At the despairing thought she started and looked up.  She had almost expected to see that shadow beside her again.  But there was nothing.  The lifeless bodies stood motionless in their mimicry of life under the bright light.  The swarthy negro frowned, the face of the Malayan woman wore still its calm and gentle expression.  Far in the background the rows of gleaming skulls grinned, as though at the memory of their four hundred lives; the skeleton of the orang-outang stretched out its long bony arms before it; the dead savages still squatted round the remains of their meal.  The stillness was oppressive.

Unorna rose to her feet in sudden anxiety.  She did not know how long she had been alone.  She listened anxiously at the door for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but all was silent.  Surely, Keyork had not taken him elsewhere, to his lodgings, where he would not be cared for.  That was impossible.  She must have heard the sound of the wheels as the carriage drove away.  She glanced at the windows and saw that the casements were covered with small, thick curtains which would muzzle the sound.  She went to the nearest, thrust the curtain aside, opened the inner and the second glass and looked out.  Though the street below was dim, she could see well enough that the carriage was no longer there.  It was the bitterest night of the year and the air cut her like a knife, but she would not draw back.  She strained her sight in both directions, searching in the gloom for the moving lights of a carriage, but she saw nothing.  At last she shut the window and went back to the door.  They must be on the stairs, or still below, perhaps, waiting for help to carry him up.  The cold might kill him in his present state, a cold that would kill most things exposed to it.  Furiously she shook the door.  It was useless.  She looked about for an instrument to help her strength.  She could see nothing—­no—­yes—­there was the iron-wood club of the black giant.  She went and took it from his hand.  The dead thing trembled all over, and rocked as though it would fall, and wagged its great head at her, but she was not afraid.  She raised the heavy club and struck upon the door, upon the lock, upon the panels with all her might.  The terrible blows sent echoes down the staircase, but the door did not yield, nor the lock either.  Was the door of iron and the lock of granite? she asked herself.  Then she heard a strange, sudden noise behind her.  She turned and looked.  The dead negro had fallen bodily from his pedestal to the floor, with a dull, heavy thud.  She did not desist, but struck the oaken planks again and again with all her strength.  Then her arms grew numb and she dropped the club.  It was all in vain.  Keyork had locked her in and had taken the Wanderer away.