Sometime between midnight and the dawn of that Good Friday, the climax of the celebration came about. Swaying widely as he rose to his feet with his wineglass in his hand, Lector, the Christus, a crown of woven smilax on his head, proposed yet another toast.

What that toast was to have been was never known. As Lector rose to his full height and raised his wineglass, such an expression of horror crept over his face that it instantly stilled the drunken clamor at the table and caused his companions to stare at him. Suddenly, Lector, apparently cord sober and with an expression in his eyes as though he had just looked into the very jaws of hell, crushed the fragile wineglass in his hand as if it were a scrap of paper. The red blood from his pierced hand spurted between his fingers and down onto the gleaming tablecloth, where it formed a little bright puddle before sinking into the closely-woven fabric.

The room was so silent that the sputtering of a candle at the far end of the room sounded loud and clear, and the blood dripping from Lector's hand beat a slow, majestic rhythm on the table.

The voice that issued from Lector's mouth did not sound like his voice at all. It had an evil, sinister quality with awful overtones of authority. Speaking each word clearly and distinctly and with deliberate, majestic cadence, as though each word was being emphasized by the slow pounding of the blood in that clenched fist, the voice intoned, "Dead-in-six-months." And again, "Dead-in-six-months."

With a terrified scream, holding his bleeding hand to the bosom of his white, lace-trimmed shirt, Lector ran from the room, down the broad stairs, and out into the cool April night. The other twelve looked covertly at each other for a moment or two, exchanged brief, preoccupied words of parting, and hurried from the building. Forgotten was their custom of walking in a group as they dropped each fellow at his home. Instead, each young man seemed to want to avoid the others, and so the crowd quickly disappeared into the darkness.

It was exactly one week later that the first death occurred. Sensitive young Jules Thomas, who had been included in the party because his name sounded the most like that of Judas, was found hanging by the neck from a rope affixed to one of the low, sweeping branches of the huge live oaks around his home.

The next week, Peter Brinker's drowned body was found floating in the shallows of the river near his home. Peter, who was one of the strongest swimmers in the whole area and one of the best and most experienced fishermen, drowned! His small rowing boat, when found, was not even overturned.

As the weeks rolled by, it was first one, then another. Andrew was accidentally shot and killed while out hunting in the marshes, and the next week, Philip accidentally fell on his dueling sword while practicing for an affair of honor. A week after Philip's untimely demise, Matthew, an experienced horseman and half centaur, was thrown from his mount and killed instantly.