Page:Weird Tales Volume 5 Number 5 (1925-05).djvu/133

A moonbeam had found its way through a rent in the ceiling. It fell upon the naked breast of the girl. Her breast was white and fair. Almost as white and fair, thought Ivan, as that of his own daughter. The moonlight glowed on something. Ivan touched it—and then he knew that it was a tiny crucifix. He shivered violently, but at the same moment he decided that on the morrow he would give the crucifix to his daughter. He reached across the girl and felt a bag near her head. He chuckled softly. It was just then that she must have wakened, for she started up with a soft little cry.

Ivan said nothing. He did not want to wake his daughter. His great left hand covered the girl's face. His great right hand clutched her naked throat; the dirty, powerful fingers dug deep; the delicate throat walls succumbed. And then she was dead. Death comes quickly to the fair, and Ivan's hands were strong.

Ivan took the pouch and started to go down. It was lighter than he had thought it would be. He rapped his fingers against it. There was no clink of metal. Then he thought he heard a sound from his daughter's bed and crossed the room quickly. He looked very closely at the bed. She must have spoken in her sleep. There was no sound. He listened for her beloved breathing. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart. There was no other sound.

He reached down. He could not feel her. His hands groped over the bed coverings. There was no one in that bed.

Ivan's heart must have stopped beating for a second, for the silence was as the silence of death—yes, it was the silence of death. Death . . .

The pouch that was too light. . . . Dawning!

A little agonized cry burst from the man's lips and he called to his wife, "Bring the light!"

She brought the light.

Then Ivan looked down upon the dead girl.

A little over an hour had passed by when the daughter of the man Ivan had murdered led the soldiers to Ivan's house. She had overheard the peasant and his wife talking and had made her escape. Now she was back with the soldiers. They gave no signal. At the girl's direction they broke down the door and entered. The wife was sitting there, crooning softly to herself. Ivan was not in sight.

They paused a little, uncertainly, looking around. They wondered where Ivan was.

Then there came the sound of a man laughing. It was Ivan who was laughing. He was laughing as he came down out of the loft carrying his daughter. He did not see the girl or the soldiers. He sat down on the floor and placed the head of the dead girl between his knees. He was laughing about that crucifix which was attached to a chain and hung about her neck. He wondered who had given it to his daughter. He was laughing—a weird, wild, horrible sort of laugh. It chilled the hearts of the soldiers, for it was the laugh of a maniac.