I remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own study, and I took care to stand where I could seize him at once if he attempted to make a spring at her. She came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command the respect of any lunatic, for easiness is one of the quality's mad people most respect. She walked over to him, smiling pleasantly, and held out her hand. Good evening, Mr. Renfield, said she. You see, I know you, for Dr. Seward has told me of you. He made no immediate reply, but eyed her all over, kindly, with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to one of wonder which merged in doubt. Then, to my intense astonishment, he said, You're not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can't be, you know, for she's dead. Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied. Oh, no, I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am Mrs. Harker. Then what are you doing here? My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward. Then don't stay. But why not? I thought that this style of conversation might not be pleasant to Mrs. Harker any more than it was to me, so I joined in. How did you know I wanted to marry any one? His reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning them back again. What an asinine question! I don't see that at all, Mr. Renfield, said Mrs. Harker, at once championing me. He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown contempt to me. You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him is of interest in our little community. Dr. Seward is loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophisticated tendencies of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of non-causa and ignoratio elenchi. I positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own Pat Lunatic, the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met with, talking elemental philosophy and with the manner of a polished gentleman. I wondered if it was Mrs. Harker's presence which had touched some chord in his memory. If this new phase was spontaneous, or in any way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some rare gift or power. We continued to talk for some time, and seeing that he was seemingly quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she began, to lead him to his favorite topic. I was quite astonished, for he addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of the completest sanity. He even took himself as an example when he mentioned certain things. Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed and insisted on my being put under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried to take human life. The Doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his blood, relying, of course, upon the scriptural phrase, for the blood is the life. Though indeed the vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarized the truism to the very point of contempt, isn't that true, Doctor? I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to either think or say. It was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up his spiders and flies not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I saw that I should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs. Harker that it was time to leave. She came at once, after saying pleasantly to Mr. Renfield, Good-bye, and I hope I may see you often under Ospus's pleasanter to yourself.  May he bless and keep you. When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing, I left the boys behind me. Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first took ill, and Quincy is more like his own bright self than he has been for many a long day. Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a boy. He saw me at once, then rushed up to me, saying, Ah, friend John, how goes all? Well, so I have been busy, for I come here to stay if need be. All affairs are settled with me, and I have much to tell. Madam Mina is with you? Yes, and her so fine husband, and Arthur and my friend Quincy, they are with you too? Good. As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my own diary had come to be of some use through Mrs. Harker's suggestion, at which the Professor interrupted me. Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man's brain, a brain that a man should have, were he much gifted, and a woman's heart. The good God fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when he made that so good combination. Friend John, up to now Fortune has made that woman of health to us. After to-night she must not have to do with this so terrible affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men are determined, nay, are we not pledged, to destroy this monster, but it is no part for a woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors, and hereafter she may suffer, both in waking from her nerves, and in sleep from her dreams. And besides, she is young woman, and not so long married. There may be other things to think of some time, if not now. You tell me she has wrote all, then she must consult with us, but to-morrow she say good-bye to this work, and we go alone. I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we had found in his absence, that the house which Dracula had bought was the very next one to my own. He was amazed, and a great concern seemed to come on him. Oh, that we had known it before, he said, for then we might have reached him in time to save poor Lucy. However, the milk that is spilt cries not out afterwards, as you say. We shall not think of that, but go on our way to the end. Then he fell into a silence that lasted till we entered my own gateway. Before we went to prepare for dinner, he said to Mrs. Harker, I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend John, that you and your husband have put up in exact order all things that have been up to this moment. Not up to this moment, Professor, she said impulsively, but up to this morning. But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the little things have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who has told is the worse for it. Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she said. Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in? It is my record of to-day. I too have seen the need of putting down at present everything, however trivial, but there is little in this except what is personal. Must it go in? The Professor read it over gravely, and handed it back, saying, It need not go in if you do not wish it, but I pray that it may. It can but make your husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more honour you, as well as more esteem and love. She took it back with another blush, and a bright smile. And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete and in order. The Professor took away one copy to study after dinner, and before our meeting, which is fixed for nine o'clock. The rest of us have already read everything, so when we meet in the study we shall all be informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with this terrible and mysterious enemy. Mina Harker's Journal. 30th of September. When we met in Dr. Seward's study two hours after dinner, which had been at six o'clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of board or committee. Professor Van Helsing took the head of the table, to which Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room. He made me sit next to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary. Jonathan sat next to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris, Lord Godalming being next to the Professor, and Dr. Seward in the centre. The Professor said, I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with the facts that are in these papers. We all expressed a sense, he went on. Then it were, I think good that I tell you something of the kind of enemy with which we have to deal. I shall then make known to you something of the history of this man which has been ascertained for me, so we then can discuss how we shall act, and we can take our measure according. There are such beings as vampires. Some of us have evidence that they exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples. I admit that at the first I was sceptic. Were it not that through long years I have trained myself to keep an open mind, I could not have believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear. See! See! I prove! I prove! Alas! had I known at the first what now I know, nay, had I even guessed at him, one so precious life had been spared to many of us who did love her. But that is gone, and we must so work, that other poor souls perish not whilst we can save. The Nosferatu do not die like the bee when he sting once. He is only stronger, and being stronger have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men. He is of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages. He have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at command. He is brute and more than brute. He is devil in callous, and the heart of him is not. He can, within limitations, appear at will, when and where, and in any of the forms that are to him. He can, within his range, direct the elements, the storm, the fog, the thunder. He can command all the meaner things, the rat, and the owl, and the bat, the moth, and the fox, and the wolf. He can grow and become small, and he can, at times, vanish and come unknown. How, then, are we to begin our strike to destroy him? How shall we find his where, and having found it, how can we destroy? My friends, this is much. It is a terrible task that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave shudder. For if we fail in this fight he must surely win, and then where end we? Life is nothing's. I heed him not. But to fail here is not mere life or death. It is that we become as him, that we henceforward become foul things of the night like him, without heart or conscience, praying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. To us for ever are the gates of heaven shut, for who shall open them to us again? We go on for all time, abhorred by all, ablot on the face of God's sunshine, an arrow in the side of him who died for man. But we are face to face with duty, in such case must we shrink? For me I say no, but then I am old, and life with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music and his love lie far behind. You others are young, some have seen sorrow, but there are fair days yet in store. What say you? Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so much, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him, when I saw his hand stretch out, but it was life to me to feel its touch, so strong, so self-reliant, so resolute. A brave man's hand can speak for itself. It does not even need a woman's love to hear its music. When the Professor had done speaking, my husband looked in my eyes, and I in his. There was no need for speaking between us. I answer for Mina and myself, he said. Count me in, Professor, said Mr. Quincy Morris, leconically, as usual. I am with you, said Lord Godalming, for Lucy's sake, if for no other reason. Dr. Seward simply nodded. The Professor stood up, and, after laying his golden crucifix on the table, held out his hand on either side. I took his right hand, and Lord Godalming his left. Jonathan held my right with his left, and stretched across to Mr. Morris. So as we all took hands, our solemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even occur to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing went on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work had begun. It was to be taken as gravely, and in as business like a way as any other transaction of life. Well, you know what we have to contend against, but we too are not without strength. We have, on our side, power of combination, a power denied to the vampire kind. We have sources of science. We are free to act and think, and the hours of the day and the night are ours equally. In fact, so far as our powers extend they are unfettered, and we are free to use them. We have self-devotion in a clause, and an end to achieve which is not a selfish one. These things are much. Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are restrict, and how the individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the limitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular. All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do not at the first appear much when the matter is one of life and death, nay, of more than either life or death. Yet must we be satisfied? In the first place, because we have to be. No other means is at our control, and secondly because after all these things, tradition and superstition, are everything. Does not the belief in vampires rest for others, though not alas for us, on them? A year ago which of us would have received such a possibility in the midst of our scientific, skeptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We even scouted a belief that we saw justified under our very eyes. Take it, then, that the vampire and the belief in his limitations and his cure rest for the moment on the same base. For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere that men have been. In old Greece, in old Rome, he flourished in Germany all over, in France, in India, even in the Kersenese, and in China, so far from us in all ways, there even is he, and the peoples fear him at this day. He have followed the wake of the berserker Icelander, the devil be gotten hun, the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar. So far, then, we have all we may act upon, and let me tell you that very much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own so unhappy experience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time. He can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. Even more we have seen amongst us that he can even grow younger, that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. But he cannot flourish without this diet. He eat not as others. Even friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never. He throws no shadow. He make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many in his hand, witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolves, and when he help him from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog. He can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincy saw him at the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he create. That noble ship's captain proved him of this. But from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is limited. And it can only be round himself. He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust, as again Jonathan saw those sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small. We are so, saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slipped through a hair-bred space at the tomb-door. He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it be bound, or even fused up with fire, soughter you call it. He can see in the dark. No small power this, in a world which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me through. He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay, he is even more prisoner than the slave of the galley than the madman in his cell. He cannot go where he lists. He who is not of nature has yet to obey some of nature's laws. Why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come, though afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times can he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon, or at exact sunrise or sunset. These things are we told, and in this record of ours we have proof by inference. Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he have his earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at Whitby. Still at other time he can only change when the time come. It is said, too, that he can only pass running water at the slack or the flood of the tide. Then there are things which so afflict him that he has no power, as the garlic that we know of, and as of things sacred, as the symbol my crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve. To them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off, and silent with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of, less than our seeking we may need them. The branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not from it.  And as for the stake through him we know already of its peace, or the cut-off head that giveeth rest. We have seen it with our eyes. Thus when we find the habitation of this man that was, we can confine him to his coffin and destroy him if we obey what we know. But he is clever. I have asked my friend Arminius, of Budapest University, to make his record, and from all the means that are he tell me of what he has been. He must indeed have been that voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of Turkeyland. If it be so, then was he no common man, for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most