As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to triumph.

But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great knife.  I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat.  Whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris’s bowie knife plunged into the heart.

It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from our sight.

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there.

The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun.

The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as if for their lives.  Those who were unmounted jumped upon the leiter wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them.  The wolves, which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving us alone.

Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his hand pressed to his side.  The blood still gushed through his fingers.  I flew to him, for the Holy circle did not now keep me back; so did the two doctors.  Jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his head on his shoulder.  With a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand in that of his own which was unstained.

He must have seen the anguish of my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said, “I am only too happy to have been of service!  Oh, God!” he cried suddenly, struggling to a sitting posture and pointing to me.  “It was worth for this to die!  Look!  Look!”

The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light.  With one impulse the men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest “Amen” broke from all as their eyes followed the pointing of his finger.

The dying man spoke, “Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain!  See!  The snow is not more stainless than her forehead!  The curse has passed away!”

And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a gallant gentleman.

NOTE

Seven years ago we all went through the flames.  And the happiness of some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured.  It is an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy’s birthday is the same day as that on which Quincey Morris died.  His mother holds, I know, the secret belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has passed into him.  His bundle of names links all our little band of men together.  But we call him Quincey.

In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories.  It was almost impossible to believe that the things which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were living truths.  Every trace of all that had been was blotted out.  The castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation.