Trembling at the sound of her own voice, the girl commanded herself to say: 

“Yes; who was she?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, seriously.  “She was beautiful and fresh; she was almost as fair as you,” letting his wild eyes roam over her.  “I was getting away from that cursed place.  Think of confining a man of my learning in a madhouse!  But that was just it.  I had mastered the new theory—­the transfusion of blood.  They wanted to steal my glory, so they locked me in.  But I outwitted them; I captured these and ran away.”

Laughing wildly but still under his breath, he took from his jacket a black case of bright, new surgical instruments.

“These were what I needed,” he continued, with a low chuckle; “I could not attain the goal without these beauties.”  Caressingly he went over them.  “Lancet, probe, trocar, bistoury, tourniquet,”—­mentioning the collection, while he passed his fingers affectionately along the small sharp knives.

“For years and years,” he went on, “I have studied this theory.  The only thing is to find a young, strong, healthy subject; I found her.  I was hiding in the bushes; she was on the highway; but she would not listen to me.”

“You did not kill her?” the girl forced her dry lips to ask.

“Nay, nay; that is an ugly word.  I had to sacrifice her—­I did not kill.  Then the foolish mob came and I fled hither.  But I had a bit of bread and meat; she dropped her basket of lunch.  I’ve been hiding in yonder tower,” pointing upward.  “I thought I might find what I want; and now, my dear, you will help me, won’t you?” This he said coaxingly.

“Help you?  What can I do?”

“Such a simple thing.  Hold very still while I draw the rich red blood from your pretty white throat.”

“You would not spoil my throat?” pleaded Jessie in winning tones, with the courage born of despair; “such a very little throat,” clasping her soft fingers about it in unconscious paraphrase of King Hal’s hapless queen.

“But where else can I find the glorious stream so rich and red?” he argued, with a perplexed frown.  “It must be transfused into my own veins, that I, too, may be young again.”

“But not the throat!  I could not sing any more then.”

“Ah, so—­I heard you singing; it was not loud; it pleased me.  Yes, ’twould be a pity.  Well, I’ll tell you what I will do.  I’ll open a vein in your arm—­just here,” laying his finger on the round white member.  “This will quicken the nervous centers.  Then I will cut my own arm and insert your blood at the opening till the two life-currents mingle in one stream.”

He paused and reflected a moment.  The generous warmth of the fire, together with the terrified girl’s enforced quiet manner, were evidently soothing to him.

“Listen now, very closely:  Here is my greatest scientific discovery.  I do not mean to impart the secret to another.  It is the transfusion of brain! Some other man’s head got on to my shoulders, and my brain is all wrong.  Now with your red blood charged in my veins, and your young active brain absorbed into my own uncertain head, I shall find the elixir of life, and you will not have lived in vain.”