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FAMOUS MODERN GHOST STORIES

SELECTED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY

DOROTHY SCARBOROUGH, Ph.D.

LECTURER IN ENGLISH, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

AUTHOR OF THE SUPERNATURAL IN MODERN ENGLISH FICTION,
FUGITIVE VERSES, FROM A SOUTHERN PORCH, ETC.

COMPILER OF HUMOROUS GHOST STORIES

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

The Knickerbocker Press

1921

Printed in the United States of
America

To



ASHLEY HORACE THORNDIKE, Litt. D.

Professor of English, Columbia University



who guided my earlier studies in the supernatural

CONTENTS

• Introduction: The Imperishable
  Ghost


• 
  The Willows
  
  
  
  • By Algernon Blackwood
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Shadows on the Wall
  
  
  
  • By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Messenger
  
  
  
  • By Robert W. Chambers
  
  
  
  


• 
  Lazarus
  
  
  
  • By Leonid Andreyev
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Beast with Five Fingers
  
  
  
  • By W. F. Harvey
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Mass of Shadows
  
  
  
  • By Anatole France
  
  
  
  


• 
  What Was It?
  
  
  
  • By Fitz-James O'Brien
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Middle Toe of the Right Foot
  
  
  
  • By Ambrose Bierce
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Shell of Sense
  
  
  
  • By Olivia Howard Dunbar
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Woman at Seven Brothers
  
  
  
  • By Wilbur Daniel Steele
  
  
  
  


• 
  At the Gate
  
  
  
  • By Myla Jo Closser
  
  
  
  


• 
  Ligeia
  
  
  
  • By Edgar Allan Poe
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Haunted Orchard
  
  
  
  • By Richard Le Gallienne
  
  
  
  


• 
  The Bowmen
  
  
  
  • By Arthur Machen
  
  
  
  


• 
  A Ghost
  
  
  
  • By Guy de Maupassant
  
  
  
  

The Imperishable Ghost

INTRODUCTION

Ghosts are the true immortals, and the dead grow more alive
all the time. Wraiths have a greater vitality to-day than ever
before. They are far more numerous than at any time in the
past, and people are more interested in them. There are persons
that claim to be acquainted with specific spirits, to speak
with them, to carry on correspondence with them, and even some
who insist that they are private secretaries to the dead.
Others of us mortals, more reserved, are content to keep such
distance as we may from even the shadow of a shade. But there's
no getting away from ghosts nowadays, for even if you shut your
eyes to them in actual life, you stumble over them in the books
you read, you see them on the stage and on the screen, and you
hear them on the lecture platform. Even a Lodge in any vast
wilderness would have the company of spirits. Man's love for
the supernatural, which is one of the most natural things about
him, was never more marked than at present. You may go
a-ghosting in any company to-day, and all aspects of
literature, novels, short stories, poetry, and drama alike,
reflect the shadeless spirit. The latest census of the haunting
world shows a vast increase in population, which might be
explained on various grounds.

Life is so inconveniently complex nowadays, what with income
taxes and other visitations of government, that it is hard for
us to have the added risk of wraiths, but there's no escaping.
Many persons of to-day are in the same mental state as one Mr.
Boggs, told of in a magazine story, a rural gentleman who was
agitated over spectral visitants. He had once talked at a
séance with a speaker who claimed to be the spirit of
his brother, Wesley Boggs, but who conversed only on blue
suspenders, a subject not of vital interest to Wesley in the
flesh. "Still," Mr. Boggs reflected, "I'm not so darn sure!" In
answer to a suggestion regarding subliminal consciousness and
dual personality as explanation of the strange things that come
bolting into life, he said, "It's crawly any way you look at
it. Ghosts inside you are as bad as ghosts outside you." There
are others to-day who are "not so darn sure!"

One may conjecture divers reasons for this multitude of
ghosts in late literature. Perhaps spooks are like small boys
that rush to fires, unwilling to miss anything, and craving new
sensations. And we mortals read about them to get vicarious
thrills through the safe medium of fiction. The war
made sensationalists of us all, and the drab everydayness of
mortal life bores us. Man's imagination, always bigger than his
environment, overleaps the barriers of time and space and
claims all worlds as eminent domain, so that literature, which
he has the power to create, as he cannot create his material
surroundings, possesses a dramatic intensity, an epic sweep,
unknown in actuality. In the last analysis, man is as great as
his daydreams—or his nightmares!

Ghosts have always haunted literature, and doubtless always
will. Specters seem never to wear out or to die, but renew
their tissue both of person and of raiment, in marvelous
fashion, so that their number increases with a Malthusian
relentlessness. We of to-day have the ghosts that haunted our
ancestors, as well as our own modern revenants, and there's no
earthly use trying to banish or exorcise them by such a simple
thing as disbelief in them. Schopenhauer asserts that a belief
in ghosts is born with man, that it is found in all ages and in
all lands, and that no one is free from it. Since accounts
vary, and our earliest antecedents were poor diarists, it is
difficult to establish the apostolic succession of spooks in
actual life, but in literature, the line reaches back as far as
the primeval picture writing. A study of animism in primitive
culture shows many interesting links between the past and the
present in this matter. And anyhow, since man knows that
whether or not he has seen a ghost, presently he'll be one,
he's fascinated with the subject. And he creates ghosts, not
merely in his own image, but according to his dreams of
power.

The more man knows of natural laws, the keener he is about
the supernatural. He may claim to have laid aside superstition,
but he isn't to be believed in that. Though he has discarded
witchcraft and alchemy, it is only that he may have more time
for psychical research; true, he no longer dabbles with ancient
magic, but that is because the modern types, as the ouija
board, entertain him more. He dearly loves to traffic with that
other world of which he knows so little and concerning which he
is so curious.

Perhaps the war, or possibly an increase in class
consciousness, or unionization of spirits, or whatever, has
greatly energized the ghost in our day and given him both
ambition and strength to do more things than ever. Maybe "pep
tablets" have been discovered on the other side as well! No
longer is the ghost content to be seen and not heard, to slink
around in shadowy corners as apologetically as poor relations.
Wraiths now have a rambunctious vitality and self-assurance
that are astonishing. Even the ghosts of folks dead so long
they have forgotten about themselves are yawning, stretching
their skeletons, and starting out to do a little haunting.
Spooky creatures in such a wide diversity are abroad to-day
that one is sometimes at a loss to know what to do "gin a body
meet a body." Ghosts are entering all sorts of activities now,
so that mortals had better look alive, else they'll be crowded
out of their place in the shade. The dead are too much with
us!

Modern ghosts are less simple and primitive than their
ancestors, and are developing complexes of various kinds. They
are more democratic than of old, and have more of a diversity
of interests, so that mortals have scarcely the ghost of a
chance with them. They employ all the agencies and mechanisms
known to mortals, and have in addition their own methods of
transit and communication. Whereas in the past a ghost had to
stalk or glide to his haunts, now he limousines or airplanes,
so that naturally he can get in more work than before. He uses
the wireless to send his messages, and is expert in all manner
of scientific lines.

In fact, his infernal efficiency and knowledge of science
constitute the worst terror of the current specter. Who can
combat a ghost that knows all about a chemical laboratory, that
can add electricity to his other shocks, and can employ all
mortal and immortal agencies as his own? Science itself is
supernatural, as we see when we look at it properly.

Modern literature, especially the most recent, shows a
revival of old types of ghosts, together with the innovations
of the new. There are specters that take a real part in the
plot complication, and those that merely cast threatening looks
at the living, or at least, are content to speak a piece and
depart. Some spirits are dumb, while others are highly
elocutionary.

Ghosts vary in many respects. Some are like the pallid
shades of the past, altogether unlike the living and with an
unmistakable spectral form—or lack of it. They sweep like
mist through the air, or flutter like dead leaves in the
gale—a gale always accompanying them as part of the stock
furnishings. On the other hand, some revenants are so
successfully made up that one doesn't believe them when they
pridefully announce that they are wraiths. Some of them are, in
fact, so alive that they don't themselves know they're dead.
It's going to be a great shock to some of them one of these
days to wake up and find out they're demised!

Ghosts are more gregarious than in the past. Formerly a
shade slunk off by himself, as if ashamed of his profession, as
if aware of the lack of cordiality with which he would be
received, knowing that mortals shunned and feared him, and
chary even of associating with his fellow-shades. He wraithed
all by himself. The specters of the past—save in scenes
of the lower world,—were usually solitary creatures,
driven to haunt mortals from very lonesomeness. Now we have a
chance to study the mob psychology of ghosts, for they come in
madding crowds whenever they like.

Ghosts at present are showing an active interest not only in
public affairs, but in the arts as well. At least, we now have
pictures and writing attributed to them. Perhaps annoyed by
some of the inaccuracies published concerning them—for
authors have in the past taken advantage of the belief that
ghosts couldn't write back—they have recently developed
itching pens. They use all manner of utensils for expression
now. There's the magic typewriter that spooks for John Kendrick
Bangs, the boardwalk that Patience Worth executes for Mrs.
Curran, and innumerable other specters that commandeer fountain
pens and pencils and brushes to give their versions of
infinity. There's a passion on the part of ghosts for being
interviewed just now. At present book-reviewers, for instance,
had better be careful, lest the wraiths take their own method
of answering criticism. It isn't safe to speak or write with
anything but respect of ghosts now. De mortuis nil nisi
bonum, indeed! One should never make light of a shade.

Modern ghosts have a more pronounced personality than the
specters of the past. They have more strength, of mind as well
as of body, than the colorless revenants of earlier literature,
and they produce a more vivid effect on the beholder and the
reader. They know more surely what they wish to do, and they
advance relentlessly and with economy of effort to the
effecting of their purpose, whether it be of pure horror, of
beauty, or pathos of humor. We have now many spirits in fiction
that are pathetic without frightfulness, many that move us with
a sense of poetic beauty rather than of curdling horror, who
touch the heart as well as the spine of the reader. And the
humorous ghost is a distinctive shade of to-day, with his quips
and pranks and haunting grin. Whatever a modern ghost wishes to
do or to be, he is or does, with confidence and success.

The spirit of to-day is terrifyingly visible or invisible at
will. The dreadful presence of a ghost that one cannot see is
more unbearable than the specter that one can locate and
attempt to escape from. The invisible haunting is represented
in this volume by Fitz-James O'Brien's What
Was It? one of the very best of the type, and one that
has strongly influenced others. O'Brien's story preceded Guy de
Maupassant's Le Horla by several years, and must
surely have suggested to Maupassant as to Bierce, in his
The Damned Thing, the power of evil that can be felt
but not seen.

The wraith of the present carries with him more vital energy
than his predecessors, is more athletic in his struggles with
the unlucky wights he visits, and can coerce mortals to do his
will by the laying on of hands as well as by the look or word.
He speaks with more emphasis and authority, as well as with
more human naturalness, than the earlier ghosts. He has not
only all the force he possessed in life, but in many instances
has an access of power, which makes man a poor protagonist for
him. Algernon Blackwood's spirits of evil, for example, have a
more awful potentiality than any living person could have, and
their will to harm has been increased immeasurably by the
accident of death. If the facts bear out the fear that such is
the case in life as in fiction, some of our social customs will
be reversed. A man will strive by all means to keep his deadly
enemy alive, lest death may endow him with tenfold power to
hurt. Dark discarnate passions, disembodied hates, work evil
where a simple ghost might be helpless and abashed. Algernon
Blackwood has command over the spirits of air and fire and
wave, so that his pages thrill with beauty and terror. He has
handled almost all known aspects of the supernatural, and from
his many stories he has selected for this volume
The Willows as the best example
of his ghostly art.

Apparitions are more readily recognizable at present than in
the past, for they carry into eternity all the disfigurements
or physical peculiarities that the living bodies
possessed—a fact discouraging to all persons not
conspicuous for good looks. Freckles and warts, long noses and
missing limbs distinguish the ghosts and aid in crucial
identification. The thrill of horror in Ambrose Bierce's story,
The Middle Toe of the Right
Foot, is intensified by the fact that the dead woman
who comes back in revenge to haunt her murderer, has one toe
lacking as in life. And in a recent story a surgeon whose
desire to experiment has caused him needlessly to sacrifice a
man's life on the operating table, is haunted to death by the
dismembered arm. Fiction shows us various ghosts with half
faces, and at least one notable spook that comes in half. Such
ability, it will be granted, must necessarily increase the
haunting power, for if a ghost may send a foot or an arm or a
leg to harry one person, he can dispatch his back-bone or his
liver or his heart to upset other human beings simultaneously
in a sectional haunting at once economically efficient and
terrifying.

The Beast with Five Fingers,
for instance, has a loathsome horror that a complete skeleton
or conventionally equipped wraith could not achieve. Who can
doubt that a bodiless hand leaping around on its errands of
evil has a menace that a complete six-foot frame could not
duplicate? Yet, in Quiller-Couch's A Pair of Hands,
what pathos and beauty in the thought of the child hands coming
back to serve others in homely tasks! Surely no housewife in
these helpless days would object to being haunted in such
delicate fashion.

Ghosts of to-day have an originality that antique specters
lacked. For instance, what story of the past has the awful
thrill in Andreyev's Lazarus,
that story of the man who came back from the grave, living, yet
dead, with the horror of the unknown so manifest in his face
that those who looked into his deep eyes met their doom?
Present-day writers skillfully combine various elements of awe
with the supernatural, as madness with the ghostly, adding to
the chill of fear which each concept gives. Wilbur Daniel
Steele's The Woman at Seven
Brothers is an instance of that method.

Poe's Ligeia, one of the best
stories in any language, reveals the unrelenting will of the
dead to effect its desire,—the dead wife triumphantly
coming back to life through the second wife's body. Olivia
Howard Dunbar's The Shell of
Sense is another instance of jealousy reaching beyond
the grave. The Messenger, one
of Robert W. Chambers's early stories and an admirable example
of the supernatural, has various thrills, with its river of
blood, its death's head moth, and the ancient but very active
skull of the Black Priest who was shot as a traitor to his
country, but lived on as an energetic and curseful ghost.

The Shadows on the Wall, by
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman,—which one prominent librarian
considers the best ghost story ever written,—is original
in the method of its horrific manifestation. Isn't it more
devastating to one's sanity to see the shadow of a revenge
ghost cast on the wall,—to know that a vindictive spirit
is beside one but invisible—than to see the specter
himself? Under such circumstances, the sight of a skeleton or a
sheeted phantom would be downright comforting.

The Mass of Shadows, by Anatole
France, is an example of the modern tendency to show phantoms
in groups, as contrasted with the solitary habits of ancient
specters. Here the spirits of those who had sinned for love
could meet and celebrate mass together in one evening of the
year.

The delicate beauty of many of the modern ghostly stories is
apparent in The Haunted
Orchard, by Richard Le Gallienne, for this prose poem
has an appeal of tenderness rather than of terror. And
everybody who has had affection for a dog will appreciate the
pathos of the little sketch, by Myla J. Closser,
At the Gate. The dog appears more
frequently as a ghost than does any other animal, perhaps
because man feels that he is nearer the human,—though the
horse is as intelligent and as much beloved. There is an innate
pathos about a dog somehow, that makes his appearance in
ghostly form more credible and sympathetic, while the ghost of
any other animal would tend to have a comic connotation. Other
animals in fiction have power of magic—notably the
cat—but they don't appear as spirits. But the dog is seen
as a pathetic symbol of faithfulness, as a tragic sufferer, or
as a terrible revenge ghost. Dogs may come singly or in
groups—Edith Wharton has five of different sorts in
Kerfol—or in packs, as in Eden Phillpotts's
Another Little Heath Hound.

An illuminating instance of the power of fiction over human
faith is furnished by the case of Arthur Machen's
The Bowmen, included here. This
story it is which started the whole tissue of legendry
concerning supernatural aid given the allied armies during the
war. This purely fictitious account of an angel army that saved
the day at Mons was so vivid that its readers accepted it as
truth and obstinately clung to that idea in the face of Mr.
Machen's persistent and bewildered explanations that he had
invented the whole thing. Editors wrote leading articles about
it, ministers preached sermons on it, and the general public
preferred to believe in the Mons angels rather than in Arthur
Machen. Mr. Machen has shown himself an artist in the
supernatural, one whom his generation has not been discerning
enough to appreciate. Some of his material is painfully morbid,
but his pen is magic and his inkwell holds many dark
secrets.

In this collection I have attempted to include specimens of
a few of the distinctive types of modern ghosts, as well as to
show the art of individual stories. Examples of the humorous
ghosts are omitted here, as a number of them will be brought
together in Humorous Ghost Stories, the companion
volume to this. The ghost lover who reads these pages will
think of others that he would like to see included—for I
believe that readers are more passionately attached to their
own favorite ghost tales than to any other form of literature.
But critics will admit the manifest impossibility of bringing
together in one volume all the famous examples of the art. Some
of the well-known tales, particularly the older ones on which
copyright has expired, have been reprinted so often as to be
almost hackneyed, while others have been of necessity omitted
because of the limitations of space.

D.S.

New York,

March, 1921.

The Willows

By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

I

After leaving Vienna, and long before you come to
Buda-Pesth, the Danube enters a region of singular loneliness
and desolation, where its waters spread away on all sides
regardless of a main channel, and the country becomes a swamp
for miles upon miles, covered by a vast sea of low
willow-bushes. On the big maps this deserted area is painted in
a fluffy blue, growing fainter in color as it leaves the banks,
and across it may be seen in large straggling letters the word
Sümpfe, meaning marshes.

In high flood this great acreage of sand, shingle-beds, and
willow-grown islands is almost topped by the water, but in
normal seasons the bushes bend and rustle in the free winds,
showing their silver leaves to the sunshine in an ever-moving
plain of bewildering beauty. These willows never attain to the
dignity of trees; they have no rigid trunks; they remain humble
bushes, with rounded tops and soft outline, swaying on slender
stems that answer to the least pressure of the wind; supple as
grasses, and so continually shifting that they somehow give the
impression that the entire plain is moving and alive.
For the wind sends waves rising and falling over the whole
surface, waves of leaves instead of waves of water, green
swells like the sea, too, until the branches turn and lift, and
then silvery white as their under-side turns to the sun.

Happy to slip beyond the control of stern banks, the Danube
here wanders about at will among the intricate network of
channels intersecting the islands everywhere with broad avenues
down which the waters pour with a shouting sound; making
whirlpools, eddies, and foaming rapids; tearing at the sandy
banks; carrying away masses of shore and willow-clumps; and
forming new islands innumerable which shift daily in size and
shape and possess at best an impermanent life, since the
flood-time obliterates their very existence.

Properly speaking, this fascinating part of the river's life
begins soon after leaving Pressburg, and we, in our Canadian
canoe, with gipsy tent and frying-pan on board, reached it on
the crest of a rising flood about mid-July. That very same
morning, when the sky was reddening before sunrise, we had
slipped swiftly through still-sleeping Vienna, leaving it a
couple of hours later a mere patch of smoke against the blue
hills of the Wienerwald on the horizon; we had breakfasted
below Fischeramend under a grove of birch trees roaring in the
wind; and had then swept on the tearing current past Orth,
Hainburg, Petronell (the old Roman Carnuntum of Marcus
Aurelius), and so under the frowning heights of Theben on a
spur of the Carpathians, where the March steals in quietly from
the left and the frontier is crossed between Austria and
Hungary.

Racing along at twelve kilometers an hour soon took us well
into Hungary, and the muddy waters—sure sign of
flood—sent us aground on many a shingle-bed, and twisted
us like a cork in many a sudden belching whirlpool before the
towers of Pressburg (Hungarian, Poszóny) showed against
the sky; and then the canoe, leaping like a spirited horse,
flew at top speed under the gray walls, negotiated safely the
sunken chain of the Fliegende Brücke ferry, turned the
corner sharply to the left, and plunged on yellow foam into the
wilderness of islands, sand-banks, and swamp-land
beyond—the land of the willows.

The change came suddenly, as when a series of bioscope
pictures snaps down on the streets of a town and shifts without
warning into the scenery of lake and forest. We entered the
land of desolation on wings, and in less than half an hour
there was neither boat nor fishing-hut nor red roof, nor any
single sign of human habitation and civilization within sight.
The sense of remoteness from the world of human kind, the utter
isolation, the fascination of this singular world of willows,
winds, and waters, instantly laid its spell upon us both, so
that we allowed laughingly to one another that we ought by
rights to have held some special kind of passport to admit us,
and that we had, somewhat audaciously, come without asking
leave into a separate little kingdom of wonder and
magic—a kingdom that was reserved for the use of others
who had a right to it, with everywhere unwritten warnings to
trespassers for those who had the imagination to discover
them.

Though still early in the afternoon, the ceaseless
buffetings of a most tempestuous wind made us feel weary, and
we at once began casting about for a suitable camping-ground
for the night. But the bewildering character of the islands
made landing difficult; the swirling flood carried us in-shore
and then swept us out again; the willow branches tore our hands
as we seized them to stop the canoe, and we pulled many a yard
of sandy bank into the water before at length we shot with a
great sideways blow from the wind into a backwater and managed
to beach the bows in a cloud of spray. Then we lay panting and
laughing after our exertions on hot yellow sand, sheltered from
the wind, and in the full blaze of a scorching sun, a cloudless
blue sky above, and an immense army of dancing, shouting willow
bushes, closing in from all sides, shining with spray and
clapping their thousand little hands as though to applaud the
success of our efforts.

"What a river!" I said to my companion, thinking of all the
way we had traveled from the source in the Black Forest, and
how we had often been obliged to wade and push in the upper
shallows at the beginning of June.

"Won't stand much nonsense now, will it?" he said, pulling
the canoe a little farther into safety up the sand, and then
composing himself for a nap.

I lay by his side, happy and peaceful in the bath of the
elements—water, wind, sand, and the great fire of the
sun—thinking of the long journey that lay behind us, and
of the great stretch before us to the Black Sea, and how lucky
I was to have such a delightful and charming traveling
companion as my friend, the Swede.

We had made many similar journeys together, but the Danube,
more than any other river I knew, impressed us from the very
beginning with its aliveness. From its tiny bubbling
entry into the world among the pinewood gardens of
Donaueschingen, until this moment when it began to play the
great river-game of losing itself among the deserted swamps,
unobserved, unrestrained, it had seemed to us like following
the growth of some living creature. Sleepy at first, but later
developing violent desires as it became conscious of its deep
soul, it rolled, like some huge fluid being, through all the
countries we had passed, holding our little craft on its mighty
shoulders, playing roughly with us sometimes, yet always
friendly and well-meaning, till at length we had come
inevitably to regard it as a Great Personage.

How, indeed, could it be otherwise, since it told us so much
of its secret life? At night we heard it singing to the moon as
we lay in our tent, uttering that odd sibilant note peculiar to
itself and said to be caused by the rapid tearing of the
pebbles along its bed, so great is its hurrying speed. We knew,
too, the voice of its gurgling whirlpools, suddenly bubbling up
on a surface previously quite calm; the roar of its shallows
and swift rapids; its constant steady thundering below all mere
surface sounds; and that ceaseless tearing of its icy waters at
the banks. How it stood up and shouted when the rains fell flat
upon its face! And how its laughter roared out when the wind
blew upstream and tried to stop its growing speed! We knew all
its sounds and voices, its tumblings and foamings, its
unnecessary splashing against the bridges; that self-conscious
chatter when there were hills to look on; the affected dignity
of its speech when it passed through the little towns, far too
important to laugh; and all these faint, sweet whisperings when
the sun caught it fairly in some slow curve and poured down
upon it till the steam rose.

It was full of tricks, too, in its early life before the
great world knew it. There were places in the upper reaches
among the Swabian forests, when yet the first whispers of its
destiny had not reached it, where it elected to disappear
through holes in the ground, to appear again on the other side
of the porous limestone hills and start a new river with
another name; leaving, too, so little water in its own bed that
we had to climb out and wade and push the canoe through miles
of shallows!

And a chief pleasure, in those early days of its
irresponsible youth, was to lie low, like Brer Fox, just before
the little turbulent tributaries came to join it from the Alps,
and to refuse to acknowledge them when in, but to run for miles
side by side, the dividing line well marked, the very levels
different, the Danube utterly declining to recognize the
new-comer. Below Passau, however, it gave up this particular
trick, for there the Inn comes in with a thundering power
impossible to ignore, and so pushes and incommodes the parent
river that there is hardly room for them in the long twisting
gorge that follows, and the Danube is shoved this way and that
against the cliffs, and forced to hurry itself with great waves
and much dashing to and fro in order to get through in time.
And during the fight our canoe slipped down from its shoulder
to its breast, and had the time of its life among the
struggling waves. But the Inn taught the old river a lesson,
and after Passau it no longer pretended to ignore new
arrivals.

This was many days back, of course, and since then we had
come to know other aspects of the great creature, and across
the Bavarian wheat plain of Straubing she wandered so slowly
under the blazing June sun that we could well imagine only the
surface inches were water, while below there moved, concealed
as by a silken mantle, a whole army of Undines, passing
silently and unseen down to the sea, and very leisurely too,
lest they be discovered.

Much, too, we forgave her because of her friendliness to the
birds and animals that haunted the shores. Cormorants lined the
banks in lonely places in rows like short black palings; gray
crows crowded the shingle-beds; storks stood fishing in the
vistas of shallower water that opened up between the islands,
and hawks, swans, and marsh birds of all sorts filled the air
with glinting wings and singing, petulant cries. It was
impossible to feel annoyed with the river's vagaries after
seeing a deer leap with a splash into the water at sunrise and
swim past the bows of the canoe; and often we saw fawns peering
at us from the underbrush, or looked straight into the brown
eyes of a stag as we charged full tilt round a corner and
entered another reach of the river. Foxes, too, everywhere
haunted the banks, tripping daintily among the driftwood and
disappearing so suddenly that it was impossible to see how they
managed it.

But now, after leaving Pressburg, everything changed a
little, and the Danube became more serious. It ceased trifling.
It was halfway to the Black Sea, within scenting distance
almost of other, stranger countries where no tricks would be
permitted or understood. It became suddenly grown-up, and
claimed our respect and even our awe. It broke out into three
arms, for one thing, that only met again a hundred kilometers
farther down, and for a canoe there were no indications which
one was intended to be followed.

"If you take a side channel," said the Hungarian officer we
met in the Pressburg shop while buying provisions, "you may
find yourselves, when the flood subsides, forty miles from
anywhere, high and dry, and you may easily starve. There are no
people, no farms, no fishermen. I warn you not to continue. The
river, too, is still rising, and this wind will increase."

The rising river did not alarm us in the least, but the
matter of being left high and dry by a sudden subsidence of the
waters might be serious, and we had consequently laid in an
extra stock of provisions. For the rest, the officer's prophecy
held true, and the wind, blowing down a perfectly clear sky,
increased steadily till it reached the dignity of a westerly
gale.

It was earlier than usual when we camped, for the sun was a
good hour or two from the horizon, and leaving my friend still
asleep on the hot sand, I wandered about in desultory
examination of our hotel. The island, I found, was less than an
acre in extent, a mere sandy bank standing some two or three
feet above the level of the river. The far end, pointing into
the sunset, was covered with flying spray which the tremendous
wind drove off the crests of the broken waves. It was
triangular in shape, with the apex upstream.

I stood there for several minutes, watching the impetuous
crimson flood bearing down with a shouting roar, dashing in
waves against the bank as though to sweep it bodily away, and
then swirling by in two foaming streams on either side. The
ground seemed to shake with the shock and rush while the
furious movement of the willow bushes as the wind poured over
them increased the curious illusion that the island itself
actually moved. Above, for a mile or two, I could see the great
river descending upon me: it was like looking up the slope of a
sliding hill, white with foam, and leaping up everywhere to
show itself to the sun.

The rest of the island was too thickly grown with willows to
make walking pleasant, but I made the tour, nevertheless. From
the lower end the light, of course, changed, and the river
looked dark and angry. Only the backs of the flying waves were
visible, streaked with foam, and pushed forcibly by the great
puffs of wind that fell upon them from behind. For a short mile
it was visible, pouring in and out among the islands, and then
disappearing with a huge sweep into the willows, which closed
about it like a herd of monstrous antediluvian creatures
crowding down to drink. They made me think of gigantic
sponge-like growths that sucked the river up into themselves.
They caused it to vanish from sight. They herded there together
in such overpowering numbers.

Altogether it was an impressive scene, with its utter
loneliness, its bizarre suggestion; and as I gazed, long and
curiously, a singular emotion began stir somewhere in the
depths of me. Midway in my delight of the wild beauty, there
crept unbidden and unexplained, a curious feeling of
disquietude, almost of alarm.

A rising river, perhaps, always suggests something of the
ominous: many of the little islands I saw before me would
probably have been swept away by the morning; this resistless,
thundering flood of water touched the sense of awe. Yet I was
aware that my uneasiness lay deeper far than the emotions of
awe and wonder. It was not that I felt. Nor had it directly to
do with the power of the driving wind—this shouting
hurricane that might almost carry up a few acres of willows
into the air and scatter them like so much chaff over the
landscape. The wind was simply enjoying itself, for nothing
rose out of the flat landscape to stop it, and I was conscious
of sharing its great game with a kind of pleasurable
excitement. Yet this novel emotion had nothing to do with the
wind. Indeed, so vague was the sense of distress I experienced,
that it was impossible to trace it to its source and deal with
it accordingly, though I was aware somehow that it had to do
with my realization of our utter insignificance before this
unrestrained power of the elements about me. The huge-grown
river had something to do with it too—a vague, unpleasant
idea that we had somehow trifled with these great elemental
forces in whose power we lay helpless every hour of the day and
night. For here, indeed, they were gigantically at play
together, and the sight appealed to the imagination.

But my emotion, so far as I could understand it, seemed to
attach itself more particularly to the willow bushes, to these
acres and acres of willows, crowding, so thickly growing there,
swarming everywhere the eye could reach, pressing upon the
river as though to suffocate it, standing in dense array mile
after mile beneath the sky, watching, waiting, listening. And,
apart quite from the elements, the willows connected themselves
subtly with my malaise, attacking the mind insidiously somehow
by reason of their vast numbers, and contriving in some way or
other to represent to the imagination a new and mighty power, a
power, moreover, not altogether friendly to us.

Great revelations of nature, of course, never fail to
impress in one way or another, and I was no stranger to moods
of the kind. Mountains overawe and oceans terrify, while the
mystery of great forests exercises a spell peculiarly its own.
But all these, at one point or another, somewhere link on
intimately with human life and human experience. They stir
comprehensible, even if alarming, emotions. They tend on the
whole to exalt.

With this multitude of willows, however, it was something
far different, I felt. Some essence emanated from them that
besieged the heart. A sense of awe awakened, true, but of awe
touched somewhere by a vague terror. Their serried ranks
growing everywhere darker about me as the shadows deepened,
moving furiously yet softly in the wind, woke in me the curious
and unwelcome suggestion that we had trespassed here upon the
borders of an alien world, a world where we were intruders, a
world where we were not wanted or invited to remain—where
we ran grave risks perhaps!

The feeling, however, though it refused to yield its meaning
entirely to analysis, did not at the time trouble me by passing
into menace. Yet it never left me quite, even during the very
practical business of putting up the tent in a hurricane of
wind and building a fire for the stew-pot. It remained, just
enough to bother and perplex, and to rob a most delightful
camping-ground of a good portion of its charm. To my companion,
however, I said nothing, for he was a man I considered devoid
of imagination. In the first place, I could never have
explained to him what I meant, and in the second, he would have
laughed stupidly at me if I had.

There was a slight depression in the center of the island,
and here we pitched the tent. The surrounding willows broke the
wind a bit.

"A poor camp," observed the imperturbable Swede when at last
the tent stood upright; "no stones and precious little
firewood. I'm for moving on early to-morrow—eh? This sand
won't hold anything."

But the experience of a collapsing tent at midnight had
taught us many devices, and we made the cosy gipsy house as
safe as possible, and then set about collecting a store of wood
to last till bedtime. Willow bushes drop no branches, and
driftwood was our only source of supply. We hunted the shores
pretty thoroughly. Everywhere the banks were crumbling as the
rising flood tore at them and carried away great portions with
a splash and a gurgle.

"The island's much smaller than when we landed," said the
accurate Swede. "It won't last long at this rate. We'd better
drag the canoe close to the tent, and be ready to start at a
moment's notice. I shall sleep in my clothes."

He was a little distance off, climbing along the bank, and I
heard his rather jolly laugh as he spoke.

"By Jove!" I heard him call, a moment later, and turned to
see what had caused his exclamation; but for the moment he was
hidden by the willows, and I could not find him.

"What in the world's this?" I heard him cry again, and this
time his voice had become serious.

I ran up quickly and joined him on the bank. He was looking
over the river, pointing at something in the water.

"Good Heavens, it's a man's body!" he cried excitedly.
"Look!"

A black thing, turning over and over in the foaming waves,
swept rapidly past. It kept disappearing and coming up to the
surface again. It was about twenty feet from the shore, and
just as it was opposite to where we stood it lurched round and
looked straight at us. We saw its eyes reflecting the sunset,
and gleaming an odd yellow as the body turned over. Then it
gave a swift, gulping plunge, and dived out of sight in a
flash.

"An otter, by gad!" we exclaimed in the same breath,
laughing.

It was an otter, alive, and out on the hunt; yet it
had looked exactly like the body of a drowned man turning
helplessly in the current. Far below it came to the surface
once again, and we saw its black skin, wet and shining in the
sunlight.

Then, too, just as we turned back, our arms full of
driftwood, another thing happened to recall us to the river
bank. This time it really was a man, and what was more, a man
in a boat. Now a small boat on the Danube was an unusual sight
at any time, but here in this deserted region, and at flood
time, it was so unexpected as to constitute a real event. We
stood and stared.

Whether it was due to the slanting sunlight, or the
refraction from the wonderfully illumined water, I cannot say,
but, whatever the cause, I found it difficult to focus my sight
properly upon the flying apparition. It seemed, however, to be
a man standing upright in a sort of flat-bottomed boat,
steering with a long oar, and being carried down the opposite
shore at a tremendous pace. He apparently was looking across in
our direction, but the distance was too great and the light too
uncertain for us to make out very plainly what he was about. It
seemed to me that he was gesticulating and making signs at us.
His voice came across the water to us shouting something
furiously but the wind drowned it so that no single word was
audible. There was something curious about the whole
appearance—man, boat, signs, voice—that made an
impression on me out of all proportion to its cause.

"He's crossing himself!" I cried. "Look, he's making the
sign of the cross!"

"I believe you're right," the Swede said, shading his eyes
with his hand and watching the man out of sight. He seemed to
be gone in a moment, melting away down there into the sea of
willows where the sun caught them in the bend of the river and
turned them into a great crimson wall of beauty. Mist, too, had
begun to rise, so that the air was hazy.

"But what in the world is he doing at nightfall on this
flooded river?" I said, half to myself. "Where is he going at
such a time, and what did he mean by his signs and shouting?
D'you think he wished to warn us about something?"

"He saw our smoke, and thought we were spirits probably,"
laughed my companion. "These Hungarians believe in all sorts of
rubbish: you remember the shopwoman at Pressburg warning us
that no one ever landed here because it belonged to some sort
of beings outside man's world! I suppose they believe in
fairies and elementals, possibly demons too. That peasant in
the boat saw people on the islands for the first time in his
life," he added, after a slight pause, "and it scared him,
that's all." The Swede's tone of voice was not convincing, and
his manner lacked something that was usually there. I noted the
change instantly while he talked, though without being able to
label it precisely.

"If they had enough imagination," I laughed loudly—I
remember trying to make as much noise as I
could—"they might well people a place like this with the
old gods of antiquity. The Romans must have haunted all this
region more or less with their shrines and sacred groves and
elemental deities."

The subject dropped and we returned to our stew-pot, for my
friend was not given to imaginative conversation as a rule.
Moreover, just then I remember feeling distinctly glad that he
was not imaginative; his stolid, practical nature suddenly
seemed to me welcome and comforting. It was an admirable
temperament, I felt: he could steer down rapids like a red
Indian, shoot dangerous bridges and whirlpools better than any
white man I ever saw in a canoe. He was a grand fellow for an
adventurous trip, a tower of strength when untoward things
happened. I looked at his strong face and light curly hair as
he staggered along under his pile of driftwood (twice the size
of mine!), and I experienced a feeling of relief. Yes, I was
distinctly glad just then that the Swede was—what he was,
and that he never made remarks that suggested more than they
said.

"The river's still rising, though," he added, as if
following out some thoughts of his own, and dropping his load
with a gasp. "This island will be under water in two days if it
goes on."

"I wish the wind would go down," I said. "I don't
care a fig for the river."

The flood, indeed, had no terrors for us; we could get off
at ten minutes' notice, and the more water the better we liked
it. It meant an increasing current and the obliteration of the
treacherous shingle-beds that so often threatened to tear the
bottom out of our canoe.

Contrary to our expectations, the wind did not go down with
the sun. It seemed to increase with the darkness, howling
overhead and shaking the willows round us like straws. Curious
sounds accompanied it sometimes, like the explosion of heavy
guns, and it fell upon the water and the island in great flat
blows of immense power. It made me think of the sounds a planet
must make, could we only hear it, driving along through
space.

But the sky kept wholly clear of clouds, and soon after
supper the full moon rose up in the east and covered the river
and the plain of shouting willows with a light like the
day.

We lay on the sandy patch beside the fire, smoking,
listening to the noises of the night round us, and talking
happily of the journey we had already made, and of our plans
ahead. The map lay spread in the door of the tent, but the high
wind made it hard to study, and presently we lowered the
curtain and extinguished the lantern. The firelight was enough
to smoke and see each other's faces by, and the sparks flew
about overhead like fireworks. A few yards beyond, the river
gurgled and hissed, and from time to time a heavy splash
announced the falling away of further portions of the bank.

Our talk, I noticed, had to do with the far-away scenes and
incidents of our first camps in the Black Forest, or of other
subjects altogether remote from the present setting, for
neither of us spoke of the actual moment more than was
necessary—almost as though we had agreed tacitly to avoid
discussion of the camp and its incidents. Neither the otter nor
the boatman, for instance, received the honor of a single
mention, though ordinarily these would have furnished
discussion for the greater part of the evening. They were, of
course, distinct events in such a place.

The scarcity of wood made it a business to keep the fire
going, for the wind, that drove the smoke in our faces wherever
we sat, helped at the same time to make a forced draught. We
took it in turn to make foraging expeditions into the darkness,
and the quantity the Swede brought back always made me feel
that he took an absurdly long time finding it; for the fact was
I did not care much about being left alone, and yet it always
seemed to be my turn to grub about among the bushes or scramble
along the slippery banks in the moonlight. The long day's
battle with wind and water—such wind and such
water!—had tired us both, and an early bed was the
obvious program. Yet neither of us made the move for the tent.
We lay there, tending the fire, talking in desultory fashion,
peering about us into the dense willow bushes, and listening to
the thunder of wind and river. The loneliness of the place had
entered our very bones, and silence seemed natural, for after a
bit the sound of our voices became a trifle unreal and forced;
whispering would have been the fitting mode of communication, I
felt, and the human voice, always rather absurd amid the roar
of the elements, now carried with it something almost
illegitimate. It was like talking out loud in church, or in
some place where it was not lawful, perhaps not quite
safe, to be overheard.

The eeriness of this lonely island, set among a million
willows, swept by a hurricane, and surrounded by hurrying deep
waters, touched us both, I fancy. Untrodden by man, almost
unknown to man, it lay there beneath the moon, remote from
human influence, on the frontier of another world, an alien
world, a world tenanted by willows only and the souls of
willows. And we, in our rashness, had dared to invade it, even
to make use of it! Something more than the power of its mystery
stirred in me as I lay on the sand, feet to fire, and peered up
through the leaves at the stars. For the last time I rose to
get firewood.

"When this has burnt up," I said firmly, "I shall turn in,"
and my companion watched me lazily as I moved off into the
surrounding shadows.

For an unimaginative man I thought he seemed unusually
receptive that night, unusually open to suggestion of things
other than sensory. He too was touched by the beauty and
loneliness of the place. I was not altogether pleased, I
remember, to recognize this slight change in him, and instead
of immediately collecting sticks, I made my way to the far
point of the island where the moonlight on plain and river
could be seen to better advantage. The desire to be alone had
come suddenly upon me; my former dread returned in force; there
was a vague feeling in me I wished to face and probe to the
bottom.

When I reached the point of sand jutting out among the
waves, the spell of the place descended upon me with a positive
shock. No mere "scenery" could have produced such an effect.
There was something more here, something to alarm.

I gazed across the waste of wild waters; I watched the
whispering willows; I heard the ceaseless beating of the
tireless wind; and, one and all, each in its own way, stirred
in me this sensation of a strange distress. But the
willows especially: for ever they went on chattering
and talking among themselves, laughing a little, shrilly crying
out, sometimes sighing—but what it was they made so much
to-do about belonged to the secret life of the great plain they
inhabited. And it was utterly alien to the world I knew, or to
that of the wild yet kindly elements. They made me think of a
host of beings from another plane of life, another evolution
altogether, perhaps, all discussing a mystery known only to
themselves. I watched them moving busily together, oddly
shaking their big bushy heads, twirling their myriad leaves
even when there was no wind. They moved of their own will as
though alive, and they touched, by some incalculable method, my
own keen sense of the horrible.

There they stood in the moonlight, like a vast army
surrounding our camp, shaking their innumerable silver spears
defiantly, formed all ready for an attack.

The psychology of places, for some imaginations at least, is
very vivid; for the wanderer, especially, camps have their
"note" either of welcome or rejection. At first it may not
always be apparent, because the busy preparations of tent and
cooking prevent, but with the first pause—after supper
usually—it comes and announces itself. And the note of
this willow-camp now became unmistakably plain to me: we were
interlopers, trespassers, we were not welcomed. The sense of
unfamiliarity grew upon me as I stood there watching. We
touched the frontier of a region where our presence was
resented. For a night's lodging we might perhaps be tolerated;
but for a prolonged and inquisitive stay—No! by all the
gods of the trees and the wilderness, no! We were the first
human influences upon this island, and we were not wanted.
The willows were against us.

Strange thoughts like these, bizarre fancies, borne I know
not whence, found lodgment in my mind as I stood listening.
What, I thought, if, after all, these crouching willows proved
to be alive; if suddenly they should rise up, like a swarm of
living creatures, marshaled by the gods whose territory we had
invaded, sweep towards us off the vast swamps, booming overhead
in the night—and then settle down! As I looked
it was so easy to imagine they actually moved, crept nearer,
retreated a little, huddled together in masses, hostile,
waiting for the great wind that should finally start them
a-running. I could have sworn their aspect changed a little,
and their ranks deepened and pressed more closely together.

The melancholy shrill cry of a night bird sounded overhead,
and suddenly I nearly lost my balance as the piece of bank I
stood upon fell with a great splash into the river, undermined
by the flood. I stepped back just in time, and went on hunting
for firewood again, half laughing at the odd fancies that
crowded so thickly into my mind and cast their spell upon me. I
recall the Swede's remark about moving on next day, and I was
just thinking that I fully agreed with him, when I turned with
a start and saw the subject of my thoughts standing immediately
in front of me. He was quite close. The roar of the elements
had covered his approach.

"You've been gone so long," he shouted above the wind, "I
thought something must have happened to you."

But there was that in his tone, and a certain look in his
face as well, that conveyed to me more than his actual words,
and in a flash I understood the real reason for his coming. It
was because the spell of the place had entered his soul too,
and he did not like being alone.

"River still rising," he cried, pointing to the flood in the
moonlight, "and the wind's simply awful."

He always said the same things, but it was the cry for
companionship that gave the real importance to his words.

"Lucky," I cried back, "our tent's in the hollow. I think
it'll hold all right." I added something about the difficulty
of finding wood, in order to explain my absence, but the wind
caught my words and flung them across the river, so that he did
not hear, but just looked at me through the branches, nodding
his head.

"Lucky if we get away without disaster!" he shouted, or
words to that effect; and I remember feeling half angry with
him for putting the thought into words, for it was exactly what
I felt myself. There was disaster impending somewhere, and the
sense of presentiment lay unpleasantly upon me.

We went back to the fire and made a final blaze, poking it
up with our feet. We took a last look round. But for the wind
the heat would have been unpleasant. I put this thought into
words, and I remember my friend's reply struck me oddly: that
he would rather have the heat, the ordinary July weather, than
this "diabolical wind."

Everything was snug for the night; the canoe lying turned
over beside the tent, with both yellow paddles beneath her; the
provision sack hanging from a willow stem, and the washed-up
dishes removed to a safe distance from the fire, all ready for
the morning meal.

We smothered the embers of the fire with sand, and then
turned in. The flap of the tent door was up, and I saw the
branches and the stars and the white moonlight. The shaking
willows and the heavy buffetings of the wind against our taut
little house were the last things I remembered as sleep came
down and covered all with its soft and delicious
forgetfulness.

II

Suddenly I found myself lying awake, peering from my sandy
mattress through the door of the tent. I looked at my watch
pinned against the canvas, and saw by the bright moonlight that
it was past twelve o'clock—the threshold of a new
day—and I had therefore slept a couple of hours. The
Swede was asleep still beside me; the wind howled as before
something plucked at my heart and made me feel afraid. There
was a sense of disturbance in my immediate neighborhood.

I sat up quickly and looked out. The trees were swaying
violently to and fro as the gusts smote them, but our little
bit of green canvas lay snugly safe in the hollow, for the wind
passed over it without meeting enough resistance to make it
vicious. The feeling of disquietude did not pass however, and I
crawled quietly out of the tent to see if our belongings were
safe. I moved carefully so as not to waken my companion. A
curious excitement was on me.

I was halfway out, kneeling on all fours, when my eye first
took in that the tops of the bushes opposite, with their moving
tracery of leaves, made shapes against the sky. I sat back on
my haunches and stared. It was incredible, surely, but there,
opposite and slightly above me, were shapes of some
indeterminate sort among the willows, and as the branches
swayed in the wind they seemed to group themselves about these
shapes, forming a series of monstrous outlines that shifted
rapidly beneath the moon. Close, about fifty feet in front of
me, I saw these things.

My first instinct was to waken my companion that he too
might see them, but something made me hesitate—the sudden
realization, probably, that I should not welcome corroboration;
and meanwhile I crouched there staring in amazement with
smarting eyes. I was wide awake. I remember saying to myself
that I was not dreaming.

They first became properly visible, these huge figures, just
within the tops of the bushes—immense bronze-colored,
moving, and wholly independent of the swaying of the branches.
I saw them plainly and noted, now I came to examine them more
calmly, that they were very much larger than human, and indeed
that something in their appearance proclaimed them to be
not human at all. Certainly they were not merely the
moving tracery of the branches against the moonlight. They
shifted independently. They rose upwards in a continuous stream
from earth to sky, vanishing utterly as soon as they reached
the dark of the sky. They were interlaced one with another,
making a great column, and I saw their limbs and huge bodies
melting in and out of each other, forming this serpentine line
that bent and swayed and twisted spirally with the contortions
of the wind-tossed trees. They were nude, fluid shapes, passing
up the bushes, within the leaves almost—rising
up in a living column into the heavens. Their faces I never
could see. Unceasingly they poured upwards, swaying in great
bending curves, with a hue of dull bronze upon their skins.

I stared, trying to force every atom of vision from my eyes.
For a long time I thought they must every moment
disappear and resolve themselves into the movements of the
branches and prove to be an optical illusion. I searched
everywhere for a proof of reality, when all the while I
understood quite well that the standard of reality had changed.
For the longer I looked the more certain I became that these
figures were real and living, though perhaps not according to
the standards that the camera and the biologist would insist
upon.

Far from feeling fear, I was possessed with a sense of awe
and wonder such as I have never known. I seemed to be gazing at
the personified elemental forces of this haunted and primeval
region. Our intrusion had stirred the powers of the place into
activity. It was we who were the cause of the disturbance, and
my brain filled to bursting with stories and legends of the
spirits and deities of places that have been acknowledged and
worshiped by men in all ages of the world's history. But,
before I could arrive at any possible explanation, something
impelled me to go farther out, and I crept forward on to the
sand and stood upright. I felt the ground still warm under my
bare feet; the wind tore at my hair and face; and the sound of
the river burst upon my ears with a sudden roar. These things,
I knew, were real, and proved that my senses were acting
normally. Yet the figures still rose from earth to heaven,
silent, majestically, in a great spiral of grace and strength
that overwhelmed me at length with a genuine deep emotion of
worship. I felt that I must fall down and
worship—absolutely worship.

Perhaps in another minute I might have done so, when a gust
of wind swept against me with such force that it blew me
sideways, and I nearly stumbled and fell. It seemed to shake
the dream violently out of me. At least it gave me another
point of view somehow. The figures still remained, still
ascended into heaven from the heart of the night, but my reason
at last began to assert itself. It must be a subjective
experience, I argued—none the less real for that, but
still subjective. The moonlight and the branches combined to
work out these pictures upon the mirror of my imagination, and
for some reason I projected them outwards and made them appear
objective. I knew this must be the case, of course. I was the
subject of a vivid and interesting hallucination. I took
courage, and began to move forward across the open patches of
sand. By Jove, though, was it all hallucination? Was it merely
subjective? Did not my reason argue in the old futile way from
the little standard of the known?

I only know that great column of figures ascended darkly
into the sky for what seemed a very long period of time, and
with a very complete measure of reality as most men are
accustomed to gauge reality. Then suddenly they were gone!

And, once they were gone and the immediate wonder of their
great presence had passed, fear came down upon me with a cold
rush. The esoteric meaning of this lonely and haunted region
suddenly flamed up within me and I began to tremble dreadfully.
I took a quick look round—a look of horror that came near
to panic—calculating vainly ways of escape; and then,
realizing how helpless I was to achieve anything really
effective, I crept back silently into the tent and lay down
again upon my sandy mattress, first lowering the door-curtain
to shut out the sight of the willows in the moonlight, and then
burying my head as deeply as possible beneath the blankets to
deaden the sound of the terrifying wind.

III

As though further to convince me that I had not been
dreaming, I remember that it was a long time before I fell
again into a troubled and restless sleep; and even then only
the upper crust of me slept, and underneath there was something
that never quite lost consciousness, but lay alert and on the
watch.

But this second time I jumped up with a genuine start of
terror. It was neither the wind nor the river that woke me, but
the slow approach of something that caused the sleeping portion
of me to grow smaller and smaller till at last it vanished
altogether, and I found myself sitting bolt
upright—listening.

Outside there was a sound of multitudinous little
patterings. They had been coming, I was aware, for a long time,
and in my sleep they had first become audible. I sat there
nervously wide awake as though I had not slept at all. It
seemed to me that my breathing came with difficulty, and that
there was a great weight upon the surface of my body. In spite
of the hot night, I felt clammy with cold and shivered.
Something surely was pressing steadily against the sides of the
tent and weighing down upon it from above. Was it the body of
the wind? Was this the pattering rain, the dripping of the
leaves? The spray blown from the river by the wind and
gathering in big drops? I thought quickly of a dozen
things.

Then suddenly the explanation leaped into my mind: a bough
from the poplar, the only large tree on the island, had fallen
with the wind. Still half caught by the other branches, it
would fall with the next gust and crush us, and meanwhile its
leaves brushed and tapped upon the tight canvas surface of the
tent. I raised the loose flap and rushed out, calling to the
Swede to follow.

But when I got out and stood upright I saw that the tent was
free. There was no hanging bough; there was no rain or spray;
nothing approached.

A cold, gray light filtered down through the bushes and lay
on the faintly gleaming sand. Stars still crowded the sky
directly overhead, and the wind howled magnificently, but the
fire no longer gave out any glow, and I saw the east reddening
in streaks through the trees. Several hours must have passed
since I stood there before, watching the ascending figures, and
the memory of it now came back to me horribly, like an evil
dream. Oh, how tired it made me feel, that ceaseless raging
wind! Yet, though the deep lassitude of a sleepless night was
on me, my nerves were tingling with the activity of an equally
tireless apprehension, and all idea of repose was out of the
question. The river I saw had risen further. Its thunder filled
the air, and a fine spray made itself felt through my thin
sleeping shirt.

Yet nowhere did I discover the slightest evidences of
anything to cause alarm. This deep, prolonged disturbance in my
heart remained wholly unaccounted for.

My companion had not stirred when I called him, and there
was no need to waken him now. I looked about me carefully,
noting everything: the turned-over canoe; the yellow
paddles—two of them, I'm certain; the provision sack and
the extra lantern hanging together from the tree; and, crowding
everywhere about me, enveloping all, the willows, those
endless, shaking willows. A bird uttered its morning cry, and a
string of duck passed with whirring flight overhead in the
twilight. The sand whirled, dry and stinging, about my bare
feet in the wind.

I walked round the tent and then went out a little way into
the bush, so that I could see across the river to the farther
landscape, and the same profound yet indefinable emotion of
distress seized upon me again as I saw the interminable sea of
bushes stretching to the horizon, looking ghostly and unreal in
the wan light of dawn. I walked softly here and there, still
puzzling over that odd sound of infinite pattering, and of that
pressure upon the tent that had wakened me. It must
have been the wind, I reflected—the wind beating upon the
loose, hot sand, driving the dry particles smartly against the
taut canvas—the wind dropping heavily upon our fragile
roof.

Yet all the time my nervousness and malaise increased
appreciably.

I crossed over to the farther shore and noted how the coast
line had altered in the night, and what masses of sand the
river had torn away. I dipped my hands and feet into the cool
current, and bathed my forehead. Already there was a glow of
sunrise in the sky and the exquisite freshness of coming day.
On my way back I passed purposely beneath the very bushes where
I had seen the column of figures rising into the air, and
midway among the clumps I suddenly found myself overtaken by a
sense of vast terror. From the shadows a large figure went
swiftly by. Some one passed me, as sure as ever man did....

It was a great staggering blow from the wind that helped me
forward again, and once out in the more open space, the sense
of terror diminished strangely. The winds were about and
walking, I remember saying to myself; for the winds often move
like great presences under the trees. And altogether the fear
that hovered about me was such an unknown and immense kind of
fear, so unlike anything I had ever felt before, that it woke a
sense of awe and wonder in me that did much to counteract its
worst effects; and when I reached a high point in the middle of
the island from which I could see the wide stretch of river,
crimson in the sunrise, the whole magical beauty of it all was
so overpowering that a sort of wild yearning woke in me and
almost brought a cry up into the throat.

But this cry found no expression, for as my eyes wandered
from the plain beyond to the island round me and noted our
little tent half hidden among the willows, a dreadful discovery
leaped out at me, compared to which my terror of the walking
winds seemed as nothing at all.

For a change, I thought, had somehow come about in the
arrangement of the landscape. It was not that my point of
vantage gave me a different view, but that an alteration had
apparently been effected in the relation of the tent to the
willows, and of the willows to the tent. Surely the bushes now
crowded much closer—unnecessarily, unpleasantly close.
They had moved nearer.

Creeping with silent feet over the shifting sands, drawing
imperceptibly nearer by soft, unhurried movements, the willows
had come closer during the night. But had the wind moved them,
or had they moved of themselves? I recalled the sound of
infinite small patterings and the pressure upon the tent and
upon my own heart that caused me to wake in terror. I swayed
for a moment in the wind like a tree, finding it hard to keep
my upright position on the sandy hillock. There was a
suggestion here of personal agency, of deliberate intention, of
aggressive hostility, and it terrified me into a sort of
rigidity.

Then the reaction followed quickly. The idea was so bizarre,
so absurd, that I felt inclined to laugh. But the laughter came
no more readily than the cry, for the knowledge that my mind
was so receptive to such dangerous imaginings brought the
additional terror that it was through our minds and not through
our physical bodies that the attack would come, and was
coming.

The wind buffeted me about, and, very quickly it seemed, the
sun came up over the horizon, for it was after four o'clock,
and I must have stood on that little pinnacle of sand longer
than I knew, afraid to come down at close quarters with the
willows. I returned quietly, creepily, to the tent, first
taking another exhaustive look round and—yes, I confess
it—making a few measurements. I paced out on the warm
sand the distances between the willows and the tent, making a
note of the shortest distance particularly.

I crawled stealthily into my blankets. My companion, to all
appearances, still slept soundly, and I was glad that this was
so. Provided my experiences were not corroborated, I could find
strength somehow to deny them, perhaps. With the daylight I
could persuade myself that it was all a subjective
hallucination, a fantasy of the night, a projection of the
excited imagination.

Nothing further came to disturb me, and I fell asleep almost
at once, utterly exhausted, yet still in dread of hearing again
that weird sound of multitudinous pattering, or of feeling the
pressure upon my heart that had made it difficult to
breathe.

IV

The sun was high in the heavens when my companion woke me
from a heavy sleep and announced that the porridge was cooked
and there was just time to bathe. The grateful smell of
frizzling bacon entered the tent door.

"River still rising," he said, "and several islands out in
midstream have disappeared altogether. Our own island's much
smaller."

"Any wood left?" I asked sleepily.

"The wood and the island will finish to-morrow in a dead
heat," he laughed, "but there's enough to last us till
then."

I plunged in from the point of the island, which had indeed
altered a lot in size and shape during the night, and was swept
down in a moment to the landing place opposite the tent. The
water was icy, and the banks flew by like the country from an
express train. Bathing under such conditions was an
exhilarating operation, and the terror of the night seemed
cleansed out of me by a process of evaporation in the brain.
The sun was blazing hot; not a cloud showed itself anywhere;
the wind, however, had not abated one little jot.

Quite suddenly then the implied meaning of the Swede's words
flashed across me, showing that he no longer wished to leave
posthaste, and had changed his mind. "Enough to last till
to-morrow"—he assumed we should stay on the island
another night. It struck me as odd. The night before he was so
positive the other way. How had the change come about?

Great crumblings of the banks occurred at breakfast, with
heavy splashings and clouds of spray which the wind brought
into our frying-pan, and my fellow-traveler talked incessantly
about the difficulty the Vienna-Pesth steamers must have to
find the channel in flood. But the state of his mind interested
and impressed me far more than the state of the river or the
difficulties of the steamers. He had changed somehow since the
evening before. His manner was different—a trifle
excited, a trifle shy, with a sort of suspicion about his voice
and gestures. I hardly know how to describe it now in cold
blood, but at the time I remember being quite certain of one
thing, viz., that he had become frightened!

He ate very little breakfast, and for once omitted to smoke
his pipe. He had the map spread open beside him, and kept
studying its markings.

"We'd better get off sharp in an hour," I said presently,
feeling for an opening that must bring him indirectly to a
partial confession at any rate. And his answer puzzled me
uncomfortably: "Rather! If they'll let us."

"Who'll let us? The elements?" I asked quickly, with
affected indifference.

"The powers of this awful place, whoever they are," he
replied, keeping his eyes on the map. "The gods are here, if
they are anywhere at all in the world."

"The elements are always the true immortals," I replied,
laughing as naturally as I could manage, yet knowing quite well
that my face reflected my true feelings when he looked up
gravely at me and spoke across the smoke:

"We shall be fortunate if we get away without further
disaster."

This was exactly what I had dreaded, and I screwed myself up
to the point of the direct question. It was like agreeing to
allow the dentist to extract the tooth; it had to come
anyhow in the long run, and the rest was all pretense.

"Further disaster! Why, what's happened?"

"For one thing—the steering paddle's gone," he said
quietly.

"The steering paddle gone!" I repeated, greatly excited, for
this was our rudder, and the Danube in flood without a rudder
was suicide. "But what——"

"And there's a tear in the bottom of the canoe," he added,
with a genuine little tremor in his voice.

I continued staring at him, able only to repeat the words in
his face somewhat foolishly. There, in the heat of the sun, and
on this burning sand, I was aware of a freezing atmosphere
descending round us. I got up to follow him, for he merely
nodded his head gravely and led the way towards the tent a few
yards on the other side of the fireplace. The canoe still lay
there as I had last seen her in the night, ribs uppermost, the
paddles, or rather, the paddle, on the sand beside
her.

"There's only one," he said, stooping to pick it up. "And
here's the rent in the base-board."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I had
clearly noticed two paddles a few hours before, but a
second impulse made me think better of it, and I said nothing.
I approached to see.

There was a long, finely made tear in the bottom of the
canoe where a little slither of wood had been neatly taken
clean out; it looked as if the tooth of a sharp rock or snag
had eaten down her length, and investigation showed that the
hole went through. Had we launched out in her without observing
it we must inevitably have foundered. At first the water would
have made the wood swell so as to close the hole, but once out
in midstream the water must have poured in, and the canoe,
never more than two inches above the surface, would have filled
and sunk very rapidly.

"There, you see, an attempt to prepare a victim for the
sacrifice," I heard him saying, more to himself than to me,
"two victims rather," he added as he bent over and ran his
fingers along the slit.

I began to whistle—a thing I always do unconsciously
when utterly nonplused—and purposely paid no attention to
his words. I was determined to consider them foolish.

"It wasn't there last night," he said presently,
straightening up from his examination and looking anywhere but
at me.

"We must have scratched her in landing, of course," I
stopped whistling to say, "The stones are very
sharp——"

I stopped abruptly, for at that moment he turned round and
met my eye squarely. I knew just as well as he did how
impossible my explanation was. There were no stones, to begin
with.

"And then there's this to explain too," he added quietly,
handing me the paddle and pointing to the blade.

A new and curious emotion spread freezingly over me as I
took and examined it. The blade was scraped down all over,
beautifully scraped, as though someone had sand-papered it with
care, making it so thin that the first vigorous stroke must
have snapped it off at the elbow.

"One of us walked in his sleep and did this thing," I said
feebly, "or—or it has been filed by the constant stream
of sand particles blown against it by the wind, perhaps."

"Ah," said the Swede, turning away, laughing a little, "you
can explain everything!"

"The same wind that caught the steering paddle and flung it
so near the bank that it fell in with the next lump that
crumbled," I called out after him, absolutely determined to
find an explanation for everything he showed me.

"I see," he shouted back, turning his head to look at me
before disappearing among the willow bushes.

Once alone with these perplexing evidences of personal
agency, I think my first thought took the form of "One of us
must have done this thing, and it certainly was not I." But my
second thought decided how impossible it was to suppose, under
all the circumstances, that either of us had done it. That my
companion, the trusted friend of a dozen similar expeditions,
could have knowingly had a hand in it, was a suggestion not to
be entertained for a moment. Equally absurd seemed the
explanation that this imperturbable and densely practical
nature had suddenly become insane and was busied with insane
purposes.

Yet the fact remained that what disturbed me most, and kept
my fear actively alive even in this blaze of sunshine and wild
beauty, was the clear certainty that some curious alteration
had come about in his mind—that he was nervous,
timid, suspicious, aware of goings on he did not speak about,
watching a series of secret and hitherto unmentionable
events—waiting, in a word, for a climax that he expected,
and, I thought, expected very soon. This grew up in my mind
intuitively—I hardly knew how.

I made a hurried examination of the tent and its
surroundings, but the measurements of the night remained the
same. There were deep hollows formed in the sand, I now noticed
for the first time, basin-shaped and of various depths and
sizes, varying from that of a teacup to a large bowl. The wind,
no doubt, was responsible for these miniature craters, just as
it was for lifting the paddle and tossing it towards the water.
The rent in the canoe was the only thing that seemed quite
inexplicable; and, after all, it was conceivable that
a sharp point had caught it when we landed. The examination I
made of the shore did not assist this theory, but all the same
I clung to it with that diminishing portion of my intelligence
which I called my "reason." An explanation of some kind was an
absolute necessity, just as some working explanation of the
universe is necessary—however absurd—to the
happiness of every individual who seeks to do his duty in the
world and face the problems of life. The simile seemed to me at
the time an exact parallel.

I at once set the pitch melting, and presently the Swede
joined me at the work, though under the best conditions in the
world the canoe could not be safe for traveling till the
following day. I drew his attention casually to the hollows in
the sand.

"Yes," he said, "I know. They're all over the island. But
you can explain them, no doubt!"

"Wind, of course," I answered without hesitation. "Have you
never watched those little whirlwinds in the street that twist
and twirl everything into a circle? This sand's loose enough to
yield, that's all."

He made no reply, and we worked on in silence for a bit. I
watched him surreptitiously all the time, and I had an idea he
was watching me. He seemed, too, to be always listening
attentively to something I could not hear, or perhaps for
something that he expected to hear, for he kept turning about
and staring into the bushes, and up into the sky, and out
across the water where it was visible through the openings
among the willows. Sometimes he even put his hand to his ear
and held it there for several minutes. He said nothing to me,
however, about it, and I asked no questions. And meanwhile, as
he mended that torn canoe with the skill and address of a red
Indian, I was glad to notice his absorption in the work, for
there was a vague dread in my heart that he would speak of the
changed aspect of the willows. And, if he had noticed
that, my imagination could no longer be held a
sufficient explanation of it.

At length, after a long pause, he began to talk.

"Queer thing," he added in a hurried sort of voice, as
though he wanted to say something and get it over. "Queer
thing, I mean, about that otter last night."

I had expected something so totally different that he caught
me with surprise, and I looked up sharply.

"Shows how lonely this place is. Otters are awfully shy
things—"

"I don't mean that, of course," he interrupted. "I
mean—do you think—did you think it really was an
otter?"

"What else, in the name of Heaven, what else?"

"You know, I saw it before you did, and at first it
seemed—so much bigger than an otter."

"The sunset as you looked upstream magnified it, or
something," I replied.

He looked at me absently a moment, as though his mind were
busy with other thoughts.

"It had such extraordinary yellow eyes," he went on half to
himself.

"That was the sun too," I laughed, a trifle boisterously. "I
suppose you'll wonder next if that fellow in the
boat——"

I suddenly decided not to finish the sentence. He was in the
act again of listening, turning his head to the wind, and
something in the expression of his face made me halt. The
subject dropped, and we went on with our caulking. Apparently
he had not noticed my unfinished sentence. Five minutes later,
however, he looked at me across the canoe, the smoking pitch in
his hand, his face exceedingly grave.

"I did rather wonder, if you want to know," he said
slowly, "what that thing in the boat was. I remember thinking
at the time it was not a man. The whole business seemed to rise
quite suddenly out of the water."

I laughed again boisterously in his face, but this time
there was impatience and a strain of anger too, in my
feeling.

"Look here now," I cried, "this place is quite queer enough
without going out of our way to imagine things! That boat was
an ordinary boat, and the man in it was an ordinary man, and
they were both going downstream as fast as they could lick. And
that otter was an otter, so don't let's play the fool
about it!"

He looked steadily at me with the same grave expression. He
was not in the least annoyed. I took courage from his
silence.

"And for heaven's sake," I went on, "don't keep pretending
you hear things, because it only gives me the jumps, and
there's nothing to hear but the river and this cursed old
thundering wind."

"You fool!" he answered in a low, shocked voice,
"you utter fool. That's just the way all victims talk. As if
you didn't understand just as well as I do!" he sneered with
scorn in his voice, and a sort of resignation. "The best thing
you can do is to keep quiet and try to hold your mind as firm
as possible. This feeble attempt at self-deception only makes
the truth harder when you're forced to meet it."

My little effort was over, and I found nothing more to say,
for I knew quite well his words were true, and that I was the
fool, not he. Up to a certain stage in the adventure
he kept ahead of me easily, and I think I felt annoyed to be
out of it, to be thus proved less psychic, less sensitive than
himself to these extraordinary happenings, and half ignorant
all the time of what was going on under my very nose. He
knew from the very beginning, apparently. But at the
moment I wholly missed the point of his words about the
necessity of there being a victim, and that we ourselves were
destined to satisfy the want. I dropped all pretense
thenceforward, but thenceforward likewise my fear increased
steadily to the climax.

"But you're quite right about one thing," he added, before
the subject passed, "and that is that we're wiser not to talk
about it, or even to think about it, because what one
thinks finds expression in words, and what one
says, happens."

That afternoon, while the canoe dried and hardened, we spent
trying to fish, testing the leak, collecting wood, and watching
the enormous flood of rising water. Masses of driftwood swept
near our shores sometimes, and we fished for them with long
willow branches. The island grew perceptibly smaller as the
banks were torn away with great gulps and splashes. The weather
kept brilliantly fine till about four o'clock, and then for the
first time for three days the wind showed signs of abating.
Clouds began to gather in the southwest, spreading thence
slowly over the sky.

This lessening of the wind came as a great relief, for the
incessant roaring, banging, and thundering had irritated our
nerves. Yet the silence that came about five o'clock with its
sudden cessation was in a manner quite as oppressive. The
booming of the river had everything its own way then: it filled
the air with deep murmurs, more musical than the wind noises,
but infinitely more monotonous. The wind held many notes,
rising, falling, always beating out some sort of great
elemental tune; whereas the river's song lay between three
notes at most—dull pedal notes, that held a lugubrious
quality foreign to the wind, and somehow seemed to me, in my
then nervous state, to sound wonderfully well the music of
doom.

It was extraordinary, too, how the withdrawal suddenly of
bright sunlight took everything out of the landscape that made
for cheerfulness; and since this particular landscape had
already managed to convey the suggestion of something sinister,
the change of course was all the more unwelcome and noticeable.
For me, I know, the darkening outlook became distinctly more
alarming, and I found myself more than once calculating how
soon after sunset the full moon would get up in the east, and
whether the gathering clouds would greatly interfere with her
lighting of the little island.

With this general hush of the wind—though it still
indulged in occasional brief gusts—the river seemed to me
to grow blacker, the willows to stand more densely together.
The latter, too, kept up a sort of independent movement of
their own, rustling among themselves when no wind stirred, and
shaking oddly from the roots upwards. When common objects in
this way become charged with the suggestion of horror, they
stimulate the imagination far more than things of unusual
appearance; and these bushes, crowding huddled about us,
assumed for me in the darkness a bizarre grotesquerie
of appearance that lent to them somehow the aspect of
purposeful and living creatures. Their very ordinariness, I
felt, masked what was malignant and hostile to us. The forces
of the region drew nearer with the coming of night. They were
focusing upon our island, and more particularly upon ourselves.
For thus, somehow, in the terms of the imagination, did my
really indescribable sensations in this extraordinary place
present themselves.

I had slept a good deal in the early afternoon, and had thus
recovered somewhat from the exhaustion of a disturbed night,
but this only served apparently to render me more susceptible
than before to the obsessing spell of the haunting. I fought
against it, laughing at my feelings as absurd and childish,
with very obvious physiological explanations, yet, in spite of
every effort, they gained in strength upon me so that I dreaded
the night as a child lost in a forest must dread the approach
of darkness.

The canoe we had carefully covered with a waterproof sheet
during the day, and the one remaining paddle had been securely
tied by the Swede to the base of a tree, lest the wind should
rob us of that too. From five o'clock onwards I busied myself
with the stew-pot and preparations for dinner, it being my turn
to cook that night. We had potatoes, onions, bits of bacon fat
to add flavour, and a general thick residue from former stews
at the bottom of the pot; with black bread broken up into it
the result was most excellent, and it was followed by a stew of
plums with sugar and a brew of strong tea with dried milk. A
good pile of wood lay close at hand, and the absence of wind
made my duties easy. My companion sat lazily watching me,
dividing his attentions between cleaning his pipe and giving
useless advice—an admitted privilege of the off-duty man.
He had been very quiet all the afternoon, engaged in
re-caulking the canoe, strengthening the tent ropes, and
fishing for driftwood while I slept. No more talk about
undesirable things had passed between us, and I think his only
remarks had to do with the gradual destruction of the island,
which he declared was now fully a third smaller than when we
first landed.

The pot had just begun to bubble when I heard his voice
calling to me from the bank, where he had wandered away without
my noticing. I ran up.

"Come and listen," he said, "and see what you make of it."
He held his hand cupwise to his ear, as so often before.

"Now do you hear anything?" he asked, watching me
curiously.

We stood there, listening attentively together. At first I
heard only the deep note of the water and the hissings rising
from its turbulent surface. The willows, for once, were
motionless and silent. Then a sound began to reach my ears
faintly, a peculiar sound—something like the humming of a
distant gong. It seemed to come across to us in the darkness
from the waste of swamps and willows opposite. It was repeated
at regular intervals, but it was certainly neither the sound of
a bell nor the hooting of a distant steamer. I can liken it to
nothing so much as to the sound of an immense gong, suspended
far up in the sky, repeating incessantly its muffled metallic
note, soft and musical, as it was repeatedly struck. My heart
quickened as I listened.

"I've heard it all day," said my companion. "While you slept
this afternoon it came all round the island. I hunted it down,
but could never get near enough to see—to localize it
correctly. Sometimes it was overhead, and sometimes it seemed
under the water. Once or twice, too, I could have sworn it was
not outside at all, but within myself—you
know—the way a sound in the fourth dimension is supposed
to come."

I was too much puzzled to pay much attention to his words. I
listened carefully, striving to associate it with any known
familiar sound I could think of, but without success. It
changed in direction, too, coming nearer, and then sinking
utterly away into remote distance. I cannot say that it was
ominous in quality, because to me it seemed distinctly musical,
yet I must admit it set going a distressing feeling that made
me wish I had never heard it.

"The wind blowing in those sand-funnels," I said, determined
to find an explanation, "or the bushes rubbing together after
the storm perhaps."

"It comes off the whole swamp," my friend answered. "It
comes from everywhere at once." He ignored my explanations. "It
comes from the willow bushes somehow——"

"But now the wind has dropped," I objected "The willows can
hardly make a noise by themselves, can they?"

His answer frightened me, first because I had dreaded it,
and secondly, because I knew intuitively it was true.

"It is because the wind has dropped we now hear it.
It was drowned before. It is the cry, I believe of
the——"

I dashed back to my fire, warned by a sound of bubbling that
the stew was in danger, but determined at the same time to
escape from further conversation. I was resolute, if possible,
to avoid the exchanging of views. I dreaded, too, that he would
begin again about the gods, or the elemental forces, or
something else disquieting, and I wanted to keep myself well in
hand for what might happen later. There was another night to be
faced before we escaped from this distressing place, and there
was no knowing yet what it might bring forth.

"Come and cut up bread for the pot," I called to him,
vigorously stirring the appetizing mixture. That stew-pot held
sanity for us both, and the thought made me laugh.

He came over slowly and took the provision sack from the
tree, fumbling in its mysterious depths, and then emptying the
entire contents upon the ground-sheet at his feet.

"Hurry up!" I cried; "it's boiling."

The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter that startled
me. It was forced laughter, not artificial exactly, but
mirthless.

"There's nothing here!" he shouted, holding his sides.

"Bread, I mean."

"It's gone. There is no bread. They've taken it!"

I dropped the long spoon and ran up. Everything the sack had
contained lay upon the ground-sheet, but there was no loaf.

The whole dead weight of my growing fear fell upon me and
shook me. Then I burst out laughing too. It was the only thing
to do: and the sound of my own laughter also made me understand
his. The strain of psychical pressure caused it—this
explosion of unnatural laughter in both of us; it was an effort
of repressed forces to seek relief; it was a temporary safety
valve. And with both of us it ceased quite suddenly.

"How criminally stupid of me!" I cried, still determined to
be consistent and find an explanation. "I clean forgot to buy a
loaf at Pressburg. That chattering woman put everything out of
my head, and I must have left it lying on the counter
or——"

"The oatmeal, too, is much less than it was this morning,"
the Swede interrupted.

Why in the world need he draw attention to it? I thought
angrily.

"There's enough for to-morrow," I said, stirring vigorously,
"and we can get lots more at Komorn or Gran. In twenty-four
hours we shall be miles from here."

"I hope so—to God," he muttered, putting the things
back into the sack, "unless we're claimed first as victims for
the sacrifice," he added with a foolish laugh. He dragged the
sack into the tent, for safety's sake, I suppose, and I heard
him mumbling on to himself, but so indistinctly that it seemed
quite natural for me to ignore his words.

Our meal was beyond question a gloomy one, and we ate it
almost in silence, avoiding one another's eyes, and keeping the
fire bright. Then we washed up and prepared for the night, and,
once smoking, our minds unoccupied with any definite duties,
the apprehension I had felt all day long became more and more
acute. It was not then active fear, I think, but the very
vagueness of its origin distressed me far more than if I had
been able to ticket and face it squarely. The curious sound I
have likened to the note of a gong became now almost incessant,
and filled the stillness of the night with a faint, continuous
ringing rather than a series of distinct notes. At one time it
was behind and at another time in front of us. Sometimes I
fancied it came from the bushes on our left, and then again
from the clumps on our right. More often it hovered directly
overhead like the whirring of wings. It was really everywhere
at once, behind, in front, at our sides and over our heads,
completely surrounding us. The sound really defies description.
But nothing within my knowledge is like that ceaseless muffled
humming rising off the deserted world of swamps and
willows.

We sat smoking in comparative silence, the strain growing
every minute greater. The worst feature of the situation seemed
to me that we did not know what to expect, and could therefore
make no sort of preparation by way of defense. We could
anticipate nothing. My explanations made in the sunshine,
moreover, now came to haunt me with their foolish and wholly
unsatisfactory nature, and it was more and more clear to me
that some kind of plain talk with my companion was inevitable,
whether I liked it or not. After all, we had to spend the night
together, and to sleep in the same tent side by side. I saw
that I could not get along much longer without the support of
his mind, and for that, of course, plain talk was imperative.
As long as possible, however, I postponed this little climax,
and tried to ignore or laugh at the occasional sentences he
flung into the emptiness.

Some of these sentences, moreover, were confoundedly
disquieting to me, coming as they did to corroborate much that
I felt myself: corroboration, too—which made it so much
more convincing—from a totally different point of view.
He composed such curious sentences, and hurled them at me in
such an inconsequential sort of way, as though his main line of
thought was secret to himself, and these fragments were the
bits he found it impossible to digest. He got rid of them by
uttering them. Speech relieved him. It was like being sick.

"There are things about us, I'm sure, that make for
disorder, disintegration, destruction, our
destruction," he said once, while the fire blazed between us.
"We've strayed out of a safe line somewhere."

And another time, when the gong sounds had come nearer,
ringing much louder than before, and directly over our heads,
he said, as though talking to himself:

"I don't think a phonograph would show any record of that.
The sound doesn't come to me by the ears at all. The vibrations
reach me in another manner altogether, and seem to be within
me, which is precisely how a fourth dimension sound might be
supposed to make itself heard."

I purposely made no reply to this, but I sat up a little
closer to the fire and peered about me into the darkness. The
clouds were massed all over the sky and no trace of moonlight
came through. Very still, too, everything was, so that the
river and the frogs had things all their own way.

"It has that about it," he went on, "which is utterly out of
common experience. It is unknown. Only one thing
describes it really: it is a non-human sound; I mean a sound
outside humanity."

Having rid himself of this indigestible morsel, he lay quiet
for a time; but he had so admirably expressed my own feeling
that it was a relief to have the thought out, and to have
confined it by the limitation of words from dangerous wandering
to and fro in the mind.

The solitude of that Danube camping-place, can I ever forget
it? The feeling of being utterly alone on an empty planet! My
thoughts ran incessantly upon cities and the haunts of men. I
would have given my soul, as the saying is, for the "feel" of
those Bavarian villages we had passed through by the score; for
the normal, human commonplaces, peasants drinking beer, tables
beneath the trees, hot sunshine, and a ruined castle on the
rocks behind the red-roofed church. Even the tourists would
have been welcome.

Yet what I felt of dread was no ordinary ghostly fear. It
was infinitely greater, stranger, and seemed to arise from some
dim ancestral sense of terror more profoundly disturbing than
anything I had known or dreamed of. We had "strayed," as the
Swede put it, into some region or some set of conditions where
the risks were great, yet unintelligible to us; where the
frontiers of some unknown world lay close about us. It was a
spot held by the dwellers in some outer space, a sort of
peephole whence they could spy upon the earth, themselves
unseen, a point where the veil between had worn a little thin.
As the final result of too long a sojourn here, we should be
carried over the border and deprived of what we called "our
lives," yet by mental, not physical, processes. In that sense,
as he said, we should be the victims of our adventure—a
sacrifice.

It took us in different fashion, each according to the
measure of his sensitiveness and powers of resistance. I
translated it vaguely into a personification of the mightily
disturbed elements, investing them with the horror of a
deliberate and malefic purpose, resentful of our audacious
intrusion into their breeding-place; whereas my friend threw it
into the unoriginal form at first of a trespass on some ancient
shrine, some place where the old gods still held sway, where
the emotional forces of former worshipers still clung, and the
ancestral portion of him yielded to the old pagan spell.

At any rate, here was a place unpolluted by men, kept clean
by the winds from coarsening human influences, a place where
spiritual agencies were within reach and aggressive. Never,
before or since, have I been so attacked by indescribable
suggestions of a "beyond region," of another scheme of life,
another evolution not parallel to the human. And in the end our
minds would succumb under the weight of the awful spell, and we
should be drawn across the frontier into their
world.

Small things testified to this amazing influence of the
place, and now in the silence round the fire they allowed
themselves to be noted by the mind. The very atmosphere had
proved itself a magnifying medium to distort every indication:
the otter rolling in the current, the hurrying boatman making
signs, the shifting willows, one and all had been robbed of its
natural character, and revealed in something of its other
aspect—as it existed across the border in that other
region. And this changed aspect I felt was new not merely to
me, but to the race. The whole experience whose verge we
touched was unknown to humanity at all. It was a new order of
experience, and in the true sense of the word
unearthly.

"It's the deliberate, calculating purpose that reduces
one's courage to zero," the Swede said suddenly, as if he had
been actually following my thoughts. "Otherwise imagination
might count for much. But the paddle, the canoe, the lessening
food——"

"Haven't I explained all that once?" I interrupted
viciously.

"You have," he answered dryly; "you have indeed."

He made other remarks too, as usual, about what he called
the "plain determination to provide a victim"; but, having now
arranged my thoughts better, I recognized that this was simply
the cry of his frightened soul against the knowledge that he
was being attacked in a vital part, and that he would be
somehow taken or destroyed. The situation called for a courage
and calmness of reasoning that neither of us could compass, and
I have never before been so clearly conscious of two persons in
me—the one that explained everything, and the other that
laughed at such foolish explanations, yet was horribly
afraid.

Meanwhile, in the pitchy night the fire died down and the
woodpile grew small. Neither of us moved to replenish the
stock, and the darkness consequently came up very close to our
faces. A few feet beyond the circle of firelight it was inky
black. Occasionally a stray puff of wind set the billows
shivering about us, but apart from this not very welcome sound
a deep and depressing silence reigned, broken only by the
gurgling of the river and the humming in the air overhead.

We both missed, I think, the shouting company of the
winds.

At length, at a moment when a stray puff prolonged itself as
though the wind were about to rise again, I reached the point
for me of saturation, the point where it was absolutely
necessary to find relief in plain speech, or else to betray
myself by some hysterical extravagance that must have been far
worse in its effect upon both of us. I kicked the fire into a
blaze, and turned to my companion abruptly. He looked up with a
start.

"I can't disguise it any longer," I said; "I don't like this
place, and the darkness, and the noises, and the awful feelings
I get. There's something here that beats me utterly. I'm in a
blue funk, and that's the plain truth. If the other shore
was—different, I swear I'd be inclined to swim for
it!"

The Swede's face turned very white beneath the deep tan of
sun and wind. He stared straight at me and answered quietly,
but his voice betrayed his huge excitement by its unnatural
calmness. For the moment, at any rate, he was the strong man of
the two. He was more phlegmatic, for one thing.

"It's not a physical condition we can escape from by running
away," he replied, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing some
grave disease; "we must sit tight and wait. There are forces
close here that could kill a herd of elephants in a second as
easily as you or I could squash a fly. Our only chance is to
keep perfectly still. Our insignificance perhaps may save
us."

I put a dozen questions into my expression of face, but
found no words. It was precisely like listening to an accurate
description of a disease whose symptoms had puzzled me.

"I mean that so far, although aware of our disturbing
presence, they have not found us—not 'located'
us, as the Americans say," he went on. "They're blundering
about like men hunting for a leak of gas. The paddle and canoe
and provisions prove that. I think they feel us, but
cannot actually see us. We must keep our minds quiet—it's
our minds they feel. We must control our thoughts, or it's all
up with us."

"Death you mean?" I stammered, icy with the horror of his
suggestion.

"Worse—by far," he said. "Death, according to one's
belief, means either annihilation or release from the
limitations of the senses, but it involves no change of
character. You don't suddenly alter just because the
body's gone. But this means a radical alteration, a complete
change, a horrible loss of oneself by substitution—far
worse than death, and not even annihilation. We happen to have
camped in a spot where their region touches ours where the veil
between has worn thin"—horrors! he was using my very own
phrase, my actual words—"so that they are aware of our
being in their neighborhood."

"But who are aware?" I asked.

I forgot the shaking of the willows in the windless calm,
the humming overhead, everything except that I was waiting for
an answer that I dreaded more than I can possibly explain.

He lowered his voice at once to reply, leaning forward a
little over the fire, an indefinable change in his face that
made me avoid his eyes and look down upon the ground.

"All my life," he said, "I have been strangely, vividly
conscious of another region—not far removed from our own
world in one sense, yet wholly different in kind—where
great things go on unceasingly, where immense and terrible
personalities hurry by, intent on vast purposes compared to
which earthly affairs, the rise and fall of nations, the
destinies of empires, the fate of armies and continents, are
all as dust in the balance; vast purposes, I mean, that deal
directly with the soul, and not indirectly with mere
expressions of the soul—"

"I suggest just now—" I began, seeking to stop him,
feeling as though I was face to face with a madman. But he
instantly overbore me with his torrent that had to
come.

"You think," he said, "it is the spirits of the elements,
and I thought perhaps it was the old gods. But I tell you now
it is—neither. These would be comprehensible
entities, for they have relations with men, depending upon them
for worship or sacrifice, whereas these beings who are now
about us have absolutely nothing to do with mankind, and it is
mere chance that their space happens just at this spot to touch
our own."

The mere conception, which his words somehow made so
convincing, as I listened to them there in the dark stillness
of that lonely island, set me shaking a little all over. I
found it impossible to control my movements.

"And what do you propose?" I began again.

"A sacrifice, a victim, might save us by distracting them
until we could get away," he went on, "just as the wolves stop
to devour the dogs and give the sleigh another start.
But—I see no chance of any other victim now."

I stared blankly at him. The gleam in his eyes was dreadful.
Presently he continued.

"It's the willows, of course. The willows mask the
others, but the others are feeling about for us. If we let our
minds betray our fear, we're lost, lost utterly." He looked at
me with an expression so calm, so determined, so sincere, that
I no longer had any doubts as to his sanity. He was as sane as
any man ever was. "If we can hold out through the night," he
added, "we may get off in the daylight unnoticed, or rather,
undiscovered."

"But you really think a sacrifice would——"

That gong-like humming came down very close over our heads
as I spoke, but it was my friend's scared face that really
stopped my mouth.

"Hush!" he whispered, holding up his hand. "Do not mention
them more than you can help. Do not refer to them by
name. To name is to reveal: it is the inevitable clue, and
our only hope lies in ignoring them, in order that they may
ignore us."

"Even in thought?" He was extraordinarily agitated.

"Especially in thought. Our thoughts make spirals in their
world. We must keep them out of our minds at all costs
if possible."

I raked the fire together to prevent the darkness having
everything its own way. I never longed for the sun as I longed
for it then in the awful blackness of that summer night.

"Were you awake all last night?" he went on suddenly.

"I slept badly a little after dawn," I replied evasively,
trying to follow his instructions, which I knew instinctively
were true, "but the wind, of course—"

"I know. But the wind won't account for all the noises."

"Then you heard it too?"

"The multiplying countless little footsteps I heard," he
said, adding, after a moment's hesitation, "and that other
sound—"

"You mean above the tent, and the pressing down upon us of
something tremendous, gigantic?"

He nodded significantly.

"It was like the beginning of a sort of inner suffocation?"
I said.

"Partly, yes. It seemed to me that the weight of the
atmosphere had been altered—had increased enormously, so
that we should be crushed."

"And that," I went on, determined to have it all
out, pointing upwards where the gong-like note hummed
ceaselessly, rising and falling like wind. "What do you make of
that?"

"It's their sound," he whispered gravely. "It's the
sound of their world, the humming in their region. The division
here is so thin that it leaks through somehow. But, if you
listen carefully, you'll find it's not above so much as around
us. It's in the willows. It's the willows themselves humming,
because here the willows have been made symbols of the forces
that are against us."

I could not follow exactly what he meant by this, yet the
thought and idea in my mind were beyond question the thought
and idea in his. I realized what he realized, only with less
power of analysis than his. It was on the tip of my tongue to
tell him at last about my hallucination of the ascending
figures and the moving bushes, when he suddenly thrust his face
again close into mine across the firelight and began to speak
in a very earnest whisper. He amazed me by his calmness and
pluck, his apparent control of the situation. This man I had
for years deemed unimaginative, stolid!

"Now listen," he said. "The only thing for us to do is to go
on as though nothing had happened, follow our usual habits, go
to bed, and so forth; pretend we feel nothing and notice
nothing. It is a question wholly of the mind, and the less we
think about them the better our chance of escape. Above all,
don't think, for what you think happens!"

"All right," I managed to reply, simply breathless with his
words and the strangeness of it all; "all right, I'll try, but
tell me one thing more first. Tell me what you make of those
hollows in the ground all about us, those sand-funnels?"

"No!" he cried, forgetting to whisper in his excitement. "I
dare not, simply dare not, put the thought into words. If you
have not guessed I am glad. Don't try to. They have
put it into my mind; try your hardest to prevent their putting
it into yours."

He sank his voice again to a whisper before he finished, and
I did not press him to explain. There was already just about as
much horror in me as I could hold. The conversation came to an
end, and we smoked our pipes busily in silence.

Then something happened, something unimportant apparently,
as the way is when the nerves are in a very great state of
tension, and this small thing for a brief space gave me an
entirely different point of view. I chanced to look down at my
sand-shoe—the sort we used for the canoe—and
something to do with the hole at the toe suddenly recalled to
me the London shop where I had bought them, the difficulty the
man had in fitting me, and other details of the uninteresting
but practical operation. At once, in its train, followed a
wholesome view of the modern skeptical world I was accustomed
to move in at home. I thought of roast beef and ale,
motor-cars, policemen, brass bands, and a dozen other things
that proclaimed the soul of ordinariness or utility. The effect
was immediate and astonishing even to myself. Psychologically,
I suppose, it was simply a sudden and violent reaction after
the strain of living in an atmosphere of things that to the
normal consciousness must seem impossible and incredible. But,
whatever the cause, it momentarily lifted the spell from my
heart, and left me for the short space of a minute feeling free
and utterly unafraid. I looked up at my friend opposite.

"You damned old pagan!" I cried, laughing aloud in his face.
"You imaginative idiot! You superstitious idolator!
You——"

I stopped in the middle, seized anew by the old horror. I
tried to smother the sound of my voice as something
sacrilegious. The Swede, of course, heard it too—that
strange cry overhead in the darkness—and that sudden drop
in the air as though something had come nearer.

He had turned ashen white under the tan. He stood bolt
upright in front of the fire, stiff as a rod, staring at
me.

"After that," he said in a sort of helpless, frantic way,
"we must go! We can't stay now; we must strike camp this very
instant and go on—down the river."

He was talking, I saw, quite wildly, his words dictated by
abject terror—the terror he had resisted so long, but
which had caught him at last.

"In the dark?" I exclaimed, shaking with fear after my
hysterical outburst, but still realizing our position better
than he did. "Sheer madness! The river's in flood, and we've
only got a single paddle. Besides, we only go deeper into their
country! There's nothing ahead for fifty miles but willows,
willows, willows!"

He sat down again in a state of semi-collapse. The
positions, by one of those kaleidoscopic changes nature loves,
were suddenly reversed, and the control of our forces passed
over into my hands. His mind at last had reached the point
where it was beginning to weaken.

"What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?" he
whispered, with the awe of genuine terror in his voice and
face.

I crossed round to his side of the fire. I took both his
hands in mine, kneeling down beside him and looking straight
into his frightened eyes.

"We'll make one more blaze," I said firmly, "and then turn
in for the night. At sunrise we'll be off full speed for
Komorn. Now, pull yourself together a bit, and remember your
own advice about not thinking fear!"

He said no more, and I saw that he would agree and obey. In
some measure, too, it was a sort of relief to get up and make
an excursion into the darkness for more wood. We kept close
together, almost touching, groping among the bushes and along
the bank. The humming overhead never ceased, but seemed to me
to grow louder as we increased our distance from the fire. It
was shivery work!

We were grubbing away in the middle of a thickish clump of
willows where some driftwood from a former flood had caught
high among the branches, when my body was seized in a grip that
made me half drop upon the sand. It was the Swede. He had
fallen against me, and was clutching me for support. I heard
his breath coming and going in short gasps.

"Look! By my soul!" he whispered, and for the first time in
my experience I knew what it was to hear tears of terror in a
human voice. He was pointing to the fire, some fifty feet away.
I followed the direction of his finger, and I swear my heart
missed a beat.

There, in front of the dim glow, something was
moving.

I saw it through a veil that hung before my eyes like the
gauze drop-curtain used at the back of a theater—hazily a
little. It was neither a human figure nor an animal. To me it
gave the strange impression of being as large as several
animals grouped together, like horses, two or three, moving
slowly. The Swede, too, got a similar result, though expressing
it differently, for he thought it was shaped and sized like a
clump of willow bushes, rounded at the top, and moving all over
upon its surface—"coiling upon itself like smoke," he
said afterwards.

"I watched it settle downwards through the bushes," he
sobbed at me. "Look, by God! It's coming this way! Oh,
oh!"—he gave a kind of whistling cry. "They've found
us."

I gave one terrified glance, which just enabled me to see
that the shadowy form was swinging towards us through the
bushes, and then I collapsed backwards with a crash into the
branches. These failed, of course, to support my weight, so
that with the Swede on the top of me we fell in a struggling
heap upon the sand. I really hardly knew what was happening. I
was conscious only of a sort of enveloping sensation of icy
fear that plucked the nerves out of their fleshly covering,
twisted them this way and that, and replaced them quivering. My
eyes were tightly shut; something in my throat choked me; a
feeling that my consciousness was expanding, extending out into
space, swiftly gave way to another feeling that I was losing it
altogether, and about to die.

An acute spasm of pain passed through me, and I was aware
that the Swede had hold of me in such a way that he hurt me
abominably. It was the way he caught at me in falling.

But it was this pain, he declared afterwards, that saved me:
it caused me to forget them and think of something
else at the very instant when they were about to find me. It
concealed my mind from them at the moment of discovery, yet
just in time to evade their terrible seizing of me. He himself,
he says, actually swooned at the same moment, and that was what
saved him.

I only know that at a later time, how long or short is
impossible to say, I found myself scrambling up out of the
slippery network of willow branches, and saw my companion
standing in front of me holding out a hand to assist me. I
stared at him in a dazed way, rubbing the arm he had twisted
for me. Nothing came to me to say, somehow.

"I lost consciousness for a moment or two," I heard him say.
"That's what saved me. It made me stop thinking about
them."

"You nearly broke my arm in two," I said, uttering my only
connected thought at the moment. A numbness came over me.

"That's what saved you!" he replied. "Between us,
we've managed to set them off on a false tack somewhere. The
humming has ceased. It's gone—for the moment at any
rate!"

A wave of hysterical laughter seized me again, and this time
spread to my friend too—great healing gusts of shaking
laughter that brought a tremendous sense of relief in their
train. We made our way back to the fire and put the wood on so
that it blazed at once. Then we saw that the tent had fallen
over and lay in a tangled heap upon the ground.

We picked it up, and during the process tripped more than
once and caught our feet in sand.

"It's those sand-funnels," exclaimed the Swede, when the
tent was up again and the firelight lit up the ground for
several yards about us. "And look at the size of them!"

All round the tent and about the fireplace where we had seen
the moving shadows there were deep funnel-shaped hollows in the
sand, exactly similar to the ones we had already found over the
island, only far bigger and deeper, beautifully formed, and
wide enough in some instances to admit the whole of my foot and
leg.

Neither of us said a word. We both knew that sleep was the
safest thing we could do, and to bed we went accordingly
without further delay, having first thrown sand on the fire and
taken the provision sack and the paddle inside the tent with
us. The canoe, too, we propped in such a way at the end of the
tent that our feet touched it, and the least motion would
disturb and wake us.

In case of emergency, too, we again went to bed in our
clothes, ready for a sudden start.

V

It was my firm intention to lie awake all night and watch,
but the exhaustion of nerves and body decreed otherwise, and
sleep after a while came over me with a welcome blanket of
oblivion. The fact that my companion also slept quickened its
approach. At first he fidgeted and constantly sat up, asking me
if I "heard this" or "heard that." He tossed about on his cork
mattress, and said the tent was moving and the river had risen
over the point of the island; but each time I went out to look
I returned with the report that all was well, and finally he
grew calmer and lay still. Then at length his breathing became
regular and I heard unmistakable sounds of snoring—the
first and only time in my life when snoring has been a welcome
and calming influence.

This, I remember, was the last thought in my mind before
dozing off.

A difficulty in breathing woke me, and I found the blanket
over my face. But something else besides the blanket was
pressing upon me, and my first thought was that my companion
had rolled off his mattress on to my own in his sleep. I called
to him and sat up, and at the same moment it came to me that
the tent was surrounded. That sound of multitudinous
soft pattering was again audible outside, filling the night
with horror.

I called again to him, louder than before. He did not
answer, but I missed the sound of his snoring, and also noticed
that the flap of the tent door was down. This was the
unpardonable sin. I crawled out in the darkness to hook it back
securely, and it was then for the first time I realized
positively that the Swede was not there. He had gone.

I dashed out in a mad run, seized by a dreadful agitation,
and the moment I was out I plunged into a sort of torrent of
humming that surrounded me completely and came out of every
quarter of the heavens at once. It was that same familiar
humming—gone mad! A swarm of great invisible bees might
have been about me in the air. The sound seemed to thicken the
very atmosphere, and I felt that my lungs worked with
difficulty.

But my friend was in danger, and I could not hesitate.

The dawn was just about to break, and a faint whitish light
spread upwards over the clouds from a thin strip of clear
horizon. No wind stirred. I could just make out the bushes and
river beyond, and the pale sandy patches. In my excitement I
ran frantically to and fro about the island, calling him by
name, shouting at the top of my voice the first words that came
into my head. But the willows smothered my voice, and the
humming muffled it, so that the sound only traveled a few feet
round me. I plunged among the bushes, tripping headlong,
tumbling over roots, and scraping my face as I tore this way
and that among the preventing branches.

Then, quite unexpectedly, I came out upon the island's point
and saw a dark figure outlined between the water and the sky.
It was the Swede. And already he had one foot in the river! A
moment more and he would have taken the plunge.

I threw myself upon him, flinging my arms about his waist
and dragging him shorewards with all my strength. Of course he
struggled furiously, making a noise all the time just like that
cursed humming, and using the most outlandish phrases in his
anger about "going inside to Them," and "taking the
way of the water and the wind," and God only knows what more
besides, that I tried in vain to recall afterwards, but which
turned me sick with horror and amazement as I listened. But in
the end I managed to get him into the comparative safety of the
tent, and flung him breathless and cursing upon the mattress,
where I held him until the fit had passed.

I think the suddenness with which it all went and he grew
calm, coinciding as it did with the equally abrupt cessation of
the humming and pattering outside—I think this was almost
the strangest part of the whole business perhaps. For he just
opened his eyes and turned his tired face up to me so that the
dawn threw a pale light upon it through the doorway, and said,
for all the world just like a frightened child:

"My life, old man—it's my life I owe you. But it's all
over now anyhow. They've found a victim in our place!"

Then he dropped back upon his blankets and went to sleep
literally under my eyes. He simply collapsed, and began to
snore again as healthily as though nothing had happened and he
had never tried to offer his own life as a sacrifice by
drowning. And when the sunlight woke him three hours
later—hours of ceaseless vigil for me—it became so
clear to me that he remembered absolutely nothing of what he
had attempted to do, that I deemed it wise to hold my peace and
ask no dangerous questions.

He woke naturally and easily, as I have said, when the sun
was already high in a windless hot sky, and he at once got up
and set about the preparation of the fire for breakfast. I
followed him anxiously at bathing, but he did not attempt to
plunge in, merely dipping his head and making some remark about
the extra coldness of the water.

"River's falling at last," he said, "and I'm glad of
it."

"The humming has stopped too," I said.

He looked up at me quietly with his normal expression.
Evidently he remembered everything except his own attempt at
suicide.

"Everything has stopped," he said,
"because——"

He hesitated. But I knew some reference to that remark he
had made just before he fainted was in his mind, and I was
determined to know it.

"Because 'They've found another victim'?" I said, forcing a
little laugh.

"Exactly," he answered, "exactly! I feel as positive of it
as though—as though—I feel quite safe again, I
mean," he finished.

He began to look curiously about him. The sunlight lay in
hot patches on the sand. There was no wind. The willows were
motionless. He slowly rose to feet.

"Come," he said; "I think if we look, we shall find it."

He started off on a run, and I followed him. He kept to the
banks, poking with a stick among the sandy bays and caves and
little back-waters, myself always close on his heels.

"Ah!" he exclaimed presently, "ah!"

The tone of his voice somehow brought back to me a vivid
sense of the horror of the last twenty-four hours, and I
hurried up to join him. He was pointing with his stick at a
large black object that lay half in the water and half on the
sand. It appeared to be caught by some twisted willow roots so
that the river could not sweep it away. A few hours before the
spot must have been under water.

"See," he said quietly, "the victim that made our escape
possible!"

And when I peered across his shoulder I saw that his stick
rested on the body of a man. He turned it over. It was the
corpse of a peasant, and the face was hidden in the sand.
Clearly the man had been drowned but a few hours before, and
his body must have been swept down upon our island somewhere
about the hour of the dawn—at the very time the fit
had passed.

"We must give it a decent burial, you know."

"I suppose so," I replied. I shuddered a little in spite of
myself, for there was something about the appearance of that
poor drowned man that turned me cold.

The Swede glanced up sharply at me, and began clambering
down the bank. I followed him more leisurely. The current, I
noticed, had torn away much of the clothing from the body, so
that the neck and part of the chest lay bare.

Halfway down the bank my companion suddenly stopped and held
up his hand in warning; but either my foot slipped, or I had
gained too much momentum to bring myself quickly to a halt, for
I bumped into him and sent him forward with a sort of leap to
save himself. We tumbled together on to the hard sand so that
our feet splashed into the water. And, before anything could be
done, we had collided a little heavily against the corpse.

The Swede uttered a sharp cry. And I sprang back as if I had
been shot.

At the moment we touched the body there arose from its
surface the loud sound of humming—the sound of several
hummings—which passed with a vast commotion as of winged
things in the air about us and disappeared upwards into the
sky, growing fainter and fainter till they finally ceased in
the distance. It was exactly as though we had disturbed some
living yet invisible creatures at work.

My companion clutched me, and I think I clutched him, but
before either of us had time properly to recover from the
unexpected shock, we saw that a movement of the current was
turning the corpse round so that it became released from the
grip of the willow roots. A moment later it had turned
completely over, the dead face uppermost, staring at the sky.
It lay on the edge of the main stream. In another moment it
would be swept away.

The Swede started to save it, shouting again something I did
not catch about a "proper burial" and then abruptly dropped
upon his knees on the sand and covered his eyes with his hands.
I was beside him in an instant.

I saw what he had seen.

For just as the body swung round to the current the face and
the exposed chest turned full towards us, and showed plainly
how the skin and flesh were indented with small hollows,
beautifully formed, and exactly similar in shape and kind to
the sand-funnels that we had found all over the island.

"Their mark!" I heard my companion mutter under his breath.
"Their awful mark!"

And when I turned my eyes again from his ghastly face to the
river, the current had done its work, and the body had been
swept away into midstream and was already beyond our reach and
almost out of sight, turning over and over on the waves like an
otter.

The Shadows on the Wall

By MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

"Henry had words with Edward in the study the night before
Edward died," said Caroline Glynn.

She spoke not with acrimony, but with grave severity.
Rebecca Ann Glynn gasped by way of assent. She sat in a wide
flounce of black silk in the corner of the sofa, and rolled
terrified eyes from her sister Caroline to her sister Mrs.
Stephen Brigham, who had been Emma Glynn, the one beauty of the
family. The latter was beautiful still, with a large, splendid,
full-blown beauty, she filled a great rocking-chair with her
superb bulk of femininity, and swayed gently back and forth,
her black silks whispering and her black frills fluttering.
Even the shock of death—for her brother Edward lay dead
in the house—could not disturb her outward serenity of
demeanor.

But even her expression of masterly placidity changed before
her sister Caroline's announcement and her sister Rebecca Ann's
gasp of terror and distress in response.

"I think Henry might have controlled his temper, when poor
Edward was so near his end," she said with an asperity which
disturbed slightly the roseate curves of her beautiful
mouth.

"Of course he did not know," murmured Rebecca Ann
in a faint tone.

"Of course he did not know it," said Caroline quickly. She
turned on her sister with a strange, sharp look of suspicion.
Then she shrank as if from the other's possible answer.

Rebecca gasped again. The married sister, Mrs. Emma Brigham,
was now sitting up straight in her chair; she had ceased
rocking, and was eyeing them both intently with a sudden
accentuation of family likeness in her face.

"What do you mean?" said she impartially to them both. Then
she, too, seemed to shrink before a possible answer. She even
laughed an evasive sort of laugh.

"Nobody means anything," said Caroline firmly. She rose and
crossed the room toward the door with grim decisiveness.

"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Brigham.

"I have something to see to," replied Caroline, and the
others at once knew by her tone that she had some solemn and
sad duty to perform in the chamber of death.

"Oh," said Mrs. Brigham.

After the door had closed behind Caroline, she turned to
Rebecca.

"Did Henry have many words with him?" she asked.

"They were talking very loud," replied Rebecca
evasively.

Mrs. Brigham looked at her. She had not resumed rocking. She
still sat up straight, with a slight knitting of intensity on
her fair forehead, between the pretty rippling curves of her
auburn hair.

"Did you—ever hear anything?" she asked in a low voice
with a glance toward the door.

"I was just across the hall in the south parlor, and that
door was open and this door ajar," replied Rebecca with a
slight flush.

"Then you must have——"

"I couldn't help it."

"Everything?"

"Most of it."

"What was it?"

"The old story."

"I suppose Henry was mad, as he always was, because Edward
was living on here for nothing, when he had wasted all the
money father left him."

Rebecca nodded, with a fearful glance at the door.

When Emma spoke again her voice was still more hushed. "I
know how he felt," said she. "It must have looked to him as if
Edward was living at his expense, but he wasn't."

"No, he wasn't."

"And Edward had a right here according to the terms of
father's will, and Henry ought to have remembered it."

"Yes, he ought."

"Did he say hard things?"

"Pretty hard, from what I heard."

"What?"

"I heard him tell Edward that he had no business here at
all, and he thought he had better go away."

"What did Edward say?"

"That he would stay here as long as he lived and afterward,
too, if he was a mind to, and he would like to see Henry get
him out; and then——"

"What?"

"Then he laughed."

"What did Henry say?"

"I didn't hear him say anything, but——"

"But what?"

"I saw him when he came out of this room."

"He looked mad?"

"You've seen him when he looked so."

Emma nodded. The expression of horror on her face had
deepened.

"Do you remember that time he killed the cat because she had
scratched him?"

"Yes. Don't!"

Then Caroline reentered the room; she went up to the stove,
in which a wood fire was burning—it was a cold, gloomy
day of fall—and she warmed her hands, which were reddened
from recent washing in cold water.

Mrs. Brigham looked at her and hesitated. She glanced at the
door, which was still ajar; it did not easily shut, being still
swollen with the damp weather of the summer. She rose and
pushed it together with a sharp thud, which jarred the house.
Rebecca started painfully with a half-exclamation. Caroline
looked at her disapprovingly.

"It is time you controlled your nerves, Rebecca," she
said.

Mrs. Brigham, returning from the closed door, said
imperiously that it ought to be fixed, it shut so hard.

"It will shrink enough after we have had the fire a few
days," replied Caroline.

"I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself for talking as
he did to Edward," said Mrs. Brigham abruptly, but in an almost
inaudible voice.

"Hush," said Caroline, with a glance of actual fear at the
closed door.

"Nobody can hear with the door shut. I say again I think
Henry ought to be ashamed of himself. I shouldn't think he'd
ever get over it, having words with poor Edward the very night
before he died. Edward was enough sight better disposition than
Henry, with all his faults."

"I never heard him speak a cross word, unless he spoke cross
to Henry that last night. I don't know but he did from what
Rebecca overheard."

"Not so much cross, as sort of soft, and sweet, and
aggravating," sniffed Rebecca.

"What do you really think ailed Edward?" asked Emma in
hardly more than a whisper. She did not look at her sister.

"I know you said that he had terrible pains in his stomach,
and had spasms, but what do you think made him have them?"

"Henry called it gastric trouble. You know Edward has always
had dyspepsia."

Mrs. Brigham hesitated a moment. "Was there any talk of
an—examination?" said she.

Then Caroline turned on her fiercely.

"No," said she in a terrible voice. "No."

The three sisters' souls seemed to meet on one common ground
of terrified understanding through their eyes.

The old-fashioned latch of the door was heard to rattle, and
a push from without made the door shake ineffectually. "It's
Henry," Rebecca sighed rather than whispered. Mrs. Brigham
settled herself, after a noiseless rush across the floor, into
her rocking-chair again, and was swaying back and forth with
her head comfortably leaning back, when the door at last
yielded and Henry Glynn entered. He cast a covertly sharp,
comprehensive glance at Mrs. Brigham with her elaborate calm;
at Rebecca quietly huddled in the corner of the sofa with her
handkerchief to her face and only one small uncovered reddened
ear as attentive as a dog's, and at Caroline sitting with a
strained composure in her armchair by the stove. She met his
eyes quite firmly with a look of inscrutable fear, and defiance
of the fear and of him.

Henry Glynn looked more like this sister than the others.
Both had the same hard delicacy of form and aquilinity of
feature. They confronted each other with the pitiless
immovability of two statues in whose marble lineaments emotions
were fixed for all eternity.

Then Henry Glynn smiled and the smile transformed his face.
He looked suddenly years younger, and an almost boyish
recklessness appeared in his face. He flung himself into a
chair with a gesture which was bewildering from its incongruity
with his general appearance. He leaned his head back, flung one
leg over the other, and looked laughingly at Mrs. Brigham.

"I declare, Emma, you grow younger every year," he said.

She flushed a little, and her placid mouth widened at the
corners. She was susceptible to praise.

"Our thoughts to-day ought to belong to the one of us who
will never grow older," said Caroline in a hard
voice.

Henry looked at her, still smiling. "Of course, we none of
us forget that," said he, in a deep, gentle voice; "but we have
to speak to the living, Caroline, and I have not seen Emma for
a long time, and the living are as dear as the dead."

"Not to me," said Caroline.

She rose and went abruptly out of the room again. Rebecca
also rose and hurried after her, sobbing loudly.

Henry looked slowly after them.

"Caroline is completely unstrung," said he.

Mrs. Brigham rocked. A confidence in him inspired by his
manner was stealing over her. Out of that confidence she spoke
quite easily and naturally.

"His death was very sudden," said she.

Henry's eyelids quivered slightly but his gaze was
unswerving.

"Yes," said he, "it was very sudden. He was sick only a few
hours."

"What did you call it?"

"Gastric."

"You did not think of an examination?"

"There was no need. I am perfectly certain as to the cause
of his death."

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham felt a creep as of some live horror
over her very soul. Her flesh prickled with cold, before an
inflection of his voice. She rose, tottering on weak knees.

"Where are you going?" asked Henry in a strange, breathless
voice.

Mrs. Brigham said something incoherent about some sewing
which she had to do—some black for the funeral—and
was out of the room. She went up to the front chamber which she
occupied. Caroline was there. She went close to her and took
her hands, and the two sisters looked at each other.

"Don't speak, don't, I won't have it!" said Caroline finally
in an awful whisper.

"I won't," replied Emma.

That afternoon the three sisters were in the study.

Mrs. Brigham was hemming some black material. At last she
laid her work on her lap.

"It's no use, I cannot see to sew another stitch until we
have a light," said she.

Caroline, who was writing some letters at the table, turned
to Rebecca, in her usual place on the sofa.

"Rebecca, you had better get a lamp," she said.

Rebecca started up; even in the dusk her face showed her
agitation.

"It doesn't seem to me that we need a lamp quite yet," she
said in a piteous, pleading voice like a child's.

"Yes, we do," returned Mrs. Brigham peremptorily. "I can't
see to sew another stitch."

Rebecca rose and left the room. Presently she entered with a
lamp. She set it on the table, an old-fashioned card-table
which was placed against the opposite wall from the window.
That opposite wall was taken up with three doors; the one small
space was occupied by the table.

"What have you put that lamp over there for?" asked Mrs.
Brigham, with more of impatience than her voice usually
revealed. "Why didn't you set it in the hall, and have done
with it? Neither Caroline nor I can see if it is on that
table."

"I thought perhaps you would move," replied Rebecca
hoarsely.

"If I do move, we can't both sit at that table. Caroline has
her paper all spread around. Why don't you set the lamp on the
study table in the middle of the room, then we can both
see?"

Rebecca hesitated. Her face was very pale. She looked with
an appeal that was fairly agonizing at her sister Caroline.

"Why don't you put the lamp on this table, as she says?"
asked Caroline, almost fiercely. "Why do you act so,
Rebecca?"

Rebecca took the lamp and set it on the table in the middle
of the room without another word. Then she seated herself on
the sofa and placed a hand over her eyes as if to shade them,
and remained so.

"Does the light hurt your eyes, and is that the reason why
you didn't want the lamp?" asked Mrs. Brigham kindly.

"I always like to sit in the dark," replied Rebecca
chokingly. Then she snatched her handkerchief hastily from her
pocket and began to weep. Caroline continued to write, Mrs.
Brigham to sew.

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham as she sewed glanced at the opposite
wall. The glance became a steady stare. She looked intently,
her work suspended in her hands. Then she looked away again and
took a few more stitches, then she looked again, and again
turned to her task. At last she laid her work in her lap and
stared concentratedly. She looked from the wall round the room,
taking note of the various objects. Then she turned to her
sisters.

"What is that?" said she.

"What?" asked Caroline harshly.

"That strange shadow on the wall," replied Mrs. Brigham.

Rebecca sat with her face hidden; Caroline dipped her pen in
the inkstand.

"Why don't you turn around and look?" asked Mrs. Brigham in
a wondering and somewhat aggrieved way.

"I am in a hurry to finish this letter," replied Caroline
shortly.

Mrs. Brigham rose, her work slipping to the floor, and began
walking round the room, moving various articles of furniture,
with her eyes on the shadow.

Then suddenly she shrieked out:

"Look at this awful shadow! What is it? Caroline, look,
look! Rebecca, look! What is it?"

All Mrs. Brigham's triumphant placidity was gone. Her
handsome face was livid with horror. She stood stiffly pointing
at the shadow.

Then after a shuddering glance at the wall Rebecca burst out
in a wild wail.

"Oh, Caroline, there it is again, there it is again!"

"Caroline Glynn, you look!" said Mrs. Brigham. "Look! What
is that dreadful shadow?"

Caroline rose, turned, and stood confronting the wall.

"How should I know?" she said.

"It has been there every night since he died!" cried
Rebecca.

"Every night?"

"Yes; he died Thursday and this is Saturday; that makes
three nights," said Caroline rigidly. She stood as if holding
her calm with a vise of concentrated will.

"It—it looks like—like—" stammered Mrs.
Brigham in a tone of intense horror.

"I know what it looks like well enough," said Caroline.
"I've got eyes in my head."

"It looks like Edward," burst out Rebecca in a sort of
frenzy of fear. "Only——"

"Yes, it does," assented Mrs. Brigham, whose horror-stricken
tone matched her sisters', "only—Oh, it is awful! What is
it, Caroline?"

"I ask you again, how should I know?" replied Caroline. "I
see it there like you. How should I know any more than
you?"

"It must be something in the room," said Mrs.
Brigham, staring wildly around.

"We moved everything in the room the first night it came,"
said Rebecca; "it is not anything in the room."

Caroline turned upon her with a sort of fury. "Of course it
is something in the room," said she. "How you act! What do you
mean talking so? Of course it is something in the room."

"Of course it is," agreed Mrs. Brigham, looking at Caroline
suspiciously. "It must be something in the room."

"It is not anything in the room," repeated Rebecca with
obstinate horror.

The door opened suddenly and Henry Glynn entered. He began
to speak, then his eyes followed the direction of the others.
He stood staring at the shadow on the wall.

"What is that?" he demanded in a strange voice.

"It must be due to something in the room," Mrs. Brigham said
faintly.

Henry Glynn stood and stared a moment longer. His face
showed a gamut of emotions. Horror, conviction, then furious
incredulity. Suddenly he began hastening hither and thither
about the room. He moved the furniture with fierce jerks,
turning ever to see the effect upon the shadow on the wall. Not
a line of its terrible outlines wavered.

"It must be something in the room!" he declared in a voice
which seemed to snap like a lash.

His face changed, the inmost secrecy of his nature seemed
evident upon his face, until one almost lost sight of his
lineaments. Rebecca stood close to her sofa, regarding him with
woeful, fascinated eyes. Mrs. Brigham clutched Caroline's hand.
They both stood in a corner out of his way. For a few moments
he raged about the room like a caged wild animal. He moved
every piece of furniture; when the moving of a piece did not
affect the shadow he flung it to the floor.

Then suddenly he desisted. He laughed.

"What an absurdity," he said easily. "Such a to-do about a
shadow."

"That's so," assented Mrs. Brigham, in a scared voice which
she tried to make natural. As she spoke she lifted a chair near
her.

"I think you have broken the chair that Edward was fond of,"
said Caroline.

Terror and wrath were struggling for expression on her face.
Her mouth was set, her eyes shrinking. Henry lifted the chair
with a show of anxiety.

"Just as good as ever," he said pleasantly. He laughed
again, looking at his sisters. "Did I scare you?" he said. "I
should think you might be used to me by this time. You know my
way of wanting to leap to the bottom of a mystery, and that
shadow does look—queer, like—and I thought if there
was any way of accounting for it I would like to without any
delay."

"You don't seem to have succeeded," remarked Caroline dryly,
with a slight glance at the wall.

Henry's eyes followed hers and he quivered perceptibly.

"Oh, there is no accounting for shadows," he said, and he
laughed again. "A man is a fool to try to account for
shadows."

Then the supper bell rang, and they all left the room, but
Henry kept his back to the wall—as did, indeed, the
others.

Henry led the way with an alert motion like a boy; Rebecca
brought up the rear. She could scarcely walk, her knees
trembled so.

"I can't sit in that room again this evening," she whispered
to Caroline after supper.

"Very well; we will sit in the south room," replied
Caroline. "I think we will sit in the south parlor," she said
aloud; "it isn't as damp as the study, and I have a cold."

So they all sat in the south room with their sewing. Henry
read the newspaper, his chair drawn close to the lamp on the
table. About nine o'clock he rose abruptly and crossed the hall
to the study. The three sisters looked at one another. Mrs.
Brigham rose, folded her rustling skirts compactly round her,
and began tiptoeing toward the door.

"What are you going to do?" inquired Rebecca agitatedly.

"I am going to see what he is about," replied Mrs. Brigham
cautiously.

As she spoke she pointed to the study door across the hall;
it was ajar. Henry had striven to pull it together behind him,
but it had somehow swollen beyond the limit with curious speed.
It was still ajar and a streak of light showed from top to
bottom.

Mrs. Brigham folded her skirts so tightly that her bulk with
its swelling curves was revealed in a black silk sheath, and
she went with a slow toddle across the hall to the study door.
She stood there, her eye at the crack.

In the south room Rebecca stopped sewing and sat watching
with dilated eyes. Caroline sewed steadily. What Mrs. Brigham,
standing at the crack in the study door, saw was this:

Henry Glynn, evidently reasoning that the source of the
strange shadow must be between the table on which the lamp
stood and the wall, was making systematic passes and thrusts
with an old sword which had belonged to his father all over and
through the intervening space. Not an inch was left unpierced.
He seemed to have divided the space into mathematical sections.
He brandished the sword with a sort of cold fury and
calculation; the blade gave out flashes of light, the shadow
remained unmoved. Mrs. Brigham, watching, felt herself cold
with horror.

Finally Henry ceased and stood with the sword in hand and
raised as if to strike, surveying the shadow on the wall
threateningly. Mrs. Brigham toddled back across the hall and
shut the south room door behind her before she related what she
had seen.

"He looked like a demon," she said again. "Have you got any
of that old wine in the house, Caroline? I don't feel as if I
could stand much more."

"Yes, there's plenty," said Caroline; "you can have some
when you go to bed."

"I think we had all better take some," said Mrs. Brigham.
"Oh, Caroline, what——"

"Don't ask; don't speak," said Caroline.

"No, I'm not going to," replied Mrs. Brigham;
"but——"

Soon the three sisters went to their chambers and the south
parlor was deserted. Caroline called to Henry in the study to
put out the light before he came upstairs. They had been gone
about an hour when he came into the room bringing the lamp
which had stood in the study. He set it on the table, and
waited a few minutes, pacing up and down. His face was
terrible, his fair complexion showed livid, and his blue eyes
seemed dark blanks of awful reflections.

Then he took up the lamp and returned to the library. He set
the lamp on the center table and the shadow sprang out on the
wall. Again he studied the furniture and moved it about, but
deliberately, with none of his former frenzy. Nothing affected
the shadow. Then he returned to the south room with the lamp
and again waited. Again he returned to the study and placed the
lamp on the table, and the shadow sprang out upon the wall. It
was midnight before he went upstairs. Mrs. Brigham and the
other sisters, who could not sleep, heard him.

The next day was the funeral. That evening the family sat in
the south room. Some relatives were with them. Nobody entered
the study until Henry carried a lamp in there after the others
had retired for the night. He saw again the shadow on the wall
leap to an awful life before the light.

The next morning at breakfast Henry Glynn announced that he
had to go to the city for three days. The sisters looked at him
with surprise. He very seldom left home, and just now his
practice had been neglected on account of Edward's death.

"How can you leave your patients now?" asked Mrs. Brigham
wonderingly.

"I don't know how to, but there is no other way," replied
Henry easily. "I have had a telegram from Dr. Mitford."

"Consultation?" inquired Mrs. Brigham.

"I have business," replied Henry.

Doctor Mitford was an old classmate of his who lived in a
neighboring city and who occasionally called upon him in the
case of a consultation.

After he had gone, Mrs. Brigham said to Caroline that, after
all, Henry had not said that he was going to consult with
Doctor Mitford, and she thought it very strange.

"Everything is very strange," said Rebecca with a
shudder.

"What do you mean?" inquired Caroline.

"Nothing," replied Rebecca.

Nobody entered the study that day, nor the next. The third
day Henry was expected home, but he did not arrive and the last
train from the city had come.

"I call it pretty queer work," said Mrs. Brigham. "The idea
of a doctor leaving his patients at such a time as this, and
the idea of a consultation lasting three days! There is no
sense in it, and now he has not come. I don't
understand it, for my part."

"I don't either," said Rebecca.

They were all in the south parlor. There was no light in the
study; the door was ajar.

Presently Mrs. Brigham rose—she could not have told
why; something seemed to impel her—some will outside her
own. She went out of the room, again wrapping her rustling
skirts round that she might pass noiselessly, and began pushing
at the swollen door of the study.

"She has not got any lamp," said Rebecca in a shaking
voice.

Caroline, who was writing letters, rose again, took the only
remaining lamp in the room, and followed her sister. Rebecca
had risen, but she stood trembling, not venturing to
follow.

The doorbell rang, but the others did not hear it; it was on
the south door on the other side of the house from the study.
Rebecca, after hesitating until the bell rang the second time,
went to the door; she remembered that the servant was out.

Caroline and her sister Emma entered the study. Caroline set
the lamp on the table. They looked at the wall, and there were
two shadows. The sisters stood clutching each other, staring at
the awful things on the wall. Then Rebecca came in, staggering,
with a telegram in her hand. "Here is—a telegram," she
gasped. "Henry is—dead."

The Messenger

By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

R.W.C.

R.W.C.

I

"The bullet entered here," said Max Fortin, and he placed
his middle finger over a smooth hole exactly in the center of
the forehead.

I sat down upon a mound of dry seaweed and unslung my
fowling piece.

The little chemist cautiously felt the edges of the
shot-hole, first with his middle finger, and then with his
thumb.

"Let me see the skull again," said I.

Max Fortin picked it up from the sod.

"It's like all the others," he repeated, wiping his glasses
on his handkerchief. "I thought you might care to see one of
the skulls, so I brought this over from the gravel pit. The men
from Bannalec are digging yet. They ought to stop."

"How many skulls are there altogether?" I inquired.

"They found thirty-eight skulls; there are thirty-nine noted
in the list. They lie piled up in the gravel pit on the edge of
Le Bihan's wheat field. The men are at work yet. Le Bihan is
going to stop them."

"Let's go over," said I; and I picked up my gun and started
across the cliffs, Portin on one side, Môme on the
other.

"Who has the list?" I asked, lighting my pipe. "You say
there is a list?"

"The list was found rolled up in a brass cylinder," said the
chemist. He added: "You should not smoke here. You know that if
a single spark drifted into the wheat—"

"Ah, but I have a cover to my pipe," said I, smiling.

Fortin watched me as I closed the pepper-box arrangement
over the glowing bowl of the pipe. Then he continued:

"The list was made out on thick yellow paper; the brass tube
has preserved it. It is as fresh to-day as it was in 1760. You
shall see it."

"Is that the date?"

"The list is dated 'April, 1760.' The Brigadier Durand has
it. It is not written in French."

"Not written in French!" I exclaimed.

"No," replied Fortin solemnly, "it is written in
Breton."

"But," I protested, "the Breton language was never written
or printed in 1760."

"Except by priests," said the chemist.

"I have heard of but one priest who ever wrote the Breton
language," I began.

Fortin stole a glance at my face.

"You mean—the Black Priest?" he asked.

I nodded.

Fortin opened his mouth to speak again, hesitated, and
finally shut his teeth obstinately over the wheat stem that he
was chewing.

"And the Black Priest?" I suggested encouragingly. But I
knew it was useless; for it is easier to move the stars from
their courses than to make an obstinate Breton talk. We walked
on for a minute or two in silence.

"Where is the Brigadier Durand?" I asked, motioning
Môme to come out of the wheat, which he was trampling as
though it were heather. As I spoke we came in sight of the
farther edge of the wheat field and the dark, wet mass of
cliffs beyond.

"Durand is down there—you can see him; he stands just
behind the mayor of St. Gildas."

"I see," said I; and we struck straight down, following a
sun-baked cattle path across the heather.

When we reached the edge of the wheat field, Le Bihan, the
mayor of St. Gildas, called to me, and I tucked my gun under my
arm and skirted the wheat to where he stood.

"Thirty-eight skulls," he said in his thin, high-pitched
voice; "there is but one more, and I am opposed to further
search. I suppose Fortin told you?"

I shook hands with him, and returned the salute of the
Brigadier Durand.

"I am opposed to further search," repeated Le Bihan,
nervously picking at the mass of silver buttons which covered
the front of his velvet and broadcloth jacket like a
breastplate of scale armor.

Durand pursed up his lips, twisted his tremendous mustache,
and hooked his thumbs in his saber belt.

"As for me," he said, "I am in favor of further search."

"Further search for what—for the thirty-ninth skull?"
I asked.

Le Bihan nodded. Durand frowned at the sunlit sea, rocking
like a bowl of molten gold from the cliffs to the horizon. I
followed his eyes. On the dark glistening cliffs, silhouetted
against the glare of the sea, sat a cormorant, black,
motionless, its horrible head raised toward heaven.

"Where is that list, Durand?" I asked.

The gendarme rummaged in his despatch pouch and produced a
brass cylinder about a foot long. Very gravely he unscrewed the
head and dumped out a scroll of thick yellow paper closely
covered with writing on both sides. At a nod from Le Bihan he
handed me the scroll. But I could make nothing of the coarse
writing, now faded to a dull brown.

"Come, come, Le Bihan," I said impatiently, "translate it,
won't you? You and Max Fortin make a lot of mystery out of
nothing, it seems."

Le Bihan went to the edge of the pit where the three
Bannalec men were digging, gave an order or two in Breton, and
turned to me.

As I came to the edge of the pit the Bannalec men were
removing a square piece of sailcloth from what appeared to be a
pile of cobblestones.

"Look!" said Le Bihan shrilly. I looked. The pile below was
a heap of skulls. After a moment I clambered down the gravel
sides of the pit and walked over to the men of Bannalec. They
saluted me gravely, leaning on their picks and shovels, and
wiping their sweating faces with sunburned hands.

"How many?" said I in Breton.

"Thirty-eight," they replied.

I glanced around. Beyond the heap of skulls lay two piles of
human bones. Beside these was a mound of broken, rusted bits of
iron and steel. Looking closer, I saw that this mound was
composed of rusty bayonets, saber blades, scythe blades, with
here and there a tarnished buckle attached to a bit of leather
hard as iron.

I picked up a couple of buttons and a belt plate. The
buttons bore the royal arms of England; the belt plate was
emblazoned with the English arms and also with the number
"27."

"I have heard my grandfather speak of the terrible English
regiment, the 27th Foot, which landed and stormed the fort up
there," said one of the Bannalec men.

"Oh!" said I; "then these are the bones of English
soldiers?"

"Yes," said the men of Bannalec.

Le Bihan was calling to me from the edge of the pit above,
and I handed the belt plate and buttons to the men and climbed
the side of the excavation.

"Well," said I, trying to prevent Môme from leaping up
and licking my face as I emerged from the pit, "I suppose you
know what these bones are. What are you going to do with
them?"

"There was a man," said Le Bihan angrily, "an Englishman,
who passed here in a dog-cart on his way to Quimper about an
hour ago, and what do you suppose he wished to do?"

"Buy the relics?" I asked, smiling.

"Exactly—the pig!" piped the mayor of St. Gildas.
"Jean Marie Tregunc, who found the bones, was standing there
where Max Fortin stands, and do you know what he answered? He
spat upon the ground, and said: 'Pig of an Englishman, do you
take me for a desecrator of graves?'"

I knew Tregunc, a sober, blue-eyed Breton, who lived from
one year's end to the other without being able to afford a
single bit of meat for a meal.

"How much did the Englishman offer Tregunc?" I asked.

"Two hundred francs for the skulls alone."

I thought of the relic hunters and the relic buyers on the
battlefields of our civil war.

"Seventeen hundred and sixty is long ago," I said.

"Respect for the dead can never die," said Fortin.

"And the English soldiers came here to kill your fathers and
burn your homes," I continued.

"They were murderers and thieves, but—they are dead,"
said Tregunc, coming up from the beach below, his long sea rake
balanced on his dripping jersey.

"How much do you earn every year, Jean Marie?" I asked,
turning to shake hands with him.

"Two hundred and twenty francs, monsieur."

"Forty-five dollars a year," I said. "Bah! you are worth
more, Jean. Will you take care of my garden for me? My wife
wished me to ask you. I think it would be worth one hundred
francs a month to you and to me. Come on, Le Bihan—come
along, Fortin—and you, Durand. I want somebody to
translate that list into French for me."

Tregunc stood gazing at me, his blue eyes dilated.

"You may begin at once," I said, smiling, "if the salary
suits you?"

"It suits," said Tregunc, fumbling for his pipe in a silly
way that annoyed Le Bihan.

"Then go and begin your work," cried the mayor impatiently;
and Tregunc started across the moors toward St. Gildas, taking
off his velvet-ribboned cap to me and gripping his sea rake
very hard.

"You offer him more than my salary," said the mayor, after a
moment's contemplation of his silver buttons.

"Pooh!" said I, "what do you do for your salary except play
dominoes with Max Portin at the Groix Inn?"

Le Bihan turned red, but Durand rattled his saber and winked
at Max Fortin, and I slipped my arm through the arm of the
sulky magistrate, laughing.

"There's a shady spot under the cliff," I said; "come on, Le
Bihan, and read me what is in the scroll."

In a few moments we reached the shadow of the cliff, and I
threw myself upon the turf, chin on hand, to listen.

The gendarme, Durand, also sat down, twisting his mustache
into needlelike points. Fortin leaned against the cliff,
polishing his glasses and examining us with vague, near-sighted
eyes; and Le Bihan, the mayor, planted himself in our midst,
rolling up the scroll and tucking it under his arm.

"First of all," he began in a shrill voice, "I am going to
light my pipe, and while lighting it I shall tell you what I
have heard about the attack on the fort yonder. My father told
me; his father told him."

He jerked his head in the direction of the ruined fort, a
small, square stone structure on the sea cliff, now nothing but
crumbling walls. Then he slowly produced a tobacco pouch, a bit
of flint and tinder, and a long-stemmed pipe fitted with a
microscopical bowl of baked clay. To fill such a pipe requires
ten minutes' close attention. To smoke it to a finish takes but
four puffs. It is very Breton, this Breton pipe. It is the
crystallization of everything Breton.

"Go on," said I, lighting a cigarette.

"The fort," said the mayor, "was built by Louis XIV, and was
dismantled twice by the English. Louis XV restored it in 1730.
In 1760 it was carried by assault by the English. They came
across from the island of Groix—three shiploads, and they
stormed the fort and sacked St. Julien yonder, and they started
to burn St. Gildas—you can see the marks of their bullets
on my house yet; but the men of Bannalec and the men of Lorient
fell upon them with pike and scythe and blunderbuss, and those
who did not run away lie there below in the gravel pit
now—thirty-eight of them."

"And the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked, finishing my
cigarette.

The mayor had succeeded in filling his pipe, and now he
began to put his tobacco pouch away.

"The thirty-ninth skull," he mumbled, holding the pipe stem
between his defective teeth—"the thirty-ninth skull is no
business of mine. I have told the Bannalec men to cease
digging."

"But what is—whose is the missing skull?" I persisted
curiously.

The mayor was busy trying to strike a spark to his tinder.
Presently he set it aglow, applied it to his pipe, took the
prescribed four puffs, knocked the ashes out of the bowl, and
gravely replaced the pipe in his pocket.

"The missing skull?" he asked.

"Yes," said I, impatiently.

The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read,
translating from the Breton into French. And this is what he
read:

"On the Cliffs of St. Gildas,

April 13, 1760.

"On this day, by order of the Count of Soisic, general in
chief of the Breton forces now lying in Kerselec Forest, the
bodies of thirty-eight English soldiers of the 27th, 50th, and
72d regiments of Foot were buried in this spot, together with
their arms and equipments."

The mayor paused and glanced at me reflectively.

"Go on, Le Bihan," I said.

"With them," continued the mayor, turning the scroll and
reading on the other side, "was buried the body of that vile
traitor who betrayed the fort to the English. The manner of his
death was as follows: By order of the most noble Count of
Soisic, the traitor was first branded upon the forehead with
the brand of an arrowhead. The iron burned through the flesh
and was pressed heavily so that the brand should even burn into
the bone of the skull. The traitor was then led out and bidden
to kneel. He admitted having guided the English from the island
of Groix. Although a priest and a Frenchman, he had violated
his priestly office to aid him in discovering the password to
the fort. This password he extorted during confession from a
young Breton girl who was in the habit of rowing across from
the island of Groix to visit her husband in the fort. When the
fort fell, this young girl, crazed by the death of her husband,
sought the Count of Soisic and told how the priest had forced
her to confess to him all she knew about the fort. The priest
was arrested at St. Gildas as he was about to cross the river
to Lorient. When arrested he cursed the girl, Marie
Trevec——"

"What!" I exclaimed, "Marie Trevec!"

"Marie Trevec," repeated Le Bihan; "the priest cursed Marie
Trevec, and all her family and descendants. He was shot as he
knelt, having a mask of leather over his face, because the
Bretons who composed the squad of execution refused to fire at
a priest unless his face was concealed. The priest was
l'Abbé Sorgue, commonly known as the Black Priest on
account of his dark face and swarthy eyebrows. He was buried
with a stake through his heart."

Le Bihan paused, hesitated, looked at me, and handed the
manuscript back to Durand. The gendarme took it and slipped it
into the brass cylinder.

"So," said I, "the thirty-ninth skull is the skull of the
Black Priest."

"Yes," said Fortin. "I hope they won't find it."

"I have forbidden them to proceed," said the mayor
querulously. "You heard me, Max Fortin."

I rose and picked up my gun. Môme came and pushed his
head into my hand.

"That's a fine dog," observed Durand, also rising.

"Why don't you wish to find his skull?" I asked Le Bihan.
"It would be curious to see whether the arrow brand really
burned into the bone."

"There is something in that scroll that I didn't read to
you," said the mayor grimly. "Do you wish to know what it
is?"

"Of course," I replied in surprise.

"Give me the scroll again, Durand," he said; then he read
from the bottom: "I, l'Abbé Sorgue, forced to write the
above by my executioners, have written it in my own blood; and
with it I leave my curse. My curse on St. Gildas, on Marie
Trevec, and on her descendants. I will come back to St. Gildas
when my remains are disturbed. Woe to that Englishman whom my
branded skull shall touch!"

"What rot!" I said. "Do you believe it was really written in
his own blood?"

"I am going to test it," said Fortin, "at the request of
Monsieur le Maire. I am not anxious for the job, however."

"See," said Le Bihan, holding out the scroll to me, "it is
signed, 'L'Abbé Sorgue.'"

I glanced curiously over the paper.

"It must be the Black Priest," I said. "He was the only man
who wrote in the Breton language. This is a wonderfully
interesting discovery, for now, at last, the mystery of the
Black Priest's disappearance is cleared up. You will, of
course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?"

"No," said the mayor obstinately, "it shall be buried in the
pit below where the rest of the Black Priest lies."

I looked at him and recognized that argument would be
useless. But still I said, "It will be a loss to history,
Monsieur Le Bihan."

"All the worse for history, then," said the enlightened
Mayor of St. Gildas.

We had sauntered back to the gravel pit while speaking. The
men of Bannalec were carrying the bones of the English soldiers
toward the St. Gildas cemetery, on the cliffs to the east,
where already a knot of white-coiffed women stood in attitudes
of prayer; and I saw the somber robe of a priest among the
crosses of the little graveyard.

"They were thieves and assassins; they are dead now,"
muttered Max Fortin.

"Respect the dead," repeated the Mayor of St. Gildas,
looking after the Bannalec men.

"It was written in that scroll that Marie Trevec, of Groix
Island, was cursed by the priest—she and her
descendants," I said, touching Le Bihan on the arm. "There was
a Marie Trevec who married an Yves Trevec of St.
Gildas——"

"It is the same," said Le Bihan, looking at me
obliquely.

"Oh!" said I; "then they were ancestors of my wife."

"Do you fear the curse?" asked Le Bihan.

"What?" I laughed.

"There was the case of the Purple Emperor," said Max Fortin
timidly.

Startled for a moment, I faced him, then shrugged my
shoulders and kicked at a smooth bit of rock which lay near the
edge of the pit, almost embedded in gravel.

"Do you suppose the Purple-Emperor drank himself crazy
because he was descended from Marie Trevec?" I asked
contemptuously.

"Of course not," said Max Fortin hastily.

"Of course not," piped the mayor. "I only—Hellow!
what's that you're kicking?"

"What?" said I, glancing down, at the same time
involuntarily giving another kick. The smooth bit of rock
dislodged itself and rolled out of the loosened gravel at my
feet.

"The thirty-ninth skull!" I exclaimed. "By jingo, it's the
noddle of the Black Priest! See! there is the arrowhead branded
on the front!"

The mayor stepped back. Max Fortin also retreated. There was
a pause, during which I looked at them, and they looked
anywhere but at me.

"I don't like it," said the mayor at last, in a husky, high
voice. "I don't like it! The scroll says he will come back to
St. Gildas when his remains are disturbed. I—I don't like
it, Monsieur Darrel—"

"Bosh!" said I; "the poor wicked devil is where he can't get
out. For Heaven's sake, Le Bihan, what is this stuff you are
talking in the year of grace 1896?"

The mayor gave me a look.

"And he says 'Englishman.' You are an Englishman, Monsieur
Darrel," he announced.

"You know better. You know I'm an American."

"It's all the same," said the Mayor of St. Gildas,
obstinately.

"No, it isn't!" I answered, much exasperated, and
deliberately pushed the skull till it rolled into the bottom of
the gravel pit below.

"Cover it up," said I; "bury the scroll with it too, if you
insist, but I think you ought to send it to Paris. Don't look
so gloomy, Fortin, unless you believe in werewolves and ghosts.
Hey! what the—what the devil's the matter with you,
anyway? What are you staring at, Le Bihan?"

"Come, come," muttered the mayor in a low, tremulous voice,
"it's time we got out of this. Did you see? Did you see,
Fortin?"

"I saw," whispered Max Fortin, pallid with fright.

The two men were almost running across the sunny pasture
now, and I hastened after them, demanding to know what was the
matter.

"Matter!" chattered the mayor, gasping with exasperation and
terror. "The skull is rolling up hill again," and he burst into
a terrified gallop, Max Fortin followed close behind.

I watched them stampeding across the pasture, then turned
toward the gravel pit, mystified, incredulous. The skull was
lying on the edge of the pit, exactly where it had been before
I pushed it over the edge. For a second I stared at it; a
singular chilly feeling crept up my spinal column, and I turned
and walked away, sweat starting from the root of every hair on
my head. Before I had gone twenty paces the absurdity of the
whole thing struck me. I halted, hot with shame and annoyance,
and retraced my steps.

There lay the skull.

"I rolled a stone down instead of the skull," I muttered to
myself. Then with the butt of my gun I pushed the skull over
the edge of the pit and watched it roll to the bottom; and as
it struck the bottom of the pit, Môme, my dog, suddenly
whipped his tail between his legs, whimpered, and made off
across the moor.

"Môme!" I shouted, angry and astonished; but the dog
only fled the faster, and I ceased calling from sheer
surprise.

"What the mischief is the matter with that dog!" I thought.
He had never before played me such a trick.

Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the
skull. I looked down. The skull lay at my feet again, touching
them.

"Good heavens!" I stammered, and struck at it blindly with
my gunstock. The ghastly thing flew into the air, whirling over
and over, and rolled again down the sides of the pit to the
bottom. Breathlessly I stared at it, then, confused and
scarcely comprehending, I stepped back from the pit, still
facing it, one, ten, twenty paces, my eyes almost starting from
my head, as though I expected to see the thing roll up from the
bottom of the pit under my very gaze. At last I turned my back
to the pit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland
toward my home. As I reached the road that winds from St.
Gildas to St. Julien I gave one hasty glance at the pit over my
shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sod about the excavation.
There was something white and bare and round on the turf at the
edge of the pit. It might have been a stone; there were plenty
of them lying about.

II

When I entered my garden I saw Môme sprawling on the
stone doorstep. He eyed me sideways and flopped his tail.

"Are you not mortified, you idiot dog?" I said, looking
about the upper windows for Lys.

Môme rolled over on his back and raised one
deprecating forepaw, as though to ward off calamity.

"Don't act as though I was in the habit of beating you to
death," I said, disgusted. I had never in my life raised whip
to the brute. "But you are a fool dog," I continued. "No, you
needn't come to be babied and wept over; Lys can do that, if
she insists, but I am ashamed of you, and you can go to the
devil."

Môme slunk off into the house, and I followed,
mounting directly to my wife's boudoir. It was empty.

"Where has she gone?" I said, looking hard at Môme,
who had followed me. "Oh! I see you don't know. Don't pretend
you do. Come off that lounge! Do you think Lys wants
tan-colored hairs all over her lounge?"

I rang the bell for Catherine and Fine, but they didn't know
where "madame" had gone; so I went into my room, bathed,
exchanged my somewhat grimy shooting clothes for a suit of
warm, soft knickerbockers, and, after lingering some extra
moments over my toilet—for I was particular, now that I
had married Lys—I went down to the garden and took a
chair out under the fig-trees.

"Where can she be?" I wondered, Môme came sneaking out
to be comforted, and I forgave him for Lys's sake, whereupon he
frisked.

"You bounding cur," said I, "now what on earth started you
off across the moor? If you do it again I'll push you along
with a charge of dust shot."

As yet I had scarcely dared think about the ghastly
hallucination of which I had been a victim, but now I faced it
squarely, flushing a little with mortification at the thought
of my hasty retreat from the gravel pit.

"To think," I said aloud, "that those old woman's tales of
Max Fortin and Le Bihan should have actually made me see what
didn't exist at all! I lost my nerve like a schoolboy in a dark
bedroom." For I knew now that I had mistaken a round stone for
a skull each time, and had pushed a couple of big pebbles into
the pit instead of the skull itself.

"By jingo!" said I, "I'm nervous; my liver must be in a
devil of a condition if I see such things when I'm awake! Lys
will know what to give me."

I felt mortified and irritated and sulky, and thought
disgustedly of Le Bihan and Max Fortin.

But after a while I ceased speculating, dismissed the mayor,
the chemist, and the skull from my mind, and smoked pensively,
watching the sun low dipping in the western ocean. As the
twilight fell for a moment over ocean and moorland, a wistful,
restless happiness filled my heart, the happiness that all men
know—all men who have loved.

Slowly the purple mist crept out over the sea; the cliffs
darkened; the forest was shrouded.

Suddenly the sky above burned with the afterglow, and the
world was alight again.

Cloud after cloud caught the rose dye; the cliffs were
tinted with it; moor and pasture, heather and forest burned and
pulsated with the gentle flush. I saw the gulls turning and
tossing above the sand bar, their snowy wings tipped with pink;
I saw the sea swallows sheering the surface of the still river,
stained to its placid depths with warm reflections of the
clouds. The twitter of drowsy hedge birds broke out in the
stillness; a salmon rolled its shining side above
tidewater.

The interminable monotone of the ocean intensified the
silence. I sat motionless, holding my breath as one who listens
to the first low rumor of an organ. All at once the pure
whistle of a nightingale cut the silence, and the first
moonbeam silvered the wastes of mist-hung waters.

I raised my head.

Lys stood before me in the garden.

When we had kissed each other, we linked arms and moved up
and down the gravel walks, watching the moonbeams sparkle on
the sand bar as the tide ebbed and ebbed. The broad beds of
white pinks about us were atremble with hovering white moths;
the October roses hung all abloom, perfuming the salt wind.

"Sweetheart," I said, "where is Yvonne? Has she promised to
spend Christmas with us?"

"Yes, Dick; she drove me down from Plougat this afternoon.
She sent her love to you. I am not jealous. What did you
shoot?"

"A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I
told Catherine not to touch them until you had seen them."

Now I suppose I knew that Lys could not be particularly
enthusiastic over game or guns; but she pretended she was, and
always scornfully denied that it was for my sake and not for
the pure love of sport. So she dragged me off to inspect the
rather meager game bag, and she paid me pretty compliments, and
gave a little cry of delight and pity as I lifted the enormous
hare out of the sack by his ears.

"He'll eat no more of our lettuce," I said attempting to
justify the assassination.

"Unhappy little bunny—and what a beauty! O Dick, you
are a splendid shot, are you not?"

I evaded the question and hauled out a partridge.

"Poor little dead things'" said Lys in a whisper; "it seems
a pity—doesn't it, Dick? But then you are so
clever——"

"We'll have them broiled," I said guardedly, "tell
Catherine."

Catherine came in to take away the game, and presently 'Fine
Lelocard, Lys's maid, announced dinner, and Lys tripped away to
her boudoir.

I stood an instant contemplating her blissfully, thinking,
"My boy, you're the happiest fellow in the world—you're
in love with your wife'"

I walked into the dining-room, beamed at the plates, walked
out again; met Tregunc in the hallway, beamed on him; glanced
into the kitchen, beamed at Catherine, and went up stairs,
still beaming.

Before I could knock at Lys's door it opened, and Lys came
hastily out. When she saw me she gave a little cry of relief,
and nestled close to my breast.

"There is something peering in at my window," she said.

"What!" I cried angrily.

"A man, I think, disguised as a priest, and he has a mask
on. He must have climbed up by the bay tree."

I was down the stairs and out of doors in no time. The
moonlit garden was absolutely deserted. Tregunc came up, and
together we searched the hedge and shrubbery around the house
and out to the road.

"Jean Marie," said I at length, "loose my bulldog—he
knows you—and take your supper on the porch where you can
watch. My wife says the fellow is disguised as a priest, and
wears a mask."

Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile. "He will not care
to venture in here again, I think, Monsieur Darrel."

I went back and found Lys seated quietly at the table.

"The soup is ready, dear," she said. "Don't worry; it was
only some foolish lout from Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or
St. Julien would do such a thing."

I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys
treated it as a stupid joke, and after a while I began to look
at it in that light.

Lys told me about Yvonne, and reminded me of my promise to
have Herbert Stuart down to meet her.

"You wicked diplomat!" I protested. "Herbert is in Paris,
and hard at work for the Salon."

"Don't you think he might spare a week to flirt with the
prettiest girl in Finistere?" inquired Lys innocently.

"Prettiest girl! Not much!" I said.

"Who is, then?" urged Lys.

I laughed a trifle sheepishly.

"I suppose you mean me, Dick," said Lys, coloring up.

"Now I bore you, don't I?"

"Bore me? Ah, no, Dick."

After coffee and cigarettes were served I spoke about
Tregunc, and Lys approved.

"Poor Jean! He will be glad, won't he? What a dear fellow
you are!"

"Nonsense," said I; "we need a gardener; you said so
yourself, Lys."

But Lys leaned over and kissed me, and then bent down and
hugged Môme—who whistled through his nose in
sentimental appreciation.

"I am a very happy woman," said Lys.

"Môme was a very bad dog to-day," I observed.

"Poor Môme!" said Lys, smiling.

When dinner was over and Môme lay snoring before the
blaze—for the October nights are often chilly in
Finistere—Lys curled up in the chimney corner with her
embroidery, and gave me a swift glance from under her dropping
lashes.

"You look like a schoolgirl, Lys," I said teasingly. "I
don't believe you are sixteen yet."

She pushed back her heavy burnished hair thoughtfully. Her
wrist was as white as surf foam.

"Have we been married four years? I don't believe it," I
said.

She gave me another swift glance and touched the embroidery
on her knee, smiling faintly.

"I see," said I, also smiling at the embroidered garment.
"Do you think it will fit?"

"Fit?" repeated Lys. Then she laughed

"And," I persisted, "are you perfectly sure that
you—er—we shall need it?"

"Perfectly," said Lys. A delicate color touched her cheeks
and neck. She held up the little garment, all fluffy with misty
lace and wrought with quaint embroidery.

"It is very gorgeous," said I; "don't use your eyes too
much, dearest. May I smoke a pipe?"

"Of course," she said selecting a skein of pale blue
silk.

For a while I sat and smoked in silence, watching her
slender fingers among the tinted silks and thread of gold.

Presently she spoke: "What did you say your crest is,
Dick?"

"My crest? Oh, something or other rampant on a something or
other——"

"Dick!"

"Dearest?"

"Don't be flippant."

"But I really forget. It's an ordinary crest; everybody in
New York has them. No family should be without 'em."

"You are disagreeable, Dick. Send Josephine upstairs for my
album."

"Are you going to put that crest on
the—the—whatever it is?"

"I am; and my own crest, too."

I thought of the Purple Emperor and wondered a little.

"You didn't know I had one, did you?" she smiled.

"What is it?" I replied evasively.

"You shall see. Ring for Josephine."

I rang, and, when 'Fine appeared, Lys gave her some orders
in a low voice, and Josephine trotted away, bobbing her
white-coiffed head with a "Bien, Madame!"

After a few minutes she returned, bearing a tattered, musty
volume, from which the gold and blue had mostly
disappeared.

I took the book in my hands and examined the ancient
emblazoned covers.

"Lilies!" I exclaimed.

"Fleur-de-lis," said my wife demurely.

"Oh!" said I, astonished, and opened the book.

"You have never before seen this book?" asked Lys, with a
touch of malice in her eyes.

"You know I haven't. Hello! What's this? Oho! So there
should be a de before Trevec? Lys de Trevec? Then why in the
world did the Purple Emperor——"

"Dick!" cried Lys.

"All right," said I. "Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec
who rode to Saladin's tent alone to seek for medicine for St.
Louise? Or shall I read about—what is it? Oh, here it is,
all down in black and white—about the Marquis de Trevec
who drowned himself before Alva's eyes rather than surrender
the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain? It's all written here.
But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevec who was killed
in the old fort on the cliff yonder?"

"He dropped the de, and the Trevecs since then have been
Republicans," said Lys—"all except me."

"That's quite right," said I; "it is time that we
Republicans should agree upon some feudal system. My dear, I
drink to the king!" and I raised my wine glass and looked at
Lys.

"To the king," said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny
garment on her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her
eyes were very sweet. I drained the glass to the king.

After a silence I said: "I will tell the king stories. His
majesty shall be amused."

"His majesty," repeated Lys softly.

"Or hers," I laughed. "Who knows?"

"Who knows?" murmured Lys; with a gentle sigh.

"I know some stories about Jack the Giant-Killer," I
announced. "Do you, Lys?"

"I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the
werewolf, and Jeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters,
and—O dear me, I know lots more."

"You are very wise," said I. "I shall teach his majesty,
English."

"And I Breton," cried Lys jealously.

"I shall bring playthings to the king," said I—"big
green lizards from the gorse, little gray mullets to swim in
glass globes, baby rabbits from the forest of
Kerselec——"

"And I," said Lys, "will bring the first primrose, the first
branch of aubepine, the first jonquil, to the king—my
king."

"Our king," said I; and there was peace in Finistere.

I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old
volume.

"I am looking," said I, "for the crest."

"The crest, dear? It is a priest's head with an arrow-shaped
mark on the forehead, on a field——"

I sat up and stared at my wife.

"Dick, whatever is the matter?" she smiled. "The story is
there in that book. Do you care to read it? No? Shall I tell it
to you? Well, then: It happened in the third crusade. There was
a monk whom men called the Black Priest. He turned apostate,
and sold himself to the enemies of Christ. A Sieur de Trevec
burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of only one hundred
lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the very midst
of their army."

"So that is how you come by the crest," I said quietly; but
I thought of the branded skull in the gravel pit, and
wondered.

"Yes," said Lys. "The Sieur de Trevec cut the Black Priest's
head off, but first he branded him with an arrow mark on the
forehead. The book says it was a pious action, and the Sieur de
Trevec got great merit by it. But I think it was cruel, the
branding," she sighed.

"Did you ever hear of any other Black Priest?"

"Yes. There was one in the last century, here in St. Gildas.
He cast a white shadow in the sun. He wrote in the Breton
language. Chronicles, too, I believe. I never saw them. His
name was the same as that of the old chronicler, and of the
other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some said he was a lineal
descendant of the traitor. Of course the first Black Priest was
bad enough for anything. But if he did have a child, it need
not have been the ancestor of the last Jacques Sorgue. They say
he was so good he was not allowed to die, but was caught up to
heaven one day," added Lys, with believing eyes.

I smiled.

"But he disappeared," persisted Lys.

"I'm afraid his journey was in another direction," I said
jestingly, and thoughtlessly told her the story of the morning.
I had utterly forgotten the masked man at her window, but
before I finished I remembered him fast enough, and realized
what I had done as I saw her face whiten.

"Lys," I urged tenderly, "that was only some clumsy clown's
trick. You said so yourself. You are not superstitious, my
dear?"

Her eyes were on mine. She slowly drew the little gold cross
from her bosom and kissed it. But her lips trembled as they
pressed the symbol of faith.

III

About nine o'clock the next morning I walked into the Groix
Inn and sat down at the long discolored oaken table, nodding
good-day to Marianne Bruyere, who in turn bobbed her white
coiffe at me.

"My clever Bannalec maid," said I, "what is good for a
stirrup-cup at the Groix Inn?"

"Schist?" she inquired in Breton.

"With a dash of red wine, then," I replied.

She brought the delicious Quimperle cider, and I poured a
little Bordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing
black eyes.

"What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?" I asked. "Has
Jean Marie been here?"

"We are to be married, Monsieur Darrel," she laughed.

"Ah! Since when has Jean Marie Tregunc lost his head?"

"His head? Oh, Monsieur Darrel—his heart, you
mean!"

"So I do," said I. "Jean Marie is a practical fellow."

"It is all due to your kindness—" began the girl, but
I raised my hand and held up the glass.

"It's due to himself. To your happiness, Marianne"; and I
took a hearty draught of the schist. "Now," said I, "tell me
where I can find Le Bihan and Max Fortin."

"Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the
broad room. I believe they are examining the Red Admiral's
effects."

"To send them to Paris? Oh, I know. May I go up,
Marianne?"

"And God go with you," smiled the girl.

When I knocked at the door of the broad room above little
Max Fortin opened it. Dust covered his spectacles and nose; his
hat, with the tiny velvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry.

"Come in, Monsieur Darrel," he said; "the mayor and I are
packing up the effects of the Purple Emperor and of the poor
Red Admiral."

"The collections?" I asked, entering the room. "You must be
very careful in packing those butterfly cases; the slightest
jar might break wings and antennas, you know."

Le Bihan shook hands with me and pointed to the great pile
of boxes.

"They're all cork lined," he said, "but Fortin and I are
putting felt around each box. The Entomological Society of
Paris pays the freight."

The combined collection of the Red Admiral and the Purple
Emperor made a magnificent display.

I lifted and inspected case after case set with gorgeous
butterflies and moths, each specimen carefully labelled with
the name in Latin. There were cases filled with crimson tiger
moths all aflame with color; cases devoted to the common yellow
butterflies; symphonies in orange and pale yellow; cases of
soft gray and dun-colored sphinx moths; and cases of grayish
nettle-bed butterflies of the numerous family of Vanessa.

All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple
emperor, the Apatura Iris, that fatal specimen that had given
the Purple Emperor his name and quietus.

I remembered the butterfly, and stood looking at it with
bent eyebrows.

Le Bihan glanced up from the floor where he was nailing down
the lid of a box full of cases.

"It is settled, then," said he, "that madame, your wife,
gives the Purple Emperor's entire Collection to the city of
Paris?"

I nodded.

"Without accepting anything for it?"

"It is a gift," I said.

"Including the purple emperor there in the case? That
butterfly is worth a great deal of money," persisted Le
Bihan.

"You don't suppose that we would wish to sell that specimen,
do you?" I answered a trifle sharply.

"If I were you I should destroy it," said the mayor in his
high-pitched voice.

"That would be nonsense," said I, "like your burying the
brass cylinder and scroll yesterday."

"It was not nonsense," said Le Bihan doggedly, "and I should
prefer not to discuss the subject of the scroll."

I looked at Max Portin, who immediately avoided my eyes.

"You are a pair of superstitious old women," said I, digging
my hands into my pockets; "you swallow every nursery tale that
is invented."

"What of it?" said Le Bihan sulkily; "there's more truth
than lies in most of 'em."

"Oh!" I sneered, "does the Mayor of St. Gildas and St.
Julien believe in the loup-garou?"

"No, not in the loup-garou."

"In what, then—Jeanne-la-Flamme?"

"That," said Le Bihan with conviction, "is history."

"The devil it is!" said I; "and perhaps, Monsieur the mayor,
your faith in giants is unimpaired?"

"There were giants—everybody knows it," growled Max
Fortin.

"And you a chemist!" I observed scornfully.

"Listen, Monsieur Darrel," squeaked Le Bihan; "you know
yourself that the Purple Emperor was a scientific man. Now
suppose I should tell you that he always refused to include in
his collection a Death's Messenger?"

"A what?" I exclaimed.

"You know what I mean—that moth that flies by night;
some call it the Death's Head, but in St. Gildas we call it
'Death's Messenger.'"

"Oh!" said I, "you mean that big sphinx moth that is
commonly known as the 'death's-head moth.' Why the mischief
should the people here call it death's messenger?"

"For hundreds of years it has been known as death's
messenger in St. Gildas," said Max Fortin. "Even Froissart
speaks of it in his commentaries on Jacques Sorgue's
Chronicles. The book is in your library."

"Sorgue? And who was Jacques Sorgue? I never read his
book."

"Jacques Sorgue
was the son of some unfrocked priest—I forget. It
was during the crusades."

"Good Heavens!" I burst out, "I've been hearing of nothing
but crusades and priests and death and sorcery ever since I
kicked that skull into the gravel pit, and I am tired of it, I
tell you frankly. One would think we lived in the dark ages. Do
you know what year of our Lord it is, Le Bihan?"

"Eighteen hundred and ninety-six," replied the mayor.

"And yet you two hulking men are afraid of a death's-head
moth."

"I don't care to have one fly into the window," said Max
Fortin; "it means evil to the house and the people in it."

"God alone knows why he marked one of his creatures with a
yellow death's head on the back," observed Le Bihan piously,
"but I take it that he meant it as a warning; and I propose to
profit by it," he added triumphantly.

"See here, Le Bihan," I said; "by a stretch of imagination
one can make out a skull on the thorax of a certain big sphinx
moth. What of it?"

"It is a bad thing to touch," said the mayor wagging his
head.

"It squeaks when handled," added Max Fortin.

"Some creatures squeak all the time," I observed, looking
hard at Le Bihan.

"Pigs," added the mayor.

"Yes, and asses," I replied. "Listen, Le Bihan: do you mean
to tell me that you saw that skull roll uphill yesterday?"

The mayor shut his mouth tightly and picked up his
hammer.

"Don't be obstinate," I said; "I asked you a question."

"And I refuse to answer," snapped Le Bihan. "Fortin saw what
I saw; let him talk about it."

I looked searchingly at the little chemist.

"I don't say that I saw it actually roll up out of the pit,
all by itself," said Fortin with a shiver, "but—but then,
how did it come up out of the pit, if it didn't roll up all by
itself?"

"It didn't come up at all; that was a yellow cobblestone
that you mistook for the skull again," I replied. "You were
nervous, Max."

"A—a very curious cobblestone, Monsieur Darrel," said
Fortin.

"I also was a victim to the same hallucination," I
continued, "and I regret to say that I took the trouble to roll
two innocent cobblestones into the gravel pit, imagining each
time that it was the skull I was rolling."

"It was," observed Le Bihan with a morose shrug.

"It just shows," said I, ignoring the mayor's remark, "how
easy it is to fix up a train of coincidences so that the result
seems to savor of the supernatural. Now, last night my wife
imagined that she saw a priest in a mask peer in at her
window——"

Fortin and Le Bihan scrambled hastily from their knees,
dropping hammer and nails.

"W-h-a-t—what's that?" demanded the mayor.

I repeated what I had said. Max Fortin turned livid.

"My God!" muttered Le Bihan, "the Black Priest is in St.
Gildas!"

"D-don't you—you know the old prophecy?" stammered
Fortin; "Froissart quotes it from Jacques Sorgue:

"Aristide Le Bihan," I said angrily, "and you, Max Fortin,
I've got enough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from
Bannalec has been in St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old
fools like you. If you have nothing better to talk about than
nursery legends I'll wait until you come to your senses.
Good-morning." And I walked out, more disturbed than I cared to
acknowledge to myself.

The day had become misty and overcast. Heavy, wet clouds
hung in the east. I heard the surf thundering against the
cliffs, and the gray gulls squealed as they tossed and turned
high in the sky. The tide was creeping across the river sands,
higher, higher, and I saw the seaweed floating on the beach,
and the lancons springing from the foam, silvery threadlike
flashes in the gloom. Curlew were flying up the river in twos
and threes; the timid sea swallows skimmed across the moors
toward some quiet, lonely pool, safe from the coming tempest.
In every hedge field birds were gathering, huddling together,
twittering restlessly.

When I reached the cliffs I sat down, resting my chin on my
clenched hands. Already a vast curtain of rain, sweeping across
the ocean miles away, hid the island of Groix. To the east,
behind the white semaphore on the hills, black clouds crowded
up over the horizon. After a little the thunder boomed, dull,
distant, and slender skeins of lightning unraveled across the
crest of the coming storm. Under the cliff at my feet the surf
rushed foaming over the shore, and the lancons jumped and
skipped and quivered until they seemed to be but the
reflections of the meshed lightning.

I turned to the east. It was raining over Groix, it was
raining at Sainte Barbe, it was raining now at the semaphore.
High in the storm whirl a few gulls pitched; a nearer cloud
trailed veils of rain in its wake; the sky was spattered with
lightning; the thunder boomed.

As I rose to go, a cold raindrop fell upon the back of my
hand, and another, and yet another on my face. I gave a last
glance at the sea, where the waves were bursting into strange
white shapes that seemed to fling out menacing arms toward me.
Then something moved on the cliff, something black as the black
rock it clutched—a filthy cormorant, craning its hideous
head at the sky.

Slowly I plodded homeward across the somber moorland, where
the gorse stems glimmered with a dull metallic green, and the
heather, no longer violet and purple, hung drenched and
dun-colored among the dreary rocks. The wet turf creaked under
my heavy boots, the black-thorn scraped and grated against knee
and elbow. Over all lay a strange light, pallid, ghastly, where
the sea spray whirled across the landscape and drove into my
face until it grew numb with the cold. In broad bands, rank
after rank, billow on billow, the rain burst out across the
endless moors, and yet there was no wind to drive it at such a
pace.

Lys stood at the door as I turned into the garden, motioning
me to hasten; and then for the first time I became conscious
that I was soaked to the skin.

"However in the world did you come to stay out when such a
storm threatened?" she said. "Oh, you are dripping! Go quickly
and change; I have laid your warm underwear on the bed,
Dick."

I kissed my wife, and went upstairs to change my dripping
clothes for something more comfortable.

When I returned to the morning room there was a driftwood
fire on the hearth, and Lys sat in the chimney corner
embroidering.

"Catherine tells me that the fishing fleet from Lorient is
out. Do you think they are in danger, dear?" asked Lys, raising
her blue eyes to mine as I entered.

"There is no wind, and there will be no sea," said I,
looking out of the window. Far across the moor I could see the
black cliffs looming in the mist.

"How it rains!" murmured Lys; "come to the fire, Dick."

I threw myself on the fur rug, my hands in my pockets, my
head on Lys's knees.

"Tell me a story," I said. "I feel like a boy of ten."

Lys raised a finger to her scarlet lips. I always waited for
her to do that.

"Will you be very still, then?" she said.

"Still as death."

"Death," echoed a voice, very softly.

"Did you speak, Lys?" I asked, turning so that I could see
her face.

"No; did you, Dick?"

"Who said 'death'?" I asked, startled.

"Death," echoed a voice, softly.

I sprang up and looked about. Lys rose too, her needles and
embroidery falling to the floor. She seemed about to faint,
leaning heavily on me, and I led her to the window and opened
it a little way to give her air. As I did so the chain
lightning split the zenith, the thunder crashed, and a sheet of
rain swept into the room, driving with it something that
fluttered—something that flapped, and squeaked, and beat
upon the rug with soft, moist wings.

We bent over it together, Lys clinging to me, and we saw
that it was a death's-head moth drenched with rain.

The dark day passed slowly as we sat beside the fire, hand
in hand, her head against my breast, speaking of sorrow and
mystery and death. For Lys believed that there were things on
earth that none might understand, things that must be nameless
forever and ever, until God rolls up the scroll of life and all
is ended. We spoke of hope and fear and faith, and the mystery
of the saints; we spoke of the beginning and the end, of the
shadow of sin, of omens, and of love. The moth still lay on the
floor quivering its somber wings in the warmth of the fire, the
skull and ribs clearly etched upon its neck and body.

"If it is a messenger of death to this house," I said, "why
should we fear, Lys?"

"Death should be welcome to those who love God," murmured
Lys, and she drew the cross from her breast and kissed it.

"The moth might die if I threw it out into the storm," I
said after a silence.

"Let it remain," sighed Lys.

Late that night my wife lay sleeping, and I sat beside her
bed and read in the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue. I shaded the
candle, but Lys grew restless, and finally I took the book down
into the morning room, where the ashes of the fire rustled and
whitened on the hearth.

The death's-head moth lay on the rug before the fire where I
had left it. At first I thought it was dead, but when I looked
closer I saw a lambent fire in its amber eyes. The straight
white shadow it cast across the floor wavered as the candle
flickered.

The pages of the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue were damp and
sticky; the illuminated gold and blue initials left flakes of
azure and gilt where my hand brushed them.

"It is not paper at all; it is thin parchment," I said to
myself; and I held the discolored page close to the candle
flame and read, translating laboriously:

"I, Jacques Sorgue, saw all these things. And I saw the
Black Mass celebrated in the chapel of St. Gildas-on-the-Cliff.
And it was said by the Abbé Sorgue, my kinsman: for
which deadly sin the apostate priest was seized by the most
noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him condemned to be burned
with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body and fly to
its master the devil. But when the Black Priest lay in the
crypt of Plougastel, his master Satan came at night and set him
free, and carried him across land and sea to Mahmoud, which is
Soldan or Saladin. And I, Jacques Sorgue, traveling afterward
by sea, beheld with my own eyes my kinsman, the Black Priest of
St. Gildas, borne along in the air upon a vast black wing,
which was the wing of his master Satan. And this was seen also
by two men of the crew."

I turned the page. The wings of the moth on the floor began
to quiver. I read on and on, my eyes blurring under the
shifting candle flame. I read of battles and of saints, and I
learned how the Great Soldan made his pact with Satan, and then
I came to the Sieur de Trevec, and read how he seized the Black
Priest in the midst of Saladin's tents and carried him away and
cut off his head first branding him on the forehead. "And
before he suffered," said the Chronicle, "he cursed the Sieur
de Trevec and his descendants, and he said he would surely
return to St. Gildas. 'For the violence you do to me, I will do
violence to you. For the evil I suffer at your hands, I will
work evil on you and your descendants. Woe to your children,
Sieur de Trevec!'" There was a whirr, a beating of strong
wings, and my candle flashed up as in a sudden breeze. A
humming filled the room; the great moth darted hither and
thither, beating, buzzing, on ceiling and wall. I flung down my
book and stepped forward. Now it lay fluttering upon the window
sill, and for a moment I had it under my hand, but the thing
squeaked and I shrank back. Then suddenly it darted across the
candle flame; the light flared and went out, and at the same
moment a shadow moved in the darkness outside. I raised my eyes
to the window. A masked face was peering in at me.

Quick as thought I whipped out my revolver and fired every
cartridge, but the face advanced beyond the window, the glass
melting away before it like mist, and through the smoke of my
revolver I saw something creep swiftly into the room. Then I
tried to cry out, but the thing was at my throat, and I fell
backward among the ashes of the hearth.

When my eyes unclosed I was lying on the hearth, my head
among the cold ashes. Slowly I got on my knees, rose painfully,
and groped my way to a chair. On the floor lay my revolver,
shining in the pale light of early morning. My mind clearing by
degrees, I looked, shuddering, at the window. The glass was
unbroken. I stooped stiffly, picked up my revolver and opened
the cylinder. Every cartridge had been fired. Mechanically I
closed the cylinder and placed the revolver in my pocket. The
book, the Chronicles of Jacques Sorgue, lay on the table beside
me, and as I started to close it I glanced at the page. It was
all splashed with rain, and the lettering had run, so that the
page was merely a confused blur of gold and red and black. As I
stumbled toward the door I cast a fearful glance over my
shoulder. The death's-head moth crawled shivering on the
rug.

IV

The sun was about three hours high. I must have slept, for I
was aroused by the sudden gallop of horses under our window.
People were shouting and calling in the road. I sprang up and
opened the sash. Le Bihan was there, an image of helplessness,
and Max Fortin stood beside him polishing his glasses. Some
gendarmes had just arrived from Quimperle, and I could hear
them around the corner of the house, stamping, and rattling
their sabres and carbines, as they led their horses into my
stable.

Lys sat up, murmuring half-sleepy, half-anxious
questions.

"I don't know," I answered. "I am going out to see what it
means."

"It is like the day they came to arrest you," Lys said,
giving me a troubled look. But I kissed her and laughed at her
until she smiled too. Then I flung on coat and cap and hurried
down the stairs.

The first person I saw standing in the road was the
Brigadier Durand.

"Hello!" said I, "have you come to arrest me again? What the
devil is all this fuss about, anyway?"

"We were telegraphed for an hour ago," said Durand briskly,
"and for a sufficient reason, I think. Look there, Monsieur
Darrel!"

He pointed to the ground almost under my feet.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "where did that puddle of blood
come from?"

"That's what I want to know, Monsieur Darrel. Max Fortin
found it at daybreak. See, it's splashed all over the grass,
too. A trail of it leads into your garden, across the flower
beds to your very window, the one that opens from the morning
room. There is another trail leading from this spot across the
road to the cliffs, then to the gravel pit, and thence across
the moor to the forest of Kerselec. We are going to mount in a
minute and search the bosquets. Will you join us? Bon Dieu! but
the fellow bled like an ox. Max Fortin says it's human blood,
or I should not have believed it."

The little chemist of Quimperle came up at that moment,
rubbing his glasses with a colored handkerchief.

"Yes, it is human blood," he said, "but one thing puzzles
me: the corpuscles are yellow. I never saw any human blood
before with yellow corpuscles. But your English Doctor Thompson
asserts that he has——"

"Well, it's human blood, anyway—isn't it?" insisted
Durand, impatiently.

"Ye-es," admitted Max Fortin.

"Then it's my business to trail it," said the big gendarme,
and he called his men and gave the order to mount.

"Did you hear anything last night?" asked Durand of me.

"I heard the rain. I wonder the rain did not wash away these
traces."

"They must have come after the rain ceased. See this thick
splash, how it lies over and weighs down the wet grass blades.
Pah!"

It was a heavy, evil-looking clot, and I stepped back from
it, my throat closing in disgust.

"My theory," said the brigadier, "is this: Some of those
Biribi fishermen, probably the Icelanders, got an extra glass
of cognac into their hides and quarreled on the road. Some of
them were slashed, and staggered to your house. But there is
only one trail, and yet—and yet, how could all that blood
come from only one person? Well, the wounded man, let us say,
staggered first to your house and then back here, and he
wandered off, drunk and dying, God knows where. That's my
theory."

"A very good one," said I calmly. "And you are going to
trail him?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"At once. Will you come?"

"Not now. I'll gallop over by-and-bye. You are going to the
edge of the Kerselec forest?"

"Yes; you will hear us calling. Are you coming, Max Fortin?
And you, Le Bihan? Good; take the dog-cart."

The big gendarme tramped around the corner to the stable and
presently returned mounted on a strong gray horse, his sabre
shone on his saddle; his pale yellow and white facings were
spotless. The little crowd of white-coiffed women with their
children fell back as Durand touched spurs and clattered away
followed by his two troopers. Soon after Le Bihan and Max
Fortin also departed in the mayor's dingy dog-cart.

"Are you coming?" piped Le Bihan shrilly.

"In a quarter of an hour," I replied, and went back to the
house.

When I opened the door of the morning room the death's-head
moth was beating its strong wings against the window. For a
second I hesitated, then walked over and opened the sash. The
creature fluttered out, whirred over the flower beds a moment,
then darted across the moorland toward the sea. I called the
servants together and questioned them. Josephine, Catherine,
Jean Marie Tregunc, not one of them had heard the slightest
disturbance during the night. Then I told Jean Marie to saddle
my horse, and while I was speaking Lys came down.

"Dearest," I began, going to her.

"You must tell me everything you know, Dick," she
interrupted, looking me earnestly in the face.

"But there is nothing to tell—only a drunken brawl,
and some one wounded."

"And you are going to ride—where, Dick?"

"Well, over to the edge of Kerselec forest. Durand and the
mayor, and Max Fortin, have gone on, following a—a
trail."

"What trail?"

"Some blood."

"Where did they find it?"

"Out in the road there." Lys crossed herself.

"Does it come near our house?"

"Yes."

"How near?"

"It comes up to the morning room window," said I, giving
in.

Her hand on my arm grew heavy. "I dreamed last
night——"

"So did I—" but I thought of the empty cartridges in
my revolver, and stopped.

"I dreamed that you were in great danger, and I could not
move hand or foot to save you; but you had your revolver, and I
called out to you to fire——"

"I did fire!" I cried excitedly.

"You—you fired?"

I took her in my arms. "My darling," I said "something
strange has happened—something that I cannot understand
as yet. But, of course, there is an explanation. Last night I
thought I fired at the Black Priest."

"Ah!" gasped Lys.

"Is that what you dreamed?"

"Yes, yes, that was it! I begged you to
fire——"

"And I did."

Her heart was beating against my breast. I held her close in
silence.

"Dick," she said at length, "perhaps you killed
the—the thing."

"If it was human I did not miss," I answered grimly. "And it
was human," I went on, pulling myself together, ashamed of
having so nearly gone to pieces. "Of course it was human! The
whole affair is plain enough. Not a drunken brawl, as Durand
thinks; it was a drunken lout's practical joke, for which he
has suffered. I suppose I must have filled him pretty full of
bullets, and he has crawled away to die in Kerselec forest.
It's a terrible affair; I'm sorry I fired so hastily; but that
idiot Le Bihan and Max Fortin have been working on my nerves
till I am as hysterical as a schoolgirl," I ended angrily.

"You fired—but the window glass was not shattered,"
said Lys in a low voice.

"Well, the window was open, then. And as for the—the
rest—I've got nervous indigestion, and a doctor will
settle the Black Priest for me, Lys."

I glanced out of the window at Tregunc waiting with my horse
at the gate.

"Dearest, I think I had better go to join Durand and the
others."

"I will go, too."

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, Dick."

"Don't, Lys."

"I shall suffer every moment you are away."

"The ride is too fatiguing, and we can't tell what
unpleasant sight you may come upon. Lys, you don't really think
there is anything supernatural in this affair?"

"Dick," she answered gently, "I am a Bretonne." With both
arms around my neck, my wife said, "Death is the gift of God. I
do not fear it when we are together. But alone—oh, my
husband, I should fear a God who could take you away from
me!"

We kissed each other soberly, simply, like two children.
Then Lys hurried away to change her gown, and I paced up and
down the garden waiting for her.

She came, drawing on her slender gauntlets. I swung her into
the saddle, gave a hasty order to Jean Marie, and mounted.

Now, to quail under thoughts of terror on a morning like
this, with Lys in the saddle beside me, no matter what had
happened or might happen was impossible. Moreover, Môme
came sneaking after us. I asked Tregunc to catch him, for I was
afraid he might be brained by our horses' hoofs if he followed,
but the wily puppy dodged and bolted after Lys, who was
trotting along the highroad. "Never mind," I thought; "if he's
hit he'll live, for he has no brains to lose."

Lys was waiting for me in the road beside the Shrine of Our
Lady of St. Gildas when I joined her. She crossed herself, I
doffed my cap, then we shook out our bridles and galloped
toward the forest of Kerselec.

We said very little as we rode. I always loved to watch Lys
in the saddle. Her exquisite figure and lovely face were the
incarnation of youth and grace; her curling hair glistened like
threaded gold.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the spoiled puppy
Môme come bounding cheerfully alongside, oblivious of our
horses' heels. Our road swung close to the cliffs. A filthy
cormorant rose from the black rocks and flapped heavily across
our path. Lys's horse reared, but she pulled him down, and
pointed at the bird with her riding crop.

"I see," said I; "it seems to be going our way. Curious to
see a cormorant in a forest, isn't it?"

"It is a bad sign," said Lys. "You know the Morbihan
proverb: 'When the cormorant turns from the sea, Death laughs
in the forest, and wise woodsmen build boats.'"

"I wish," said I sincerely, "that there were fewer proverbs
in Brittany."

We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could
see the sparkle of gendarmes' trappings, and the glitter of Le
Bihan's silver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took
it without difficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le
Bihan and Durand stood gesticulating.

They bowed ceremoniously to Lys as we rode up.

"The trail is horrible—it is a river," said the mayor
in his squeaky voice. "Monsieur Darrel, I think perhaps madame
would scarcely care to come any nearer."

Lys drew bridle and looked at me.

"It is horrible!" said Durand, walking up beside me; "it
looks as though a bleeding regiment had passed this way. The
trail winds and winds about here in the thickets; we lose it at
times, but we always find it again. I can't understand how one
man—no, nor twenty—could bleed like that!"

A halloo, answered by another, sounded from the depths of
the forest.

"It's my men; they are following the trail," muttered the
brigadier. "God alone knows what is at the end!"

"Shall we gallop back, Lys?" I asked.

"No; let us ride along the western edge of the woods and
dismount. The sun is so hot now, and I should like to rest for
a moment," she said.

"The western forest is clear of anything disagreeable," said
Durand.

"Very well," I answered; "call me, Le Bihan, if you find
anything."

Lys wheeled her mare, and I followed across the springy
heather, Môme trotting cheerfully in the rear.

We entered the sunny woods about a quarter of a kilometer
from where we left Durand. I took Lys from her horse, flung
both bridles over a limb, and, giving my wife my arm, aided her
to a flat mossy rock which overhung a shallow brook gurgling
among the beech trees. Lys sat down and drew off her gauntlets.
Môme pushed his head into her lap, received an undeserved
caress, and came doubtfully toward me. I was weak enough to
condone his offense, but I made him lie down at my feet,
greatly to his disgust.

I rested my head on Lys's knees, looking up at the sky
through the crossed branches of the trees.

"I suppose I have killed him," I said. "It shocks me
terribly, Lys."

"You could not have known, dear. He may have been a robber,
and—if—not—did—have you ever fired your
revolver since that day four years ago when the Red Admiral's
son tried to kill you? But I know you have not."

"No," said I, wondering. "It's a fact, I have not. Why?"

"And don't you remember that I asked you to let me load it
for you the day when Yves went off, swearing to kill you and
his father?"

"Yes, I do remember. Well?"

"Well, I—I took the cartridges first to St. Gildas
chapel and dipped them in holy water. You must not laugh,
Dick," said Lys gently, laying her cool hands on my lips.

"Laugh, my darling!"

Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst, and the sunlight
burned like orange flame through the yellow leaves of beech and
oak. Gnats and midges danced and wavered overhead; a spider
dropped from a twig halfway to the ground and hung suspended on
the end of his gossamer thread.

"Are you sleepy, dear?" asked Lys, bending over me.

"I am—a little; I scarcely slept two hours last
night," I answered.

"You may sleep, if you wish," said Lys, and touched my eyes
caressingly.

"Is my head heavy on your knees?"

"No, Dick."

I was already in a half doze; still I heard the brook
babbling under the beeches and the humming of forest flies
overhead. Presently even these were stilled.

The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears
ringing with a scream, and I saw Lys cowering beside me,
covering her white face with both hands.

As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my
knees. I saw my dog rush growling into a thicket, then I heard
him whimper, and he came backing out, whining, ears flat, tail
down. I stooped and disengaged Lys's hand.

"Don't go, Dick!" she cried. "O God, it's the Black
Priest!"

In a moment I had leaped across the brook and pushed my way
into the thicket. It was empty. I stared about me; I scanned
every tree trunk, every bush. Suddenly I saw him. He was seated
on a fallen log, his head resting in his hands, his rusty black
robe gathered around him. For a moment my hair stirred under my
cap; sweat started on forehead and cheek bone; then I recovered
my reason, and understood that the man was human and was
probably wounded to death. Ay, to death; for there at my feet,
lay the wet trail of blood, over leaves and stones, down into
the little hollow, across to the figure in black resting
silently under the trees.

I saw that he could not escape even if he had the strength,
for before him, almost at his very feet, lay a deep, shining
swamp.

As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig. At the sound the
figure started a little, then its head fell forward again. Its
face was masked. Walking up to the man, I bade him tell where
he was wounded. Durand and the others broke through the thicket
at the same moment and hurried to my side.

"Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest's robe?"
said the gendarme loudly.

There was no answer.

"See—see the stiff blood all over his robe," muttered
Le Bihan to Fortin.

"He will not speak," said I.

"He may be too badly wounded," whispered Le Bihan.

"I saw him raise his head," I said, "my wife saw him creep
up here."

Durand stepped forward and touched the figure.

"Speak!" he said.

"Speak!" quavered Fortin.

Durand waited a moment, then with a sudden upward movement
he stripped off the mask and threw back the man's head. We were
looking into the eye sockets of a skull. Durand stood rigid;
the mayor shrieked. The skeleton burst out from its rotting
robes and collapsed on the ground before us. From between the
staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurted a torrent of black
blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then the thing
shuddered, and fell over into the black ooze of the bog. Little
bubbles of iridescent air appeared from the mud; the bones were
slowly engulfed, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight,
up from the depths and along the bank crept a creature, shiny,
shivering, quivering its wings.

It was a death's-head moth.

I wish I had time to tell you how Lys outgrew
superstitions—for she never knew the truth about the
affair, and she never will know, since she has promised not to
read this book. I wish I might tell you about the king and his
coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted. I wish that I
were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boar
hunt in Quimperle, and how the hounds raced the quarry right
through the town, overturning three gendarmes, the notary, and
an old woman. But I am becoming garrulous and Lys is calling me
to come and hear the king say that he is sleepy. And his
highness shall not be kept waiting.

THE KING'S CRADLE SONG

Lazarus

By LEONID ANDREYEV

TRANSLATED BY ABRAHAM YARMOLINSKY

I

When Lazarus left the grave, where, for three days and three
nights he had been under the enigmatical sway of death, and
returned alive to his dwelling, for a long time no one noticed
in him those sinister oddities, which, as time went on, made
his very name a terror. Gladdened unspeakably by the sight of
him who had been returned to life, those near to him caressed
him unceasingly, and satiated their burning desire to serve
him, in solicitude for his food and drink and garments. And
they dressed him gorgeously, in bright colors of hope and
laughter, and when, like to a bridegroom in his bridal
vestures, he sat again among them at the table, and again ate
and drank, they wept, overwhelmed with tenderness. And they
summoned the neighbors to look at him who had risen
miraculously from the dead. These came and shared the serene
joy of the hosts. Strangers from far-off towns and hamlets came
and adored the miracle in tempestuous words. Like to a beehive
was the house of Mary and Martha.

Whatever was found new in Lazarus' face and gestures was
thought to be some trace of a grave illness and of the shocks
recently experienced. Evidently, the destruction wrought by
death on the corpse was only arrested by the miraculous power,
but its effects were still apparent; and what death had
succeeded in doing with Lazarus' face and body, was like an
artist's unfinished sketch seen under thin glass. On Lazarus'
temples, under his eyes, and in the hollows of his cheeks, lay
a deep and cadaverous blueness; cadaverously blue also were his
long fingers, and around his fingernails, grown long in the
grave, the blue had become purple and dark. On his lips the
skin, swollen in the grave, had burst in places, and thin,
reddish cracks were formed, shining as though covered with
transparent mica. And he had grown stout. His body, puffed up
in the grave, retained its monstrous size and showed those
frightful swellings, in which one sensed the presence of the
rank liquid of decomposition. But the heavy corpse-like odor
which penetrated Lazarus' graveclothes and, it seemed, his very
body, soon entirely disappeared, the blue spots on his face and
hands grew paler, and the reddish cracks closed up, although
they never disappeared altogether. That is how Lazarus looked
when he appeared before people, in his second life, but his
face looked natural to those who had seen him in the
coffin.

In addition to the changes in his appearance, Lazarus'
temper seemed to have undergone a transformation, but this
circumstance startled no one and attracted no attention. Before
his death Lazarus had always been cheerful and carefree, fond
of laughter and a merry joke. It was because of this brightness
and cheerfulness, with not a touch of malice and darkness, that
the Master had grown so fond of him. But now Lazarus had grown
grave and taciturn, he never jested, himself, nor responded
with laughter to other people's jokes; and the words which he
uttered, very infrequently, were the plainest, most ordinary,
and necessary words, as deprived of depth and significance, as
those sounds with which animals express pain and pleasure,
thirst and hunger. They were the words that one can say all
one's life, and yet they give no indication of what pains and
gladdens the depths of the soul.

Thus, with the face of a corpse which for three days had
been under the heavy sway of death, dark and taciturn, already
appallingly transformed, but still unrecognized by anyone in
his new self, he was sitting at the feasting table, among
friends and relatives, and his gorgeous nuptial garments
glittered with yellow gold and bloody scarlet. Broad waves of
jubilation, now soft, now tempestuously sonorous surged around
him; warm glances of love were reaching out for his face, still
cold with the coldness of the grave; and a friend's warm palm
caressed his blue, heavy hand. And music played the tympanum
and the pipe, the cithara and the harp. It was as though bees
hummed, grasshoppers chirped and birds warbled over the happy
house of Mary and Martha.

II

One of the guests incautiously lifted the veil. By a
thoughtless word he broke the serene charm and uncovered the
truth in all its naked ugliness. Ere the thought formed itself
in his mind, his lips uttered with a smile:

"Why dost thou not tell us what happened yonder?"

And all grew silent, startled by the question. It was as if
it occurred to them only now that for three days Lazarus had
been dead, and they looked at him, anxiously awaiting his
answer. But Lazarus kept silence.

"Thou dost not wish to tell us,"—wondered the man, "is
it so terrible yonder?"

And again his thought came after his words. Had it been
otherwise, he would not have asked this question, which at that
very moment oppressed his heart with its insufferable horror.
Uneasiness seized all present, and with a feeling of heavy
weariness they awaited Lazarus' words, but he was silent,
sternly and coldly, and his eyes were lowered. And as if for
the first time, they noticed the frightful blueness of his face
and his repulsive obesity. On the table, as though forgotten by
Lazarus, rested his bluish-purple wrist, and to this all eyes
turned, as if it were from it that the awaited answer was to
come. The musicians were still playing, but now the silence
reached them too, and even as water extinguishes scattered
embers, so were their merry tunes extinguished in the silence.
The pipe grew silent; the voices of the sonorous tympanum and
the murmuring harp died away; and as if the strings had burst,
the cithara answered with a tremulous, broken note.
Silence.

"Thou dost not wish to say?" repeated the guest, unable to
check his chattering tongue. But the stillness remained
unbroken, and the bluish-purple hand rested motionless. And
then he stirred slightly and everyone felt relieved. He lifted
up his eyes, and lo! straightway embracing everything in one
heavy glance, fraught with weariness and horror, he looked at
them,—Lazarus who had arisen from the dead.

It was the third day since Lazarus had left the grave. Ever
since then many had experienced the pernicious power of his
eye, but neither those who were crushed by it forever, nor
those who found the strength to resist in it the primordial
sources of life,—which is as mysterious as
death,—never could they explain the horror which lay
motionless in the depth of his black pupils. Lazarus looked
calmly and simply with no desire to conceal anything, but also
with no intention to say anything; he looked coldly, as he who
is infinitely indifferent to those alive. Many carefree people
came close to him without noticing him, and only later did they
learn with astonishment and fear who that calm stout man was,
that walked slowly by, almost touching them with his gorgeous
and dazzling garments. The sun did not cease shining, when he
was looking, nor did the fountain hush its murmur, and the sky
overhead remained cloudless and blue. But the man under the
spell of his enigmatical look heard no more the fountain and
saw not the sky overhead. Sometimes, he wept bitterly,
sometimes he tore his hair and in frenzy called for help; but
more often it came to pass that apathetically and quietly he
began to die, and so he languished many years, before
everybody's very eyes, wasted away, colorless, flabby, dull,
like a tree, silently drying up in a stony soil. And of those
who gazed at him, the ones who wept madly, sometimes felt again
the stir of life; the others never.

"So thou dost not wish to tell us what thou hast seen
yonder?" repeated the man. But now his voice was impassive and
dull, and deadly gray weariness showed in Lazarus' eyes. And
deadly gray weariness covered like dust all the faces, and with
dull amazement the guests stared at each other and did not
understand wherefore they had gathered here and sat at the rich
table. The talk ceased. They thought it was time to go home,
but could not overcome the flaccid lazy weariness which glued
their muscles, and they kept on sitting there, yet apart and
torn away from each other, like pale fires scattered over a
dark field.

But the musicians were paid to play and again they took
their instruments and again tunes full of studied mirth and
studied sorrow began to flow and to rise. They unfolded the
customary melody but the guests hearkened in dull amazement.
Already they knew not wherefore is it necessary, and why is it
well, that people should pluck strings, inflate their cheeks,
blow in thin pipes, and produce a bizarre, many-voiced
noise.

"What bad music," said someone.

The musicians took offense and left. Following them, the
guests left one after another, for night was already come. And
when placid darkness encircled them and they began to breathe
with more ease, suddenly Lazarus' image loomed up before each
one in formidable radiance: the blue face of a corpse,
grave-clothes gorgeous and resplendent, a cold look, in the
depths of which lay motionless an unknown horror. As though
petrified, they were standing far apart, and darkness enveloped
them, but in the darkness blazed brighter and brighter the
supernatural vision of him who for three days had been under
the enigmatical sway of death. For three days had he been dead:
thrice had the sun risen and set, but he had been dead;
children had played, streams murmured over pebbles, the
wayfarer had lifted up hot dust in the highroad,—but he
had been dead. And now he is again among them,—touches
them,—looks at them,—looks at them! and through the
black discs of his pupils, as through darkened glass, stares
the unknowable Yonder.

III

No one was taking care of Lazarus, for no friends no
relatives were left to him, and the great desert which
encircled the holy city, came near the very threshold of his
dwelling. And the desert entered his house, and stretched on
his couch, like a wife and extinguished the fires. No one was
taking care of Lazarus. One after the other, his
sisters—Mary and Martha—forsook him. For a long
while Martha was loath to abandon him, for she knew not who
would feed him and pity him, she wept and prayed. But one
night, when the wind was roaming in the desert and with a
hissing sound the cypresses were bending over the roof, she
dressed noiselessly and secretly left the house. Lazarus
probably heard the door slam; it banged against the side-post
under the gusts of the desert wind, but he did not rise to go
out and to look at her that was abandoning him. All the night
long the cypresses hissed over his head and plaintively thumped
the door, letting in the cold, greedy desert.

Like a leper he was shunned by everyone, and it was proposed
to tie a bell to his neck, as is done with lepers, to warn
people against sudden meetings. But someone remarked, growing
frightfully pale, that it would be too horrible if by night the
moaning of Lazarus' bell were suddenly heard under the
windows,—and so the project was abandoned.

And since he did not take care of himself, he would probably
have starved to death, had not the neighbors brought him food
in fear of something that they sensed but vaguely. The food was
brought to him by children; they were not afraid of Lazarus,
nor did they mock him with naive cruelty, as children are wont
to do with the wretched and miserable. They were indifferent to
him, and Lazarus answered them with the same coldness; he had
no desire to caress the black little curls, and to look into
their innocent shining eyes. Given to Time and to the Desert,
his house was crumbling down, and long since had his famishing,
lowing goats wandered away to the neighboring pastures. And his
bridal garments became threadbare. Ever since that happy day,
when the musicians played, he had worn them unaware of the
difference of the new and the worn. The bright colors grew dull
and faded; vicious dogs and the sharp thorn of the Desert
turned the tender fabric into rags.

By day, when the merciless sun slew all things alive, and
even scorpions sought shelter under stones and writhed there in
a mad desire to sting, he sat motionless under the sunrays, his
blue face and the uncouth, bushy beard lifted up, bathing in
the fiery flood.

When people still talked to him, he was once asked:

"Poor Lazarus, does it please thee to sit thus and to stare
at the sun?"

And he had answered:

"Yes, it does."

So strong, it seemed, was the cold of his three days' grave,
so deep the darkness, that there was no heat on earth to warm
Lazarus, nor a splendor that could brighten the darkness of his
eyes. That is what came to the mind of those who spoke to
Lazarus, and with a sigh they left him.

And when the scarlet, flattened globe would lower, Lazarus
would set out for the desert and walk straight toward the sun,
as though striving to reach it. He always walked straight
toward the sun and those who tried to follow him and to spy
upon what he was doing at night in the desert, retained in
their memory the black silhouette of a tall stout man against
the red background of an enormous flattened disc. Night pursued
them with her horrors, and so they did not learn of Lazarus'
doings in the desert, but the vision of the black on red was
forever branded on their brain. Just as a beast with a splinter
in its eye furiously rubs its muzzle with its paws, so they too
foolishly rubbed their eyes, but what Lazarus had given was
indelible, and Death alone could efface it.

But there were people who lived far away, who never saw
Lazarus and knew of him only by report. With daring curiosity,
which is stronger than fear and feeds upon it, with hidden
mockery, they would come to Lazarus who was sitting in the sun
and enter into conversation with him. By this time Lazarus'
appearance had changed for the better and was not so terrible.
The first minute they snapped their fingers and thought of how
stupid the inhabitants of the holy city were; but when the
short talk was over and they started homeward, their looks were
such that the inhabitants of the holy city recognized them at
once and said:

"Look, there is one more fool on whom Lazarus has set his
eye,"—and they shook their heads regretfully, and lifted
up their arms.

There came brave, intrepid warriors, with tinkling weapons;
happy youths came with laughter and song; busy tradesmen,
jingling their money, ran in for a moment, and haughty priests
leaned their crosiers against Lazarus' door, and they were all
strangely changed, as they came back. The same terrible shadow
swooped down upon their souls and gave a new appearance to the
old familiar world.

Those who still had the desire to speak, expressed their
feelings thus:

"All things tangible and visible grew hollow, light, and
transparent,—similar to lightsome shadows in the darkness
of night;

"for, that great darkness, which holds the whole cosmos, was
dispersed neither by the sun or by the moon and the stars, but
like an immense black shroud enveloped the earth and, like a
mother, embraced it;

"it penetrated all the bodies, iron and stone,—and the
particles of the bodies, having lost their ties, grew lonely;
and it penetrated into the depth of the particles, and the
particles of particles became lonely;

"for that great void, which encircles the cosmos, was not
filled by things visible: neither by the sun, nor by the moon
and the stars, but reigned unrestrained, penetrating
everywhere, severing body from body, particle from
particle;

"in the void hollow trees spread hollow roots threatening a
fantastic fall; temples, palaces, and horses loomed up and they
were hollow; and in the void men moved about restlessly but
they were light and hollow like shadows;

"for, Time was no more, and the beginning of all things came
near their end: the building was still being built, and
builders were still hammering away, and its ruins were already
seen and the void in its place; the man was still being born,
but already funeral candles were burning at his head, and now
they were extinguished, and there was the void in place of the
man and of the funeral candles.

"and wrapped by void and darkness the man in despair
trembled in the face of the Horror of the Infinite."

Thus spake the men who had still a desire to speak. But,
surely, much more could have told those who wished not to
speak, and died in silence.

IV

At that time there lived in Rome a renowned sculptor. In
clay, marble, and bronze he wrought bodies of gods and men, and
such was their beauty, that people called them immortal. But he
himself was discontented and asserted that there was something
even more beautiful, that he could not embody either in marble
or in bronze. "I have not yet gathered the glimmers of the
moon, nor have I my fill of sunshine," he was wont to say, "and
there is no soul in my marble, no life in my beautiful bronze."
And when on moonlit nights he slowly walked along the road,
crossing the black shadows of cypresses, his white tunic
glittering in the moonshine, those who met him would laugh in a
friendly way and say:

"Art thou going to gather moonshine, Aurelius? Why then
didst thou not fetch baskets?"

And he would answer, laughing and pointing to his eyes:

"Here are the baskets wherein I gather the sheen of the moon
and the glimmer of the sun."

And so it was: the moon glimmered in his eyes and the sun
sparkled therein. But he could not translate them into marble
and therein lay the serene tragedy of his life.

He was descended from an ancient patrician race, had a good
wife and children, and suffered from no want.

When the obscure rumor about Lazarus reached him, he
consulted his wife and friends and undertook the far journey to
Judea to see him who had miraculously risen from the dead. He
was somewhat weary in those days and he hoped that the road
would sharpen his blunted senses. What was said of Lazarus did
not frighten him: he had pondered much over Death, did not like
it, but he disliked also those who confused it with life.

thought he, and there is no better thing
for a man to do than to delight in life and in the beauty of
all things living. He had even a vainglorious desire to
convince Lazarus of the truth of his own view and restore his
soul to life, as his body had been restored. This seemed so
much easier because the rumors, shy and strange, did not render
the whole truth about Lazarus and but vaguely warned against
something frightful.

Lazarus had just risen from the stone in order to follow the
sun which was setting in the desert, when a rich Roman attended
by an armed slave, approached him and addressed him in a
sonorous tone of voice:

"Lazarus!"

And Lazarus beheld a superb face, lit with glory, and
arrayed in fine clothes, and precious stones sparkling in the
sun. The red light lent to the Roman's face and head the
appearance of gleaming bronze—that also Lazarus noticed.
He resumed obediently his place and lowered his weary eyes.

"Yes, thou art ugly, my poor Lazarus,"—quietly said
the Roman, playing with his golden chain; "thou art even
horrible, my poor friend; and Death was not lazy that day when
thou didst fall so heedlessly into his hands. But thou art
stout, and, as the great Cæsar used to say, fat people
are not ill-tempered; to tell the truth, I don't understand why
men fear thee. Permit me to spend the night in thy house; the
hour is late, and I have no shelter."

Never had anyone asked Lazarus' hospitality.

"I have no bed," said he.

"I am somewhat of a soldier and I can sleep sitting," the
Roman answered. "We shall build a fire."

"I have no fire."

"Then we shall have our talk in the darkness, like two
friends. I think thou wilt find a bottle of wine."

"I have no wine."

The Roman laughed.

"Now I see why thou art so somber and dislikest thy second
life. No wine! Why, then we shall do without it: there are
words that make the head go round better than the
Falernian."

By a sign he dismissed the slave, and they remained all
alone. And again the sculptor started speaking, but it was as
if, together with the setting sun, life had left his words; and
they grew pale and hollow, as if they staggered on unsteady
feet, as if they slipped and fell down, drunk with the heavy
lees of weariness and despair. And black chasms grew up between
the words—like far-off hints of the great void and the
great darkness.

"Now I am thy guest, and thou wilt not be unkind to me,
Lazarus!"—said he. "Hospitality is the duty even of those
who for three days were dead. Three days, I was told, thou
didst rest in the grave. There it must be cold ... and that is
whence comes thy ill habit of going without fire and wine. As
to me, I like fire; it grows dark here so rapidly.... The lines
of thy eyebrows and forehead are quite, quite interesting: they
are like ruins of strange palaces, buried in ashes after an
earthquake. But why dost thou wear such ugly and queer
garments? I have seen bridegrooms in thy country, and they wear
such clothes—are they not funny—and terrible....
But art thou a bridegroom?"

The sun had already disappeared, a monstrous black shadow
came running from the east—it was as if gigantic bare
feet began rumbling on the sand, and the wind sent a cold wave
along the backbone.

"In the darkness thou seemest still larger, Lazarus, as if
thou hast grown stouter in these moments. Dost thou feed on
darkness, Lazarus? I would fain have a little fire—at
least a little fire, a little fire. I feel somewhat chilly,
your nights are so barbarously cold.... Were it not so dark, I
should say that thou wert looking at me, Lazarus. Yes, it seems
to me, thou art looking.... Why, thou art looking at me, I feel
it,—but there thou art smiling."

Night came, and filled the air with heavy blackness.

"How well it will be, when the sun will rise to-morrow
anew.... I am a great sculptor, thou knowest; that is how my
friends call me. I create. Yes, that is the word ... but I need
daylight. I give life to the cold marble, I melt sonorous
bronze in fire, in bright hot fire.... Why didst thou touch me
with thy hand?"

"Come"—said Lazarus—"Thou art my guest."

And they went to the house. And a long night enveloped the
earth.

The slave, seeing that his master did not come, went to seek
him, when the sun was already high in the sky. And he beheld
his master side by side with Lazarus: in profound silence were
they sitting right under the dazzling and scorching sunrays and
looking upward. The slave began to weep and cried out:

"My master, what has befallen thee, master?"

The very same day the sculptor left for Rome. On the way
Aurelius was pensive and taciturn, staring attentively at
everything—the men, the ship, the sea, as though trying
to retain something. On the high sea a storm burst upon them,
and all through it Aurelius stayed on the deck and eagerly
scanned the seas looming near and sinking with a thud.

At home his friends were frightened at the change which had
taken place in Aurelius, but he calmed them, saying
meaningly:

"I have found it."

And without changing the dusty clothes he wore on his
journey, he fell to work, and the marble obediently resounded
under his sonorous hammer. Long and eagerly worked he,
admitting no one, until one morning he announced that the work
was ready and ordered his friends to be summoned, severe
critics and connoisseurs of art. And to meet them he put on
bright and gorgeous garments, that glittered with yellow
gold—and—scarlet byssus.

"Here is my work," said he thoughtfully.

His friends glanced and a shadow of profound sorrow covered
their faces. It was something monstrous, deprived of all the
lines and shapes familiar to the eye, but not without a hint at
some new, strange image.

On a thin, crooked twig, or rather on an ugly likeness of a
twig rested askew a blind, ugly, shapeless, outspread mass of
something utterly and inconceivably distorted, a mad leap of
wild and bizarre fragments, all feebly and vainly striving to
part from one another. And, as if by chance, beneath one of the
wildly-rent salients a butterfly was chiseled with divine
skill, all airy loveliness, delicacy, and beauty, with
transparent wings, which seemed to tremble with an impotent
desire to take flight.

"Wherefore this wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?" said
somebody falteringly.

"I know not"—was the sculptor's answer.

But it was necessary to tell the truth, and one of his
friends who loved him best said firmly:

"This is ugly, my poor friend. It must be destroyed. Give me
the hammer."

And with two strokes he broke the monstrous man into pieces,
leaving only the infinitely delicate butterfly untouched.

From that time on Aurelius created nothing. With profound
indifference he looked at marble and bronze, and on his former
divine works, where everlasting beauty rested. With the purpose
of arousing his former fervent passion for work and, awakening
his deadened soul, his friends took him to see other artists'
beautiful works,—but he remained indifferent as before,
and the smile did not warm up his tightened lips. And only
after listening to lengthy talks about beauty, he would retort
wearily and indolently:

"But all this is a lie."

And by the day, when the sun was shining, he went into his
magnificent, skilfully built garden and having found a place
without shadow, he exposed his bare head to the glare and heat.
Red and white butterflies fluttered around; from the crooked
lips of a drunken satyr, water streamed down with a splash into
a marble cistern, but he sat motionless and silent,—like
a pallid reflection of him who, in the far-off distance, at the
very gates of the stony desert, sat under the fiery sun.

V

And now it came to pass that the great, deified Augustus
himself summoned Lazarus. The imperial messengers dressed him
gorgeously, in solemn nuptial clothes, as if Time had legalized
them, and he was to remain until his very death the bridegroom
of an unknown bride. It was as though an old, rotting coffin
had been gilt and furnished with new, gay tassels. And men, all
in trim and bright attire, rode after him, as if in bridal
procession indeed, and those foremost trumpeted loudly, bidding
people to clear the way for the emperor's messengers. But
Lazarus' way was deserted: his native land cursed the hateful
name of him who had miraculously risen from the dead, and
people scattered at the very news of his appalling approach.
The solitary voice of the brass trumpets sounded in the
motionless air, and the wilderness alone responded with its
languid echo.

Then Lazarus went by sea. And his was the most magnificently
arrayed and the most mournful ship that ever mirrored itself in
the azure waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Many were the
travelers aboard, but like a tomb was the ship, all silence and
stillness, and the despairing water sobbed at the steep,
proudly curved prow. All alone sat Lazarus exposing his head to
the blaze of the sun, silently listening to the murmur and
splash of the wavelets, and afar seamen and messengers were
sitting, a vague group of weary shadows. Had the thunder burst
and the wind attacked the red sails, the ships would probably
have perished, for none of those aboard had either the will or
the strength to struggle for life. With a supreme effort some
mariners would reach the board and eagerly scan the blue,
transparent deep, hoping to see a naiad's pink shoulder flash
in the hollow of an azure wave, or a drunken gay centaur dash
along and in frenzy splash the wave with his hoof. But the sea
was like a wilderness, and the deep was dumb and deserted.

With utter indifference did Lazarus set his feet on the
street of the eternal city. As though all her wealth, all the
magnificence of her palaces built by giants, all the
resplendence, beauty, and music of her refined life were but
the echo of the wind in the wilderness, the reflection of the
desert quicksand. Chariots were dashing, and along the streets
were moving crowds of strong, fair, proud builders of the
eternal city and haughty participants in her life; a song
sounded; fountains and women laughed a pearly laughter; drunken
philosophers harangued, and the sober listened to them with a
smile; hoofs struck the stone pavements. And surrounded by
cheerful noise, a stout, heavy man was moving, a cold spot of
silence and despair, and on his way he sowed disgust, anger,
and vague, gnawing weariness. Who dares to be sad in Rome,
wondered indignantly the citizens, and frowned. In two days the
entire city already knew all about him who had miraculously
risen from the dead, and shunned him shyly.

But some daring people there were, who wanted to test their
strength, and Lazarus obeyed their imprudent summons. Kept busy
by state affairs, the emperor constantly delayed the reception,
and seven days did he who had risen from the dead go about
visiting others.

And Lazarus came to a cheerful Epicurean, and the host met
him with laughter on his lips:

"Drink, Lazarus, drink!"—shouted he. "Would not
Augustus laugh to see thee drunk!"

And half-naked drunken women laughed, and rose petals fell
on Lazarus' blue hands. But then the Epicurean looked into
Lazarus' eyes, and his gaiety ended forever. Drunkard remained
he for the rest of his life; never did he drink, yet forever
was he drunk. But instead of the gay reverie which wine brings
with it, frightful dreams began to haunt him, the sole food of
his stricken spirit. Day and night he lived in the poisonous
vapors of his nightmares, and death itself was not more
frightful than her raving, monstrous forerunners.

And Lazarus came to a youth and his beloved, who loved each
other and were most beautiful in their passions. Proudly and
strongly embracing his love, the youth said with serene
regret:

"Look at us, Lazarus, and share our joy. Is there anything
stronger than love?"

And Lazarus looked. And for the rest of their life they kept
on loving each other, but their passion grew gloomy and
joyless, like those funeral cypresses whose roots feed on the
decay of the graves and whose black summits in a still evening
hour seek in vain to reach the sky. Thrown by the unknown
forces of life into each other's embraces, they mingled tears
with kisses, voluptuous pleasures with pain, and they felt
themselves doubly slaves, obedient slaves to life, and patient
servants of the silent Nothingness. Ever united, ever severed,
they blazed like sparks and like sparks lost themselves in the
boundless Dark.

And Lazarus came to a haughty sage, and the sage said to
him:

"I know all the horrors thou canst reveal to me. Is there
anything thou canst frighten me with?"

But before long the sage felt that the knowledge of horror
was far from being the horror itself, and that the vision of
Death, was not Death. And he felt that wisdom and folly are
equal before the face of Infinity, for Infinity knows them not.
And it vanished, the dividing-line between knowledge and
ignorance, truth and falsehood, top and bottom, and the
shapeless thought hung suspended in the void. Then the sage
clutched his gray head and cried out frantically:

"I cannot think! I cannot think!"

Thus under the indifferent glance for him, who miraculously
had risen from the dead, perished everything that asserts life,
its significance and joys. And it was suggested that it was
dangerous to let him see the emperor, that it was better to
kill him and, having buried him secretly, to tell the emperor
that he had disappeared no one knew whither. Already swords
were being whetted and youths devoted to the public welfare
prepared for the murder, when Augustus ordered Lazarus to be
brought before him next morning, thus destroying the cruel
plans.

If there was no way of getting rid of Lazarus, at least it
was possible to soften the terrible impression his face
produced. With this in view, skillful painters, barbers, and
artists were summoned, and all night long they were busy over
Lazarus' head. They cropped his beard, curled it, and gave it a
tidy, agreeable appearance. By means of paints they concealed
the corpse-like blueness of his hands and face. Repulsive were
the wrinkles of suffering that furrowed his old face, and they
were puttied, painted, and smoothed; then, over the smooth
background, wrinkles of good-tempered laughter and pleasant,
carefree mirth were skillfully painted with fine brushes.

Lazarus submitted indifferently to everything that was done
to him. Soon he was turned into a becomingly stout, venerable
old man, into a quiet and kind grandfather of numerous
offspring. It seemed that the smile, with which only a while
ago he was spinning funny yarns, was still lingering on his
lips, and that in the corner of his eye serene tenderness was
hiding, the companion of old age. But people did not dare
change his nuptial garments, and they could not change his
eyes, two dark and frightful glasses through which looked at
men, the unknowable Yonder.

VI

Lazarus was not moved by the magnificence of the imperial
palace. It was as though he saw no difference between the
crumbling house, closely pressed by the desert, and the stone
palace, solid and fair, and indifferently he passed into it.
And the hard marble of the floors under his feet grew similar
to the quicksand of the desert, and the multitude of richly
dressed and haughty men became like void air under his glance.
No one looked into his face, as Lazarus passed by, fearing to
fall under the appalling influence of his eyes; but when the
sound of his heavy footsteps had sufficiently died down, the
courtiers raised their heads and with fearful curiosity
examined the figure of a stout, tall, slightly bent old man,
who was slowly penetrating into the very heart of the imperial
palace. Were Death itself passing, it would be faced with no
greater fear: for until then the dead alone knew Death, and
those alive knew Life only—and there was no bridge
between them. But this extraordinary man, although alive, knew
Death, and enigmatical, appalling, was his cursed knowledge.
"Woe," people thought, "he will take the life of our great,
deified Augustus," and they sent curses after Lazarus, who
meanwhile kept on advancing into the interior of the
palace.

Already did the emperor know who Lazarus was, and prepared
to meet him. But the monarch was a brave man, and felt his own
tremendous, unconquerable power, and in his fatal duel with him
who had miraculously risen from the dead he wanted not to
invoke human help. And so he met Lazarus face to face:

"Lift not thine eyes upon me, Lazarus," he ordered. "I heard
thy face is like that of Medusa and turns into stone whomsoever
thou lookest at. Now, I wish to see thee and to have a talk
with thee, before I turn into stone,"—added he in a tone
of kingly jesting, not devoid of fear.

Coming close to him, he carefully examined Lazarus' face and
his strange festal garments. And although he had a keen eye, he
was deceived by his appearance.

"So. Thou dost not appear terrible, my venerable old man.
But the worse for us, if horror assumes such a respectable and
pleasant air. Now let us have a talk."

Augustus sat, and questioning Lazarus with his eye as much
as with words, started the conversation:

"Why didst thou not greet me as thou enteredst?"

Lazarus answered indifferent:

"I knew not it was necessary."

"Art thou a Christian?"

"No."

Augustus approvingly shook his head.

"That is good. I do not like Christians. They shake the tree
of life before it is covered with fruit, and disperse its
odorous bloom to the winds. But who art thou?"

With a visible effort Lazarus answered:

"I was dead."

"I had heard that. But who art thou now?"

Lazarus was silent, but at last repeated in a tone of weary
apathy:

"I was dead."

"Listen to me, stranger," said the emperor, distinctly and
severely giving utterance to the thought that had come to him
at the beginning, "my realm is the realm of Life, my people are
of the living, not of the dead. Thou art here one too many. I
know not who thou art and what thou sawest there; but, if thou
liest, I hate thy lies, and if thou tellst the truth, I hate
thy truth. In my bosom I feel the throb of life; I feel
strength in my arm, and my proud thoughts, like eagles, pierce
the space. And yonder in the shelter of my rule, under the
protection of laws created by me, people live and toil and
rejoice. Dost thou hear the battle-cry, the challenge men throw
into the face of the future?"

Augustus, as in prayer, stretched forth his arms and
exclaimed solemnly:

"Be blessed, O great and divine Life!"

Lazarus was silent, and with growing sternness the emperor
went on:

"Thou art not wanted here, miserable remnant, snatched from
under Death's teeth, thou inspirest weariness and disgust with
life; like a caterpillar in the fields, thou gloatest on the
rich ear of joy and belchest out the drivel of despair and
sorrow. Thy truth is like a rusty sword in the hands of a
nightly murderer,—and as a murderer thou shalt be
executed. But before that, let me look into thine eyes.
Perchance, only cowards are afraid of them, but in the brave
they awake the thirst for strife and victory; then thou shalt
be rewarded, not executed.... Now, look at me, Lazarus."

At first it appeared to the deified Augustus that a friend
was looking at him,—so soft, so tenderly fascinating was
Lazarus' glance. It promised not horror, but sweet rest and the
Infinite seemed to him a tender mistress, a compassionate
sister, a mother. But stronger and stronger grew its embraces,
and already the mouth, greedy of hissing kisses, interfered
with the monarch's breathing, and already to the surface of the
soft tissues of the body came the iron of the bones and
tightened its merciless circle,—and unknown fangs, blunt
and cold, touched his heart and sank into it with slow
indolence.

"It pains," said the deified Augustus, growing pale. "But
look at me, Lazarus, look."

It was as though some heavy gates, ever closed, were slowly
moving apart, and through the growing interstice the appalling
horror of the Infinite poured in slowly and steadily. Like two
shadows there entered the shoreless void and the unfathomable
darkness; they extinguished the sun, ravished the earth from
under the feet, and the roof from over the head. No more did
the frozen heart ache.

"Look, look, Lazarus," ordered Augustus tottering.

Time stood still, and the beginning of each thing grew
frightfully near to its end. Augustus' throne just erected,
crumbled down, and the void was already in the place of the
throne and of Augustus. Noiselessly did Rome crumble down, and
a new city stood on its site and it too was swallowed by the
void. Like fantastic giants, cities, states, and countries fell
down and vanished in the void darkness—and with uttermost
indifference did the insatiable black womb of the Infinite
swallow them.

"Halt!"—ordered the emperor.

In his voice sounded already a note of indifference, his
hands dropped in languor, and in the vain struggle with the
onrushing darkness his fiery eyes now blazed up, and now went
out.

"My life thou hast taken from me, Lazarus,"—said he in
a spiritless, feeble voice.

And these words of hopelessness saved him. He remembered his
people, whose shield he was destined to be, and keen salutary
pain pierced his deadened heart. "They are doomed to death," he
thought wearily. "Serene shadows in the darkness of the
Infinite," thought he, and horror grew upon him. "Frail vessels
with living seething blood with a heart that knows sorrow and
also great joy," said he in his heart, and tenderness pervaded
it.

Thus pondering and oscillating between the poles of Life and
Death, he slowly came back to life, to find in its suffering
and in its joys a shield against the darkness of the void and
the horror of the Infinite.

"No, thou hast not murdered me, Lazarus," said he firmly,
"but I will take thy life. Be gone."

That evening the deified Augustus partook of his meats and
drinks with particular joy. Now and then his lifted hand
remained suspended in the air, and a dull glimmer replaced the
bright sheen of his fiery eye. It was the cold wave of Horror
that surged at his feet. Defeated, but not undone, ever
awaiting its hour, that Horror stood at the emperor's bedside,
like a black shadow all through his life; it swayed his nights,
but yielded the days to the sorrows and joys of life.

The following day, the hangman with a hot iron burned out
Lazarus' eyes. Then he was sent home. The deified Augustus
dared not kill him.

Lazarus returned to the desert, and the wilderness met him
with hissing gusts of wind and the heat of the blazing sun.
Again he was sitting on a stone, his rough, bushy beard lifted
up; and the two black holes in place of his eyes looked at the
sky with an expression of dull terror. Afar-off the holy city
stirred noisily and restlessly, but around him everything was
deserted and dumb. No one approached the place where lived he
who had miraculously risen from the dead, and long since his
neighbors had forsaken their houses. Driven by the hot iron
into the depth of his skull, his cursed knowledge hid there in
an ambush. As though leaping out from an ambush it plunged its
thousand invisible eyes into the man,—and no one dared
look at Lazarus.

And in the evening, when the sun, reddening and growing
wider, would come nearer and nearer the western horizon, the
blind Lazarus would slowly follow it. He would stumble against
stones and fall, stout and weak as he was; would rise heavily
to his feet and walk on again; and on the red screen of the
sunset his black body and outspread hands would form a
monstrous likeness of a cross.

And it came to pass that once he went out and did not come
back. Thus seemingly ended the second life of him who for three
days had been under the enigmatical sway of death, and rose
miraculously from the dead.

The Beast with Five Fingers

By W. F. HARVEY

When I was a little boy I once went with my father to call
on Adrian Borlsover. I played on the floor with a black spaniel
while my father appealed for a subscription. Just before we
left my father said, "Mr. Borlsover, may my son here shake
hands with you? It will be a thing to look back upon with pride
when he grows to be a man."

I came up to the bed on which the old man was lying and put
my hand in his, awed by the still beauty of his face. He spoke
to me kindly, and hoped that I should always try to please my
father. Then he placed his right hand on my head and asked for
a blessing to rest upon me. "Amen!" said my father, and I
followed him out of the room, feeling as if I wanted to cry.
But my father was in excellent spirits.

"That old gentleman, Jim," said he, "is the most wonderful
man in the whole town. For ten years he has been quite
blind."

"But I saw his eyes," I said. "They were ever so black and
shiny; they weren't shut up like Nora's puppies. Can't he see
at all?"

And so I learnt for the first time that a man might have
eyes that looked dark and beautiful and shining without being
able to see.

"Just like Mrs. Tomlinson has big ears," I said, "and can't
hear at all except when Mr. Tomlinson shouts."

"Jim," said my father, "it's not right to talk about a
lady's ears. Remember what Mr. Borlsover said about pleasing me
and being a good boy."

That was the only time I saw Adrian Borlsover. I soon forgot
about him and the hand which he laid in blessing on my head.
But for a week I prayed that those dark tender eyes might
see.

"His spaniel may have puppies," I said in my prayers, "and
he will never be able to know how funny they look with their
eyes all closed up. Please let old Mr. Borlsover see."

Adrian Borlsover, as my father had said, was a wonderful
man. He came of an eccentric family. Borlsovers' sons, for some
reason, always seemed to marry very ordinary women, which
perhaps accounted for the fact that no Borlsover had been a
genius, and only one Borlsover had been mad. But they were
great champions of little causes, generous patrons of odd
sciences, founders of querulous sects, trustworthy guides to
the bypath meadows of erudition.

Adrian was an authority on the fertilization of orchids. He
had held at one time the family living at Borlsover Conyers,
until a congenital weakness of the lungs obliged him to seek a
less rigorous climate in the sunny south coast watering-place
where I had seen him. Occasionally he would relieve one or
other of the local clergy. My father described him as a fine
preacher, who gave long and inspiring sermons from what many
men would have considered unprofitable texts. "An excellent
proof," he would add, "of the truth of the doctrine of direct
verbal inspiration."

Adrian Borlsover was exceedingly clever with his hands. His
penmanship was exquisite. He illustrated all his scientific
papers, made his own woodcuts, and carved the reredos that is
at present the chief feature of interest in the church at
Borlsover Conyers. He had an exceedingly clever knack in
cutting silhouettes for young ladies and paper pigs and cows
for little children, and made more than one complicated wind
instrument of his own devising.

When he was fifty years old Adrian Borlsover lost his sight.
In a wonderfully short time he had adapted himself to the new
conditions of life. He quickly learned to read Braille. So
marvelous indeed was his sense of touch that he was still able
to maintain his interest in botany. The mere passing of his
long supple fingers over a flower was sufficient means for its
identification, though occasionally he would use his lips. I
have found several letters of his among my father's
correspondence. In no case was there anything to show that he
was afflicted with blindness and this in spite of the fact that
he exercised undue economy in the spacing of lines. Towards the
close of his life the old man was credited with powers of touch
that seemed almost uncanny: it has been said that he could tell
at once the color of a ribbon placed between his fingers. My
father would neither confirm nor deny the story.

I

Adrian Borlsover was a bachelor. His elder brother George
had married late in life, leaving one son, Eustace, who lived
in the gloomy Georgian mansion at Borlsover Conyers, where he
could work undisturbed in collecting material for his great
book on heredity.

Like his uncle, he was a remarkable man. The Borlsovers had
always been born naturalists, but Eustace possessed in a
special degree the power of systematizing his knowledge. He had
received his university education in Germany, and then, after
post-graduate work in Vienna and Naples, had traveled for four
years in South America and the East, getting together a huge
store of material for a new study into the processes of
variation.

He lived alone at Borlsover Conyers with Saunders his
secretary, a man who bore a somewhat dubious reputation in the
district, but whose powers as a mathematician, combined with
his business abilities, were invaluable to Eustace.

Uncle and nephew saw little of each other. The visits of
Eustace were confined to a week in the summer or autumn: long
weeks, that dragged almost as slowly as the bath-chair in which
the old man was drawn along the sunny sea front. In their way
the two men were fond of each other, though their intimacy
would doubtless have been greater had they shared the same
religious views. Adrian held to the old-fashioned evangelical
dogmas of his early manhood; his nephew for many years had been
thinking of embracing Buddhism. Both men possessed, too, the
reticence the Borlsovers had always shown, and which their
enemies sometimes called hypocrisy. With Adrian it was a
reticence as to the things he had left undone; but with Eustace
it seemed that the curtain which he was so careful to leave
undrawn hid something more than a half-empty chamber.

Two years before his death Adrian Borlsover developed,
unknown to himself, the not uncommon power of automatic
writing. Eustace made the discovery by accident. Adrian was
sitting reading in bed, the forefinger of his left hand tracing
the Braille characters, when his nephew noticed that a pencil
the old man held in his right hand was moving slowly along the
opposite page. He left his seat in the window and sat down
beside the bed. The right hand continued to move, and now he
could see plainly that they were letters and words which it was
forming.

"Adrian Borlsover," wrote the hand, "Eustace Borlsover,
George Borlsover, Francis Borlsover Sigismund Borlsover, Adrian
Borlsover, Eustace Borlsover, Saville Borlsover. B, for
Borlsover. Honesty is the Best Policy. Beautiful Belinda
Borlsover."

"What curious nonsense!" said Eustace to himself.

"King George the Third ascended the throne in 1760," wrote
the hand. "Crowd, a noun of multitude; a collection of
individuals—Adrian Borlsover, Eustace Borlsover."

"It seems to me," said his uncle, closing the book, "that
you had much better make the most of the afternoon sunshine and
take your walk now." "I think perhaps I will," Eustace answered
as he picked up the volume. "I won't go far, and when I come
back I can read to you those articles in Nature about
which we were speaking."

He went along the promenade, but stopped at the first
shelter, and seating himself in the corner best protected from
the wind, he examined the book at leisure. Nearly every page
was scored with a meaningless jungle of pencil marks: rows of
capital letters, short words, long words, complete sentences,
copy-book tags. The whole thing, in fact, had the appearance of
a copy-book, and on a more careful scrutiny Eustace thought
that there was ample evidence to show that the handwriting at
the beginning of the book, good though it was was not nearly so
good as the handwriting at the end.

He left his uncle at the end of October, with a promise to
return early in December. It seemed to him quite clear that the
old man's power of automatic writing was developing rapidly,
and for the first time he looked forward to a visit that
combined duty with interest.

But on his return he was at first disappointed. His uncle,
he thought, looked older. He was listless too, preferring
others to read to him and dictating nearly all his letters. Not
until the day before he left had Eustace an opportunity of
observing Adrian Borlsover's new-found faculty.

The old man, propped up in bed with pillows, had sunk into a
light sleep. His two hands lay on the coverlet, his left hand
tightly clasping his right. Eustace took an empty manuscript
book and placed a pencil within reach of the fingers of the
right hand. They snatched at it eagerly; then dropped the
pencil to unloose the left hand from its restraining grasp.

"Perhaps to prevent interference I had better hold that
hand," said Eustace to himself, as he watched the pencil.
Almost immediately it began to write.

"Blundering Borlsovers, unnecessarily unnatural,
extraordinarily eccentric, culpably curious."

"Who are you?" asked Eustace, in a low voice.

"Never you mind," wrote the hand of Adrian.

"Is it my uncle who is writing?"

"Oh, my prophetic soul, mine uncle."

"Is it anyone I know?"

"Silly Eustace, you'll see me very soon."

"When shall I see you?"

"When poor old Adrian's dead."

"Where shall I see you?"

"Where shall you not?"

Instead of speaking his next question, Borlsover wrote it.
"What is the time?"

The fingers dropped the pencil and moved three or four times
across the paper. Then, picking up the pencil, they wrote:

"Ten minutes before four. Put your book away, Eustace.
Adrian mustn't find us working at this sort of thing. He
doesn't know what to make of it, and I won't have poor old
Adrian disturbed. Au revoir."

Adrian Borlsover awoke with a start.

"I've been dreaming again," he said; "such queer dreams of
leaguered cities and forgotten towns. You were mixed up in this
one, Eustace, though I can't remember how. Eustace, I want to
warn you. Don't walk in doubtful paths. Choose your friends
well. Your poor grandfather——"

A fit of coughing put an end to what he was saying, but
Eustace saw that the hand was still writing. He managed
unnoticed to draw the book away. "I'll light the gas," he said,
"and ring for tea." On the other side of the bed curtain he saw
the last sentences that had been written.

"It's too late, Adrian," he read. "We're friends already;
aren't we, Eustace Borlsover?"

On the following day Eustace Borlsover left. He thought his
uncle looked ill when he said good-by, and the old man spoke
despondently of the failure his life had been.

"Nonsense, uncle!" said his nephew. "You have got over your
difficulties in a way not one in a hundred thousand would have
done. Every one marvels at your splendid perseverance in
teaching your hand to take the place of your lost sight. To me
it's been a revelation of the possibilities of education."

"Education," said his uncle dreamily, as if the word had
started a new train of thought, "education is good so long as
you know to whom and for what purpose you give it. But with the
lower orders of men, the base and more sordid spirits, I have
grave doubts as to its results. Well, good-by, Eustace, I may
not see you again. You are a true Borlsover, with all the
Borlsover faults. Marry, Eustace. Marry some good, sensible
girl. And if by any chance I don't see you again, my will is at
my solicitor's. I've not left you any legacy, because I know
you're well provided for, but I thought you might like to have
my books. Oh, and there's just one other thing. You know,
before the end people often lose control over themselves and
make absurd requests. Don't pay any attention to them, Eustace.
Good-by!" and he held out his hand. Eustace took it. It
remained in his a fraction of a second longer than he had
expected, and gripped him with a virility that was surprising.
There was, too, in its touch a subtle sense of intimacy.

"Why, uncle!" he said, "I shall see you alive and well for
many long years to come."

Two months later Adrian Borlsover died.

II

Eustace Borlsover was in Naples at the time. He read the
obituary notice in the Morning Post on the day
announced for the funeral.

"Poor old fellow!" he said. "I wonder where I shall find
room for all his books."

The question occurred to him again with greater force when
three days later he found himself standing in the library at
Borlsover Conyers, a huge room built for use, and not for
beauty, in the year of Waterloo by a Borlsover who was an
ardent admirer of the great Napoleon. It was arranged on the
plan of many college libraries, with tall, projecting bookcases
forming deep recesses of dusty silence, fit graves for the old
hates of forgotten controversy, the dead passions of forgotten
lives. At the end of the room, behind the bust of some unknown
eighteenth-century divine, an ugly iron corkscrew stair led to
a shelf-lined gallery. Nearly every shelf was full.

"I must talk to Saunders about it," said Eustace. "I suppose
that it will be necessary to have the billiard-room fitted up
with book cases."

The two men met for the first time after many weeks in the
dining-room that evening.

"Hullo!" said Eustace, standing before the fire with his
hands in his pockets. "How goes the world, Saunders? Why these
dress togs?" He himself was wearing an old shooting-jacket. He
did not believe in mourning, as he had told his uncle on his
last visit; and though he usually went in for quiet-colored
ties, he wore this evening one of an ugly red, in order to
shock Morton the butler, and to make them thrash out the whole
question of mourning for themselves in the servants' hall.
Eustace was a true Borlsover. "The world," said Saunders, "goes
the same as usual, confoundedly slow. The dress togs are
accounted for by an invitation from Captain Lockwood to
bridge."

"How are you getting there?"

"I've told your coachman to drive me in your carriage. Any
objection?"

"Oh, dear me, no! We've had all things in common for far too
many years for me to raise objections at this hour of the
day."

"You'll find your correspondence in the library," went on
Saunders. "Most of it I've seen to. There are a few private
letters I haven't opened. There's also a box with a rat, or
something, inside it that came by the evening post. Very likely
it's the six-toed albino. I didn't look, because I didn't want
to mess up my things but I should gather from the way it's
jumping about that it's pretty hungry."

"Oh, I'll see to it," said Eustace, "while you and the
Captain earn an honest penny."

Dinner over and Saunders gone, Eustace went into the
library. Though the fire had been lit the room was by no means
cheerful.

"We'll have all the lights on at any rate," he said, as he
turned the switches. "And, Morton," he added, when the butler
brought the coffee, "get me a screwdriver or something to undo
this box. Whatever the animal is, he's kicking up the deuce of
a row. What is it? Why are you dawdling?"

"If you please, sir, when the postman brought it he told me
that they'd bored the holes in the lid at the post-office.
There were no breathin' holes in the lid, sir, and they didn't
want the animal to die. That is all, sir."

"It's culpably careless of the man, whoever he was," said
Eustace, as he removed the screws, "packing an animal like this
in a wooden box with no means of getting air. Confound it all!
I meant to ask Morton to bring me a cage to put it in. Now I
suppose I shall have to get one myself."

He placed a heavy book on the lid from which the screws had
been removed, and went into the billiard-room. As he came back
into the library with an empty cage in his hand he heard the
sound of something falling, and then of something scuttling
along the floor.

"Bother it! The beast's got out. How in the world am I to
find it again in this library!"

To search for it did indeed seem hopeless. He tried to
follow the sound of the scuttling in one of the recesses where
the animal seemed to be running behind the books in the
shelves, but it was impossible to locate it. Eustace resolved
to go on quietly reading. Very likely the animal might gain
confidence and show itself. Saunders seemed to have dealt in
his usual methodical manner with most of the correspondence.
There were still the private letters.

What was that? Two sharp clicks and the lights in the
hideous candelabra that hung from the ceiling suddenly went
out.

"I wonder if something has gone wrong with the fuse," said
Eustace, as he went to the switches by the door. Then he
stopped. There was a noise at the other end of the room, as if
something was crawling up the iron corkscrew stair. "If it's
gone into the gallery," he said, "well and good." He hastily
turned on the lights, crossed the room, and climbed up the
stair. But he could see nothing. His grandfather had placed a
little gate at the top of the stair, so that children could run
and romp in the gallery without fear of accident. This Eustace
closed, and having considerably narrowed the circle of his
search, returned to his desk by the fire.

How gloomy the library was! There was no sense of intimacy
about the room. The few busts that an eighteenth-century
Borlsover had brought back from the grand tour, might have been
in keeping in the old library. Here they seemed out of place.
They made the room feel cold, in spite of the heavy red damask
curtains and great gilt cornices.

With a crash two heavy books fell from the gallery to the
floor; then, as Borlsover looked, another and yet another.

"Very well; you'll starve for this, my beauty!" he said.
"We'll do some little experiments on the metabolism of rats
deprived of water. Go on! Chuck them down! I think I've got the
upper hand." He turned once again to his correspondence. The
letter was from the family solicitor. It spoke of his uncle's
death and of the valuable collection of books that had been
left to him in the will.

"There was one request," he read, "which certainly came as a
surprise to me. As you know, Mr. Adrian Borlsover had left
instructions that his body was to be buried in as simple a
manner as possible at Eastbourne. He expressed a desire that
there should be neither wreaths nor flowers of any kind, and
hoped that his friends and relatives would not consider it
necessary to wear mourning. The day before his death we
received a letter canceling these instructions. He wished his
body to be embalmed (he gave us the address of the man we were
to employ—Pennifer, Ludgate Hill), with orders that his
right hand was to be sent to you, stating that it was at your
special request. The other arrangements as to the funeral
remained unaltered."

"Good Lord!" said Eustace; "what in the world was the old
boy driving at? And what in the name of all that's holy is
that?"

Someone was in the gallery. Someone had pulled the cord
attached to one of the blinds, and it had rolled up with a
snap. Someone must be in the gallery, for a second blind did
the same. Someone must be walking round the gallery, for one
after the other the blinds sprang up, letting in the
moonlight.

"I haven't got to the bottom of this yet," said Eustace,
"but I will do before the night is very much older," and he
hurried up the corkscrew stair. He had just got to the top when
the lights went out a second time, and he heard again the
scuttling along the floor. Quickly he stole on tiptoe in the
dim moonshine in the direction of the noise, feeling as he went
for one of the switches. His fingers touched the metal knob at
last. He turned on the electric light.

About ten yards in front of him, crawling along the floor,
was a man's hand. Eustace stared at it in utter astonishment.
It was moving quickly, in the manner of a geometer caterpillar,
the fingers humped up one moment, flattened out the next; the
thumb appeared to give a crab-like motion to the whole. While
he was looking, too surprised to stir, the hand disappeared
round the corner. Eustace ran forward. He no longer saw it, but
he could hear it as it squeezed its way behind the books on one
of the shelves. A heavy volume had been displaced. There was a
gap in the row of books where it had got in. In his fear lest
it should escape him again, he seized the first book that came
to his hand and plugged it into the hole. Then, emptying two
shelves of their contents, he took the wooden boards and
propped them up in front to make his barrier doubly sure.

"I wish Saunders was back," he said; "one can't tackle this
sort of thing alone." It was after eleven, and there seemed
little likelihood of Saunders returning before twelve. He did
not dare to leave the shelf unwatched, even to run downstairs
to ring the bell. Morton the butler often used to come round
about eleven to see that the windows were fastened, but he
might not come. Eustace was thoroughly unstrung. At last he
heard steps down below.

"Morton!" he shouted; "Morton!"

"Sir?"

"Has Mr. Saunders got back yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Well, bring me some brandy, and hurry up about it. I'm up
here in the gallery, you duffer."

"Thanks," said Eustace, as he emptied the glass. "Don't go
to bed yet, Morton. There are a lot of books that have fallen
down by accident; bring them up and put them back in their
shelves."

Morton had never seen Borlsover in so talkative a mood as on
that night. "Here," said Eustace, when the books had been put
back and dusted, "you might hold up these boards for me,
Morton. That beast in the box got out, and I've been chasing it
all over the place."

"I think I can hear it chawing at the books, sir. They're
not valuable, I hope? I think that's the carriage, sir; I'll go
and call Mr. Saunders."

It seemed to Eustace that he was away for five minutes, but
it could hardly have been more than one when he returned with
Saunders. "All right, Morton, you can go now. I'm up here,
Saunders."

"What's all the row?" asked Saunders, as he lounged forward
with his hands in his pockets. The luck had been with him all
the evening. He was completely satisfied, both with himself and
with Captain Lockwood's taste in wines. "What's the matter? You
look to me to be in an absolute blue funk."

"That old devil of an uncle of mine," began
Eustace—"oh, I can't explain it all. It's his hand that's
been playing old Harry all the evening. But I've got it
cornered behind these books. You've got to help me catch
it."

"What's up with you, Eustace? What's the game?"

"It's no game, you silly idiot! If you don't believe me take
out one of those books and put your hand in and feel."

"All right," said Saunders; "but wait till I've rolled up my
sleeve. The accumulated dust of centuries, eh?" He took off his
coat, knelt down, and thrust his arm along the shelf.

"There's something there right enough," he said. "It's got a
funny stumpy end to it, whatever it is, and nips like a crab.
Ah, no, you don't!" He pulled his hand out in a flash. "Shove
in a book quickly. Now it can't get out."

"What was it?" asked Eustace.

"It was something that wanted very much to get hold of me. I
felt what seemed like a thumb and forefinger. Give me some
brandy."

"How are we to get it out of there?"

"What about a landing net?"

"No good. It would be too smart for us. I tell you,
Saunders, it can cover the ground far faster than I can walk.
But I think I see how we can manage it. The two books at the
end of the shelf are big ones that go right back against the
wall. The others are very thin. I'll take out one at a time,
and you slide the rest along until we have it squashed between
the end two."

It certainly seemed to be the best plan. One by one, as they
took out the books, the space behind grew smaller and smaller.
There was something in it that was certainly very much alive.
Once they caught sight of fingers pressing outward for a way of
escape. At last they had it pressed between the two big
books.

"There's muscle there, if there isn't flesh and blood," said
Saunders, as he held them together. "It seems to be a hand
right enough, too. I suppose this is a sort of infectious
hallucination. I've read about such cases before."

"Infectious fiddlesticks!" said Eustace, his face white with
anger; "bring the thing downstairs. We'll get it back into the
box."

It was not altogether easy, but they were successful at
last. "Drive in the screws," said Eustace, "we won't run any
risks. Put the box in this old desk of mine. There's nothing in
it that I want. Here's the key. Thank goodness, there's nothing
wrong with the lock."

"Quite a lively evening," said Saunders. "Now let's hear
more about your uncle."

They sat up together until early morning. Saunders had no
desire for sleep. Eustace was trying to explain and to forget:
to conceal from himself a fear that he had never felt
before—the fear of walking alone down the long corridor
to his bedroom.

III

"Whatever it was," said Eustace to Saunders on the following
morning, "I propose that we drop the subject. There's nothing
to keep us here for the next ten days. We'll motor up to the
Lakes and get some climbing."

"And see nobody all day, and sit bored to death with each
other every night. Not for me thanks. Why not run up to town?
Run's the exact word in this case, isn't it? We're both in such
a blessed funk. Pull yourself together Eustace, and let's have
another look at the hand."

"As you like," said Eustace; "there's the key." They went
into the library and opened the desk. The box was as they had
left it on the previous night.

"What are you waiting for?" asked Eustace.

"I am waiting for you to volunteer to open the lid. However,
since you seem to funk it, allow me. There doesn't seem to be
the likelihood of any rumpus this morning, at all events." He
opened the lid and picked out the hand.

"Cold?" asked Eustace.

"Tepid. A bit below blood-heat by the feel. Soft and supple
too. If it's the embalming, it's a sort of embalming I've never
seen before. Is it your uncle's hand?"

"Oh, yes, it's his all right," said Eustace. "I should know
those long thin fingers anywhere. Put it back in the box,
Saunders. Never mind about the screws. I'll lock the desk, so
that there'll be no chance of its getting out. We'll compromise
by motoring up to town for a week. If we get off soon after
lunch we ought to be at Grantham or Stamford by night."

"Right," said Saunders; "and to-morrow—Oh, well, by
to-morrow we shall have forgotten all about this beastly
thing."

If when the morrow came they had not forgotten, it was
certainly true that at the end of the week they were able to
tell a very vivid ghost story at the little supper Eustace gave
on Hallow E'en.

"You don't want us to believe that it's true, Mr. Borlsover?
How perfectly awful!"

"I'll take my oath on it, and so would Saunders here;
wouldn't you, old chap?"

"Any number of oaths," said Saunders. "It was a long thin
hand, you know, and it gripped me just like that."

"Don't Mr. Saunders! Don't! How perfectly horrid! Now tell
us another one, do. Only a really creepy one, please!"

"Here's a pretty mess!" said Eustace on the following day as
he threw a letter across the table to Saunders. "It's your
affair, though. Mrs. Merrit, if I understand it, gives a
month's notice."

"Oh, that's quite absurd on Mrs. Merrit's part," Saunders
replied. "She doesn't know what she's talking about. Let's see
what she says."

"Dear
Sir," he read, "this is to let you know that I must give
you a month's notice as from Tuesday the 13th. For a long time
I've felt the place too big for me, but when Jane Parfit, and
Emma Laidlaw go off with scarcely as much as an 'if you
please,' after frightening the wits out of the other girls, so
that they can't turn out a room by themselves or walk alone
down the stairs for fear of treading on half-frozen toads or
hearing it run along the passages at night, all I can say is
that it's no place for me. So I must ask you, Mr. Borlsover,
sir, to find a new housekeeper that has no objection to large
and lonely houses, which some people do say, not that I believe
them for a minute, my poor mother always having been a
Wesleyan, are haunted.

"Yours faithfully,

Elizabeth Merrit.

"P.S.—I
should be obliged if you would give my respects to Mr.
Saunders. I hope that he won't run no risks with his cold."

"Saunders," said Eustace, "you've always had a wonderful way
with you in dealing with servants. You mustn't let poor old
Merrit go."

"Of course she shan't go," said Saunders. "She's probably
only angling for a rise in salary. I'll write to her this
morning."

"No; there's nothing like a personal interview. We've had
enough of town. We'll go back to-morrow, and you must work your
cold for all it's worth. Don't forget that it's got on to the
chest, and will require weeks of feeding up and nursing."

"All right. I think I can manage Mrs. Merrit."

But Mrs. Merrit was more obstinate than he had thought. She
was very sorry to hear of Mr. Saunders's cold, and how he lay
awake all night in London coughing; very sorry indeed. She'd
change his room for him gladly, and get the south room aired.
And wouldn't he have a basin of hot bread and milk last thing
at night? But she was afraid that she would have to leave at
the end of the month.

"Try her with an increase of salary," was the advice of
Eustace.

It was no use. Mrs. Merrit was obdurate, though she knew of
a Mrs. Handyside who had been housekeeper to Lord Gargrave, who
might be glad to come at the salary mentioned.

"What's the matter with the servants, Morton?" asked Eustace
that evening when he brought the coffee into the library.
"What's all this about Mrs. Merrit wanting to leave?"

"If you please, sir, I was going to mention it myself. I
have a confession to make, sir. When I found your note asking
me to open that desk and take out the box with the rat, I broke
the lock as you told me, and was glad to do it, because I could
hear the animal in the box making a great noise, and I thought
it wanted food. So I took out the box, sir, and got a cage, and
was going to transfer it, when the animal got away."

"What in the world are you talking about? I never wrote any
such note."

"Excuse me, sir, it was the note I picked up here on the
floor on the day you and Mr. Saunders left. I have it in my
pocket now."

It certainly seemed to be in Eustace's handwriting. It was
written in pencil, and began somewhat abruptly.

"Get a hammer, Morton," he read, "or some other tool, and
break open the lock in the old desk in the library. Take out
the box that is inside. You need not do anything else. The lid
is already open. Eustace Borlsover."

"And you opened the desk?"

"Yes, sir; and as I was getting the cage ready the animal
hopped out."

"What animal?"

"The animal inside the box, sir."

"What did it look like?"

"Well, sir, I couldn't tell you," said Morton nervously; "my
back was turned, and it was halfway down the room when I looked
up."

"What was its color?" asked Saunders; "black?"

"Oh, no, sir, a grayish white. It crept along in a very
funny way, sir. I don't think it had a tail."

"What did you do then?"

"I tried to catch it, but it was no use. So I set the
rat-traps and kept the library shut. Then that girl Emma
Laidlaw left the door open when she was cleaning, and I think
it must have escaped."

"And you think it was the animal that's been frightening the
maids?"

"Well, no, sir, not quite. They said it was—you'll
excuse me, sir—a hand that they saw. Emma trod on it once
at the bottom of the stairs. She thought then it was a
half-frozen toad, only white. And then Parfit was washing up
the dishes in the scullery. She wasn't thinking about anything
in particular. It was close on dusk. She took her hands out of
the water and was drying them absent-minded like on the roller
towel, when she found that she was drying someone else's hand
as well, only colder than hers."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Saunders.

"Exactly, sir; that's what I told her; but we couldn't get
her to stop."

"You don't believe all this?" said Eustace, turning suddenly
towards the butler.

"Me, sir? Oh, no, sir! I've not seen anything."

"Nor heard anything?"

"Well, sir, if you must know, the bells do ring at odd
times, and there's nobody there when we go; and when we go
round to draw the blinds of a night, as often as not somebody's
been there before us. But as I says to Mrs. Merrit, a young
monkey might do wonderful things, and we all know that Mr.
Borlsover has had some strange animals about the place."

"Very well, Morton, that will do."

"What do you make of it?" asked Saunders when they were
alone. "I mean of the letter he said you wrote."

"Oh, that's simple enough," said Eustace. "See the paper
it's written on? I stopped using that years ago, but there were
a few odd sheets and envelopes left in the old desk. We never
fastened up the lid of the box before locking it in. The hand
got out, found a pencil, wrote this note, and shoved it through
a crack on to the floor where Morton found it. That's plain as
daylight."

"But the hand couldn't write?"

"Couldn't it? You've not seen it do the things I've seen,"
and he told Saunders more of what had happened at
Eastbourne.

"Well," said Saunders, "in that case we have at least an
explanation of the legacy. It was the hand which wrote unknown
to your uncle that letter to your solicitor, bequeathing itself
to you. Your uncle had no more to do with that request than I.
In fact, it would seem that he had some idea of this automatic
writing, and feared it."

"Then if it's not my uncle, what is it?"

"I suppose some people might say that a disembodied spirit
had got your uncle to educate and prepare a little body for it.
Now it's got into that little body and is off on its own."

"Well, what are we to do?"

"We'll keep our eyes open," said Saunders, "and try to catch
it. If we can't do that, we shall have to wait till the bally
clockwork runs down. After all, if it's flesh and blood, it
can't live for ever."

For two days nothing happened. Then Saunders saw it sliding
down the banister in the hall. He was taken unawares, and lost
a full second before he started in pursuit, only to find that
the thing had escaped him. Three days later, Eustace, writing
alone in the library at night, saw it sitting on an open book
at the other end of the room. The fingers crept over the page,
feeling the print as if it were reading; but before he had time
to get up from his seat, it had taken the alarm and was pulling
itself up the curtains. Eustace watched it grimly as it hung on
to the cornice with three fingers, flicking thumb and
forefinger at him in an expression of scornful derision.

"I know what I'll do," he said. "If I only get it into the
open I'll set the dogs on to it."

He spoke to Saunders of the suggestion.

"It's jolly good idea," he said; "only we won't wait till we
find it out of doors. We'll get the dogs. There are the two
terriers and the under-keeper's Irish mongrel that's on to rats
like a flash. Your spaniel has not got spirit enough for this
sort of game." They brought the dogs into the house, and the
keeper's Irish mongrel chewed up the slippers, and the terriers
tripped up Morton as he waited at table; but all three were
welcome. Even false security is better than no security at
all.

For a fortnight nothing happened. Then the hand was caught,
not by the dogs, but by Mrs. Merrit's gray parrot. The bird was
in the habit of periodically removing the pins that kept its
seed and water tins in place, and of escaping through the holes
in the side of the cage. When once at liberty Peter would show
no inclination to return, and would often be about the house
for days. Now, after six consecutive weeks of captivity, Peter
had again discovered a new means of unloosing his bolts and was
at large, exploring the tapestried forests of the curtains and
singing songs in praise of liberty from cornice and picture
rail.

"It's no use your trying to catch him," said Eustace to Mrs.
Merrit, as she came into the study one afternoon towards dusk
with a step-ladder. "You'd much better leave Peter alone.
Starve him into surrender, Mrs. Merrit, and don't leave bananas
and seed about for him to peck at when he fancies he's hungry.
You're far too softhearted."

"Well, sir, I see he's right out of reach now on that
picture rail, so if you wouldn't mind closing the door, sir,
when you leave the room, I'll bring his cage in to-night and
put some meat inside it. He's that fond of meat, though it does
make him pull out his feathers to suck the quills. They
do say that if you cook—"

"Never mind, Mrs. Merrit," said Eustace, who was busy
writing. "That will do; I'll keep an eye on the bird."

There was silence in the room, unbroken but for the
continuous whisper of his pen.

"Scratch poor Peter," said the bird. "Scratch poor old
Peter!"

"Be quiet, you beastly bird!"

"Poor old Peter! Scratch poor Peter, do."

"I'm more likely to wring your neck if I get hold of you."
He looked up at the picture rail, and there was the hand
holding on to a hook with three fingers, and slowly scratching
the head of the parrot with the fourth. Eustace ran to the bell
and pressed it hard; then across to the window, which he closed
with a bang. Frightened by the noise the parrot shook its wings
preparatory to flight, and as it did so the fingers of the hand
got hold of it by the throat. There was a shrill scream from
Peter as he fluttered across the room, wheeling round in
circles that ever descended, borne down under the weight that
clung to him. The bird dropped at last quite suddenly, and
Eustace saw fingers and feathers rolled into an inextricable
mass on the floor. The struggle abruptly ceased as finger and
thumb squeezed the neck; the bird's eyes rolled up to show the
whites, and there was a faint, half-choked gurgle. But before
the fingers had time to loose their hold, Eustace had them in
his own.

"Send Mr. Saunders here at once," he said to the maid who
came in answer to the bell. "Tell him I want him
immediately."

Then he went with the hand to the fire. There was a ragged
gash across the back where the bird's beak had torn it, but no
blood oozed from the wound. He noticed with disgust that the
nails had grown long and discolored.

"I'll burn the beastly thing," he said. But he could not
burn it. He tried to throw it into the flames, but his own
hands, as if restrained by some old primitive feeling, would
not let him. And so Saunders found him pale and irresolute,
with the hand still clasped tightly in his fingers.

"I've got it at last," he said in a tone of triumph.

"Good; let's have a look at it."

"Not when it's loose. Get me some nails and a hammer and a
board of some sort."

"Can you hold it all right?"

"Yes, the thing's quite limp; tired out with throttling poor
old Peter, I should say."

"And now," said Saunders when he returned with the things,
"what are we going to do?"

"Drive a nail through it first, so that it can't get away;
then we can take our time over examining it."

"Do it yourself," said Saunders. "I don't mind helping you
with guinea-pigs occasionally when there's something to be
learned; partly because I don't fear a guinea-pig's revenge.
This thing's different."

"All right, you miserable skunk. I won't forget the way
you've stood by me."

He took up a nail, and before Saunders had realised what he
was doing had driven it through the hand, deep into the
board.

"Oh, my aunt," he giggled hysterically, "look at it now,"
for the hand was writhing in agonized contortions, squirming
and wriggling upon the nail like a worm upon the hook.

"Well," said Saunders, "you've done it now. I'll leave you
to examine it."

"Don't go, in heaven's name. Cover it up, man, cover it up!
Shove a cloth over it! Here!" and he pulled off the
antimacassar from the back of a chair and wrapped the board in
it. "Now get the keys from my pocket and open the safe. Chuck
the other things out. Oh, Lord, it's getting itself into
frightful knots! and open it quick!" He threw the thing in and
banged the door.

"We'll keep it there till it dies," he said. "May I burn in
hell if I ever open the door of that safe again."

Mrs. Merrit departed at the end of the month. Her successor
certainly was more successful in the management of the
servants. Early in her rule she declared that she would stand
no nonsense, and gossip soon withered and died. Eustace
Borlsover went back to his old way of life. Old habits crept
over and covered his new experience. He was, if anything, less
morose, and showed a greater inclination to take his natural
part in country society.

"I shouldn't be surprised if he marries one of these days,"
said Saunders. "Well, I'm in no hurry for such an event. I know
Eustace far too well for the future Mrs. Borlsover to like me.
It will be the same old story again: a long friendship slowly
made—marriage—and a long friendship quickly
forgotten."

IV

But Eustace Borlsover did not follow the advice of his uncle
and marry. He was too fond of old slippers and tobacco. The
cooking, too, under Mrs. Handyside's management was excellent,
and she seemed, too, to have a heaven-sent faculty in knowing
when to stop dusting.

Little by little the old life resumed its old power. Then
came the burglary. The men, it was said, broke into the house
by way of the conservatory. It was really little more than an
attempt, for they only succeeded in carrying away a few pieces
of plate from the pantry. The safe in the study was certainly
found open and empty, but, as Mr. Borlsover informed the police
inspector, he had kept nothing of value in it during the last
six months.

"Then you're lucky in getting off so easily, sir," the man
replied. "By the way they have gone about their business, I
should say they were experienced cracksmen. They must have
caught the alarm when they were just beginning their evening's
work."

"Yes," said Eustace, "I suppose I am lucky."

"I've no doubt," said the inspector, "that we shall be able
to trace the men. I've said that they must have been old hands
at the game. The way they got in and opened the safe shows
that. But there's one little thing that puzzles me. One of them
was careless enough not to wear gloves, and I'm bothered if I
know what he was trying to do. I've traced his finger-marks on
the new varnish on the window sashes in every one of the
downstairs rooms. They are very distinct ones too."

"Right hand or left, or both?" asked Eustace.

"Oh, right every time. That's the funny thing. He must have
been a foolhardy fellow, and I rather think it was him that
wrote that." He took out a slip of paper from his pocket.
"That's what he wrote, sir. 'I've got out, Eustace Borlsover,
but I'll be back before long.' Some gaol bird just escaped, I
suppose. It will make it all the easier for us to trace him. Do
you know the writing, sir?"

"No," said Eustace; "it's not the writing of anyone I
know."

"I'm not going to stay here any longer," said Eustace to
Saunders at luncheon. "I've got on far better during the last
six months than ever I expected, but I'm not going to run the
risk of seeing that thing again. I shall go up to town this
afternoon. Get Morton to put my things together, and join me
with the car at Brighton on the day after to-morrow. And bring
the proofs of those two papers with you. We'll run over them
together."

"How long are you going to be away?"

"I can't say for certain, but be prepared to stay for some
time. We've stuck to work pretty closely through the summer,
and I for one need a holiday. I'll engage the rooms at
Brighton. You'll find it best to break the journey at Hitchin.
I'll wire to you there at the Crown to tell you the Brighton
address."

The house he chose at Brighton was in a terrace. He had been
there before. It was kept by his old college gyp, a man of
discreet silence, who was admirably partnered by an excellent
cook. The rooms were on the first floor. The two bedrooms were
at the back, and opened out of each other. "Saunders can have
the smaller one, though it is the only one with a fireplace,"
he said. "I'll stick to the larger of the two, since it's got a
bathroom adjoining. I wonder what time he'll arrive with the
car."

Saunders came about seven, cold and cross and dirty. "We'll
light the fire in the dining-room," said Eustace, "and get
Prince to unpack some of the things while we are at dinner.
What were the roads like?"

"Rotten; swimming with mud, and a beastly cold wind against
us all day. And this is July. Dear old England!"

"Yes," said Eustace, "I think we might do worse than leave
dear old England for a few months."

They turned in soon after twelve.

"You oughtn't to feel cold, Saunders," said Eustace, "when
you can afford to sport a great cat-skin lined coat like this.
You do yourself very well, all things considered. Look at those
gloves, for instance. Who could possibly feel cold when wearing
them?"

"They are far too clumsy though for driving. Try them on and
see," and he tossed them through the door on to Eustace's bed,
and went on with his unpacking. A minute later he heard a
shrill cry of terror. "Oh, Lord," he heard, "it's in the glove!
Quick, Saunders, quick!" Then came a smacking thud. Eustace had
thrown it from him. "I've chucked it into the bathroom," he
gasped, "it's hit the wall and fallen into the bath. Come now
if you want to help." Saunders, with a lighted candle in his
hand, looked over the edge of the bath. There it was, old and
maimed, dumb and blind, with a ragged hole in the middle,
crawling, staggering, trying to creep up the slippery sides,
only to fall back helpless.

"Stay there," said Saunders. "I'll empty a collar box or
something, and we'll jam it in. It can't get out while I'm
away."

"Yes, it can," shouted Eustace. "It's getting out now. It's
climbing up the plug chain. No, you brute, you filthy brute,
you don't! Come back, Saunders, it's getting away from me. I
can't hold it; it's all slippery. Curse its claw! Shut the
window, you idiot! The top too, as well as the bottom. You
utter idiot! It's got out!" There was the sound of something
dropping on to the hard flagstones below, and Eustace fell back
fainting.

For a fortnight he was ill.

"I don't know what to make of it," the doctor said to
Saunders. "I can only suppose that Mr. Borlsover has suffered
some great emotional shock. You had better let me send someone
to help you nurse him. And by all means indulge that whim of
his never to be left alone in the dark. I would keep a light
burning all night if I were you. But he must have more
fresh air. It's perfectly absurd this hatred of open
windows."

Eustace, however, would have no one with him but Saunders.
"I don't want the other men," he said. "They'd smuggle it in
somehow. I know they would."

"Don't worry about it, old chap. This sort of thing can't go
on indefinitely. You know I saw it this time as well as you. It
wasn't half so active. It won't go on living much longer,
especially after that fall. I heard it hit the flags myself. As
soon as you're a bit stronger we'll leave this place; not bag
and baggage, but with only the clothes on our backs, so that it
won't be able to hide anywhere. We'll escape it that way. We
won't give any address, and we won't have any parcels sent
after us. Cheer up, Eustace! You'll be well enough to leave in
a day or two. The doctor says I can take you out in a chair
to-morrow."

"What have I done?" asked Eustace. "Why does it come after
me? I'm no worse than other men. I'm no worse than you,
Saunders; you know I'm not. It was you who were at the bottom
of that dirty business in San Diego, and that was fifteen years
ago."

"It's not that, of course," said Saunders. "We are in the
twentieth century, and even the parsons have dropped the idea
of your old sins finding you out. Before you caught the hand in
the library it was filled with pure malevolence—to you
and all mankind. After you spiked it through with that nail it
naturally forgot about other people, and concentrated its
attention on you. It was shut up in the safe, you know, for
nearly six months. That gives plenty of time for thinking of
revenge."

Eustace Borlsover would not leave his room, but he thought
that there might be something in Saunders's suggestion to leave
Brighton without notice. He began rapidly to regain his
strength.

"We'll go on the first of September," he said.

The evening of August 31st was oppressively warm. Though at
midday the windows had been wide open, they had been shut an
hour or so before dusk. Mrs. Prince had long since ceased to
wonder at the strange habits of the gentlemen on the first
floor. Soon after their arrival she had been told to take down
the heavy window curtains in the two bedrooms, and day by day
the rooms had seemed to grow more bare. Nothing was left lying
about.

"Mr. Borlsover doesn't like to have any place where dirt can
collect," Saunders had said as an excuse. "He likes to see into
all the corners of the room."

"Couldn't I open the window just a little?" he said to
Eustace that evening. "We're simply roasting in here, you
know."

"No, leave well alone. We're not a couple of boarding-school
misses fresh from a course of hygiene lectures. Get the
chessboard out."