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he long hair appeared to have taken on a different texture； coarser； falling about the collar； now streaked with silver grey。 Sabat stared in disbelief at an overall barely recognisable reflection。 Ancient！ It was Sabat and yet not Sabat。 Something familiar about the facial change； a countenance upon which he had gazed recently。 And then he knew！
Merciful God； only Sabat could accept this as possible！ That dream； his panion of that night of evil whom he had helped put those witches to the torch。 Pierre de Lancre lived again in the body of Sabat！ 'Ifyou ever have need of me do not hesitate to call me。 Do that and Pierre de Lancre will e； that I promise。'
And the witchfinder had e； true to his word！
Sabat stared at his hands； talon…like with long ragged dirty fingernails； the skin dry and cracked； held them up to his face in revulsion； watched them tremble。 Yet Pierre de Lancre； the witchfinder； had e when he needed him most and this was no time to spurn his help。
Sabat switched off the light； opened the door of the Daimler and slid silently out。 He stood there in the pitch blackness breathing in the fragrant smell of damp pine woods； suddenly felt stronger； fitter。 It was as though the remaining effects of his illness had evaporated and he bit on those thin lips until he tasted blood as he remembered everything that had happened to him since that fateful trip up the Jungfrau； No longer did he feel pity for Madeleine。 She was a witch who had so far escaped the fiery stake； just as Louis Nevillon had cheated the guillotine。 Now they must both pay in full for their evil which spanned three centuries！
He moved off； treading silently through the tall pines； a flitting shadow in the faint starlight。 He checked that he still had his ？38； reminding himself at the same time that this night he would need more than mortal weapons to overe his dangerous adversaries。 They could not guess； surprise was his trump card。
It took him twenty minutes to reach the clearing in which the small chapel stood。 His pulses were racing with the eagerness of a hunting beast of the wild closing in for the kill。 The same cunning； waiting and listening； nostrils flaring as he sniffed the night air and smelled an aroma that had him tautening； those broken fingernails digging into the palms of his hands。 For he smelled the rancid odour of roasting human flesh！
Nauseating。 He recalled its taste； almost vomited。 But he was strong now； stronger than them。 And was not his very name feared throughout the continent and all the other countries of the world？ Pierre de Lancre； merciless hunter of witches。 He smiled grimly to himself and moved stealthily forward a few steps then stopped to listen again。 Light came from within the building； slitting out through the ill…fitting door； but there was no sound to be heard。 Sabat was wary； Nevillon and his young mistress were no ordinary witches。 They might sense his presence。
He hesitated at the door。 That smell of burning meat was much stronger now； perhaps he was already too late。 He braced himself； drew a deep breath and let it out slowly； his own way of steadying those racing pulses。 Whatever the oute he had to go in there； confront his deadliest foes face to face。 His fingers strayed to the butt of his revolver then fell away。 This would be no time for bullets； it would be a duel with much deadlier； far more dangerous weapons。
His knee went up； shot forward with tremendous force； a blow that devastated the rotting woodwork； splintered the matchwood panels of the door as it flung it back； pulling a rusted hinge out by the screws。 Sabat leapt forward； an SAS…type entrance； low and fast； a difficult moving target。 Then he pulled up； almost felt foolish。 The room was much as he had last seen it； twin black candles burning on the shelf adjacent to the old cast…iron stove which was no longer draped in black； that lead coffin with its lid closed； stark and horrific。 Nothing else； there was no sign of Madeleine Gaufridi！
Sabat tensed； suspected a trap of some kind。 Two long strides took him to the coffin； his strong fingers gripping the lid。 This time his muscles responded like smooth well…oiled machinery； flexing and taking the strain of the heavy weight。 The lid shot back； hit the wall with a dull clang and showered lime plaster and dust out of the crumbling bricks。
He coughed； peered through the grey cloud 。。。 saw the shrouded corpse of the Beast of France lying there； staring up with sightless eyes！ Dead pallid flesh gave off its own unpleasant stench but Sabat scarcely noticed it。
'He is still dead！' the witchfinder spoke his surprised relief aloud。 'He has not risen again。 Maybe I am still in time even though Walpurgisnacht is well advanced 。。。'
His words tailed off to a hoarse whisper as his nostrils flared again at the stench of roasting human meat。 His eyes widened； he wheeled and saw the temperature gauge on the front of the old cooker； 300。
'My God！' Sabat glanced back at that coffin。 * The meat for this unholy night's banquet is already cooking！ Nevillon has arisen and claimed his victim and his astral body has already fled； leaving behind it a useless shell。 But who cooks in the oven？'
There was only one way to find out。 Those long fingers which had somehow gnarled and cracked this last hour closed over the door handle； yanked it back。 Thick choking steam billowed out； scalding fog that hid the horrors of that dark recess。 Something moved； a bulky blistering roasting shape that had been resting against the door； a monster emerging from its hell…hot lair！
Sabat recoiled； saw smoking hands clawing through the steam； groping for him。 A head； the shape was right but where there should have been features there were only blackened lumps and orijices； eyes that stared pain and malevolence out of charred sockets。 Unrecognisable； a half…cooked thing that wheezed whispered screams of agony amidst clouds of nauseating vapour。 And still lived！
Sabat's brain reeled； he felt terror clutching at his heart； revulsion but not pity because Pierre de Lancre was beyond pity。 The steaming fat on that still…living form thinned； he saw it more clearly。 Breasts that had once been shapely were shrivelled by the heat； nipples scorched but still hard and firm like glowing cinders。 Hairless； a head that bobbed up and down； the mouth twisted into mute shrieks of pain。 A hand found his jacket； clutched at it with roasted fingers that were no longer slender and shapely； tried to drag itself up on him。 He felt the dry hot breath on his face like a gust of wind across an arid desert； even the wounded of Armageddon never suffered a fate such as this！ He lip…read his own name on those moving lips。 'Sabat。。。 Sabat。。。 help me！'
Revulsion powered the short left jab； his bunched knuckles striking that face； throwing it back。 The girl； for it was undoubtedly female； hit the floor； lay there looking up at him； hurt in those eyes； a dog that had been struck by its master when all it sought was affection。 'Sabat。。。 help me！'
Recognition now； physically the gi