The body lay near the window, where the beast had left it when frightened away by the flash and report of the rifle.  The clothing was deranged, the long hair in disorder, the limbs lay anyhow.  From the throat, dreadfully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood not yet entirely coagulated.  The ribbon with which he had bound the wrists was broken; the hands were tightly clenched.  Between the teeth was a fragment of the animal’s ear.

A LADY FROM REDHORSE

CORONADO, JUNE 20.

I find myself more and more interested in him.  It is not, I am sure, his—­do you know any good noun corresponding to the adjective “handsome”?  One does not like to say “beauty” when speaking of a man.  He is beautiful enough, Heaven knows; I should not even care to trust you with him—­faithfulest of all possible wives that you are—­when he looks his best, as he always does.  Nor do I think the fascination of his manner has much to do with it.  You recollect that the charm of art inheres in that which is undefinable, and to you and me, my dear Irene, I fancy there is rather less of that in the branch of art under consideration than to girls in their first season.  I fancy I know how my fine gentleman produces many of his effects and could perhaps give him a pointer on heightening them.  Nevertheless, his manner is something truly delightful.  I suppose what interests me chiefly is the man’s brains.  His conversation is the best I have ever heard and altogether unlike any one else’s.  He seems to know everything, as indeed he ought, for he has been everywhere, read everything, seen all there is to see—­sometimes I think rather more than is good for him—­and had acquaintance with the queerest people.  And then his voice—­Irene, when I hear it I actually feel as if I ought to have paid at the door, though of course it is my own door.

JULY 3.

I fear my remarks about Dr. Barritz must have been, being thoughtless, very silly, or you would not have written of him with such levity, not to say disrespect.  Believe me, dearest, he has more dignity and seriousness (of the kind, I mean, which is not inconsistent with a manner sometimes playful and always charming) than any of the men that you and I ever met.  And young Raynor—­you knew Raynor at Monterey—­tells me that the men all like him and that he is treated with something like deference everywhere.  There is a mystery, too—­something about his connection with the Blavatsky people in Northern India.  Raynor either would not or could not tell me the particulars.  I infer that Dr. Barritz is thought—­don’t you dare to laugh!—­a magician.  Could anything be finer than that?

An ordinary mystery is not, of course, so good as a scandal, but when it relates to dark and dreadful practices—­to the exercise of unearthly powers—­could anything be more piquant?  It explains, too, the singular influence the man has upon me.  It is the undefinable in his art—­black art.  Seriously, dear, I quite tremble when he looks me full in the eyes with those unfathomable orbs of his, which I have already vainly attempted to describe to you.  How dreadful if he has the power to make one fall in love!  Do you know if the Blavatsky crowd have that power—­ outside of Sepoy?