Once, twice, thrice around the ring on the flying steed, with foot scarce resting on the gilded saddle, and hand from which the silken rein hung slack and unguiding. And with clapping and shouts of admiration the people hailed their favorite, who bowed, and raised his plumed cap, and smiled as though no breath of care or passion had ever dimmed the lustre of his sparkling beauty.

Again, again around the ring, and with a bound over the light barrier, White Fleeta and her rider disappeared amid the vociferous plaudits of the crowd; and springing from the saddle, Clifdon flung himself upon a chair, panting and exhausted, with his lips working, and his hands clasped upon his closed eyes.

A laugh at some gay witticism, and a roar of applause from the multitude as Mark Brendon entered. Clifdon started from his seat, and partially drawing the red curtain, stood and looked out quivering, and yet gazing as if fixed by some horrid fascination.

At some distance from the ground, and secured by strong iron hooks to the ceiling hung a thick rope-swing, into which, mounting on his companion’s shoulders, Brendon was about to vault. When, supported by the herculean strength of the clown, he shook it, as if to prove the fidelity of that to which his life was to be intrusted, the form of that unseen watcher swayed like a reed, and the moisture gathered and rolled in thick drops from his brow and lip.

A vault, a shout from the crowd, and Brendon was fixed securely in the swing, that already moved slowly to and fro. And with eyes of horrible eagerness, with grinding teeth, and hands so madly clinched that the nails, unheeded, were driven into the flesh, Clifdon bent forward his head and gazed.

It was as though a species of insanity possessed him.

Lazily the rope swung to and fro.

Suddenly its motion quickened. Then faster and faster, until with frightful velocity the swinger dashed from the opposite extremities of the room with a force that brought him almost in contact with the lofty ceiling. Stimulated alternately by the deafening plaudits, the silent terror of the gazers, his efforts became each moment more tremendous.

Now he swung, supported only by one clinging hand; now suddenly suspended by his feet, while a shriek of horror mimicked by the grinning clown, rang from some quarter of the wide apartment.

“Frightful!” exclaimed a bystander.

And as she spoke, with the hideous speed of a ball dashed from the cannon’s mouth, the body of the actor was hurled, once against the gilded chandelier, once against the painted walls of the saloon, and then, with a dull rebound to the earth, where it lay still and breathless, while the rope to which it yet hung fell, severed, beside it.

No one spoke, no one moved. Each seemed transfixed with unutterable horror. Then from the awful silence, as if to break its spell, arose a shriek, shrill and piercing.

And leaping hurriedly from the boxes, and over the surrounding barriers, with exclamations and bursts of smothered horror, the multitude pressed around the prostrate form.

They raised it and looked upon it. A ghastly sight! From the glaring and upturned eye; from the distorted form, life seemed to have departed; but through the blue lips oozed slowly a purple foam, and across the brow a single vein grew black and knotted, and worked like a reptile in its death-agony.

“It is all over,” whispered a bystander, as even this lothesome motion ceased; and his words were passed from mouth to mouth in murmurs that scarcely broke the silence into which the crowd again had hushed.

There, from his lurking place, still gazed the husband of Mabel Clifdon; but his form no longer swayed and quivered, and his face was like marble. Only from beneath his bent brows shot a strange and terrible fire.

It was as though a demon had entered the sculptured form of an angel, and concealed beneath its beauty, betrayed only through the insensible eyes, the baleful hideousness of his presence.

The crowd began to disperse, at first singly, and then in whispering groups, but he stirred not; some one even shouted his name, but he stood without the power to move.

Something brushed against his shoulder, and a low neigh sounded thrillingly in his ear. He turned, and with her large, dark, half human eyes fixed upon him, White Fleeta stood beside her master.

It seemed as if that gentle and tender gaze had suddenly broken the fearful spell that bound him, for flinging himself to the earth with a burst of passion, Clifdon lay there, convulsed and agonized, while the animal that his hands had ever fed, and that loved him as it is in the nature of its generous kind to love, knelt by his side, and with a soft moan, rubbed her glossy head against his shoulder.

Again his name was shouted, and springing to his feet, he stood for a few minutes struggling with mighty efforts to regain his composure; and then, deadly pale, but calm, drew back the curtain, and once more entered the saloon.

The crowd had utterly dispersed, but the body of the dead man had been stretched upon a form which several of the company were bearing to the door.

“Lend us a hand, Clifdon,” said the voice that had before summoned him, “you are the strongest of us.”

“Not I,” said Clifdon, turning away to conceal the spasm that distorted his features. “I saw the whole—I am shaken with horror.”

There was something in his voice that silenced them, for, without further remonstrance, they passed on, leaving him standing alone with the clown.

“It is horrible!” said Clifdon, in a low tone, and with a shudder.

“Horrible!” echoed the jester. Then, after a pause, raising his eyes with a steady gaze, he continued. “The rope broke, it seems. This strong rope—incredible!”

The other replied not.

“You are freed from your debt, Captain Ned,” resumed the clown, playing carelessly, as he spoke, with the broken rope. “You are safe now.”

“Name it not,” said Clifdon hoarsely, and turning away.

An exclamation from his companion called him back.

“It is strange,” said the clown intently examining the ragged piece of rope. “Here is a drop of blood—a single drop of blood; just where it was broken off near the ceiling. How came it here?”

“It fell from the body,” whispered Clifdon.

“The body did not bleed, except at the mouth, where the blood was mixed with froth, and could not leave so dark a stain.”

“You are swelling a trifle into importance,” said Clifdon, impatiently. “The spot may be accounted for in a thousand ways; it may not even be blood.”

His companion did not reply, but threw aside the rope as if convinced. Suddenly he stooped and raised from the ground some glittering substance that had apparently fallen from it.

“What is it?” asked Clifdon.

“Nothing; a silver fringe, or a spangle, I believe,” said the other, calmly. Then, with a rapid glance, “You have cut your finger, gallant Captain Ned.”

“A trifle,” said Clifdon, hastily, but coloring as he spoke. “I cut it with some of White Fleeta’s showy trappings, and it bleeds afresh.” And turning upon his heel, he strode from the saloon.

——