less white eye of the search-light swept the room, gave Joan one flash of Garth, sitting wide-eyed on the edge of his bed, and rested on the opposite wall. Here were two great eye-bolts imbedded in the masonry, unexplained relics of some former keeper. The light moved from one to the other of these rings as though considering. Then the Count spoke again.
"The rope, Schmidt, schnell!"
A heavy voice growled something in German, and Joan was dragged toward the wall. Then she found her own voice.
"What—what does it mean?" she cried. "You are a German, you, Count Stysalski? Oh, I don't understand anything!"
The Count laughed shortly. His quick fingers were tying innumerable knots, making turn after turn of rope about Joan's arms.
"The wonderful musician!" he scoffed. "The delightful artis'! What do I care about art?" He snapped his fingers. "Do you think I understood the keepair's pompous t'eories? I love my music, yes! What German do not? But more than all, I love my Fatherland!"
"Oh, what good can you do your fiendish country by this?" Joan gasped.
"You evidently do not know as much about
