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 SonsNew York and LondonThe Knickerbocker Press

1921

To

ASHLEY HORACE THORNDIKE, LITT. D. 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

WHO GUIDED MY EARLIER STUDIES IN THE SUPERNATURAL

The Imperishable Ghost

INTRODUCTION

Ghosts are the true immortals, and the dead grow more alive all thetime. Wraiths have a greater vitality to-day than ever before. They arefar more numerous than at any time in the past, and people are moreinterested in them. There are persons that claim to be acquainted withspecific spirits, to speak with them, to carry on correspondence withthem, and even some who insist that they are private secretaries to thedead. Others of us mortals, more reserved, are content to keep suchdistance as we may from even the shadow of a shade. But there's nogetting away from ghosts nowadays, for even if you shut your eyes tothem in actual life, you stumble over them in the books you read, yousee them on the stage and on the screen, and you hear them on thelecture platform. Even a Lodge in any vast wilderness would have thecompany of spirits. Man's love for the supernatural, which is one of themost natural things about him, was never more marked than at present. You may go a-ghosting in any company to-day, and all aspects ofliterature, novels, short stories, poetry, and drama alike, reflect theshadeless spirit. The latest census of the haunting world shows a vastincrease in population, which might be explained on various grounds. 

Life is so inconveniently complex nowadays, what with income taxes andother visitations of government, that it is hard for us to have theadded risk of wraiths, but there's no escaping. Many persons of to-dayare in the same mental state as one Mr. Boggs, told of in a magazinestory, a rural gentleman who was agitated over spectral visitants. Hehad once talked at a séance with a speaker who claimed to be the spiritof 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 suggestionregarding subliminal consciousness and dual personality as explanationof the strange things that come bolting into life, he said, "It's crawlyany way you look at it. Ghosts inside you are as bad as ghosts outsideyou. " There are others to-day who are "not so darn sure!"

One may conjecture divers reasons for this multitude of ghosts in lateliterature. Perhaps spooks are like small boys that rush to fires, unwilling to miss anything, and craving new sensations. And we mortalsread about them to get vicarious thrills through the safe _medium_ offiction. The war made sensationalists of us all, and the drabeverydayness of mortal life bores us. Man's imagination, always biggerthan his environment, overleaps the barriers of time and space andclaims all worlds as eminent domain, so that literature, which he hasthe power to create, as he cannot create his material surroundings, possesses a dramatic intensity, an epic sweep, unknown in actuality. Inthe 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 bothof person and of raiment, in marvelous fashion, so that their numberincreases with a Malthusian relentlessness. We of to-day have the ghoststhat haunted our ancestors, as well as our own modern revenants, andthere's no earthly use trying to banish or exorcise them by such asimple thing as disbelief in them. Schopenhauer asserts that a belief inghosts 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 earliestantecedents were poor diarists, it is difficult to establish theapostolic succession of spooks in actual life, but in literature, theline reaches back as far as the primeval picture writing. A study ofanimism in primitive culture shows many interesting links between thepast and the present in this matter. And anyhow, since man knows thatwhether or not he has seen a ghost, presently he'll be one, he'sfascinated with the subject. And he creates ghosts, not merely in hisown image, but according to his dreams of power. 

The more man knows of natural laws, the keener he is about thesupernatural. He may claim to have laid aside superstition, but he isn'tto be believed in that. Though he has discarded witchcraft and alchemy, it is only that he may have more time for psychical research; true, heno longer dabbles with ancient magic, but that is because the moderntypes, as the ouija board, entertain him more. He dearly loves totraffic with that other world of which he knows so little and concerningwhich he is so curious. 

Perhaps the war, or possibly an increase in class consciousness, orunionization of spirits, or whatever, has greatly energized the ghost inour day and given him both ambition and strength to do more things thanever. Maybe "pep tablets" have been discovered on the other side aswell! No longer is the ghost content to be seen and not heard, to slinkaround in shadowy corners as apologetically as poor relations. Wraithsnow have a rambunctious vitality and self-assurance that areastonishing. Even the ghosts of folks dead so long they have forgottenabout themselves are yawning, stretching their skeletons, and startingout to do a little haunting. Spooky creatures in such a wide diversityare 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 activitiesnow, so that mortals had better look alive, else they'll be crowded outof their place in the shade. The dead are too much with us!

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

In fact, his infernal efficiency and knowledge of science constitute theworst terror of the current specter. Who can combat a ghost that knowsall about a chemical laboratory, that can add electricity to his othershocks, 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 oldtypes of ghosts, together with the innovations of the new. There arespecters that take a real part in the plot complication, and those thatmerely cast threatening looks at the living, or at least, are content tospeak a piece and depart. Some spirits are dumb, while others are highlyelocutionary. 

Ghosts vary in many respects. Some are like the pallid shades of thepast, altogether unlike the living and with an unmistakable spectralform--or lack of it. They sweep like mist through the air, or flutterlike dead leaves in the gale--a gale always accompanying them as part ofthe stock furnishings. On the other hand, some revenants are sosuccessfully made up that one doesn't believe them when they pridefullyannounce that they are wraiths. Some of them are, in fact, so alive thatthey don't themselves know they're dead. It's going to be a great shockto some of them one of these days to wake up and find out they'redemised!

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

Ghosts at present are showing an active interest not only in publicaffairs, but in the arts as well. At least, we now have pictures andwriting attributed to them. Perhaps annoyed by some of the inaccuraciespublished concerning them--for authors have in the past taken advantageof the belief that ghosts couldn't write back--they have recentlydeveloped itching pens. They use all manner of utensils for expressionnow. There's the magic typewriter that spooks for John Kendrick Bangs, the boardwalk that Patience Worth executes for Mrs. Curran, andinnumerable other specters that commandeer fountain pens and pencils andbrushes to give their versions of infinity. There's a passion on thepart of ghosts for being interviewed just now. At presentbook-reviewers, for instance, had better be careful, lest the wraithstake their own method of answering criticism. It isn't safe to speak orwrite with anything but respect of ghosts now. _De mortuis nil nisibonum_, indeed! One should never make light of a shade. 

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

The spirit of to-day is terrifyingly visible or invisible at will. Thedreadful presence of a ghost that one cannot see is more unbearable thanthe specter that one can locate and attempt to escape from. Theinvisible 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 hasstrongly influenced others. O'Brien's story preceded Guy de Maupassant's_Le Horla_ by several years, and must surely have suggested toMaupassant as to Bierce, in his _The Damned Thing_, the power of evilthat can be felt but not seen. 

The wraith of the present carries with him more vital energy than hispredecessors, is more athletic in his struggles with the unlucky wightshe visits, and can coerce mortals to do his will by the laying on ofhands as well as by the look or word. He speaks with more emphasis andauthority, as well as with more human naturalness, than the earlierghosts. He has not only all the force he possessed in life, but in manyinstances has an access of power, which makes man a poor protagonist forhim. Algernon Blackwood's spirits of evil, for example, have a moreawful potentiality than any living person could have, and their will toharm has been increased immeasurably by the accident of death. If thefacts 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 allmeans to keep his deadly enemy alive, lest death may endow him withtenfold power to hurt. Dark discarnate passions, disembodied hates, workevil where a simple ghost might be helpless and abashed. AlgernonBlackwood has command over the spirits of air and fire and wave, so thathis pages thrill with beauty and terror. He has handled almost all knownaspects of the supernatural, and from his many stories he has selectedfor 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 physicalpeculiarities that the living bodies possessed--a fact discouraging toall persons not conspicuous for good looks. Freckles and warts, longnoses and missing limbs distinguish the ghosts and aid in crucialidentification. The thrill of horror in Ambrose Bierce's story, _TheMiddle Toe of the Right Foot_, is intensified by the fact that the deadwoman who comes back in revenge to haunt her murderer, has one toelacking as in life. And in a recent story a surgeon whose desire toexperiment has caused him needlessly to sacrifice a man's life on theoperating table, is haunted to death by the dismembered arm. Fictionshows us various ghosts with half faces, and at least one notable spookthat comes in half. Such ability, it will be granted, must necessarilyincrease the haunting power, for if a ghost may send a foot or an arm ora leg to harry one person, he can dispatch his back-bone or his liver orhis heart to upset other human beings simultaneously in a sectionalhaunting at once economically efficient and terrifying. 

_The Beast with Five Fingers_, for instance, has a loathsome horror thata complete skeleton or conventionally equipped wraith could not achieve. Who can doubt that a bodiless hand leaping around on its errands of evilhas a menace that a complete six-foot frame could not duplicate? Yet, inQuiller-Couch's _A Pair of Hands_, what pathos and beauty in the thoughtof the child hands coming back to serve others in homely tasks! Surelyno housewife in these helpless days would object to being haunted insuch delicate fashion. 

Ghosts of to-day have an originality that antique specters lacked. Forinstance, 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 thatthose who looked into his deep eyes met their doom? Present-day writersskillfully combine various elements of awe with the supernatural, asmadness with the ghostly, adding to the chill of fear which each conceptgives. Wilbur Daniel Steele's _The Woman at Seven Brothers_ is aninstance of that method. 

Poe's _Ligeia_, one of the best stories in any language, reveals theunrelenting will of the dead to effect its desire, --the dead wifetriumphantly coming back to life through the second wife's body. OliviaHoward Dunbar's _The Shell of Sense_ is another instance of jealousyreaching beyond the grave. _The Messenger_, one of Robert W. Chambers'searly stories and an admirable example of the supernatural, has variousthrills, with its river of blood, its death's head moth, and the ancientbut very active skull of the Black Priest who was shot as a traitor tohis country, but lived on as an energetic and curseful ghost. 

_The Shadows on the Wall_, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, --which oneprominent librarian considers the best ghost story ever written, --isoriginal in the method of its horrific manifestation. Isn't it moredevastating to one's sanity to see the shadow of a revenge ghost cast onthe wall, --to know that a vindictive spirit is beside one butinvisible--than to see the specter himself? Under such circumstances, the sight of a skeleton or a sheeted phantom would be downrightcomforting. 

_The Mass of Shadows_, by Anatole France, is an example of the moderntendency to show phantoms in groups, as contrasted with the solitaryhabits of ancient specters. Here the spirits of those who had sinned forlove 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 hasan appeal of tenderness rather than of terror. And everybody who hashad 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 aghost than does any other animal, perhaps because man feels that he isnearer the human, --though the horse is as intelligent and as muchbeloved. There is an innate pathos about a dog somehow, that makes hisappearance in ghostly form more credible and sympathetic, while theghost of any other animal would tend to have a comic connotation. Otheranimals in fiction have power of magic--notably the cat--but they don'tappear as spirits. But the dog is seen as a pathetic symbol offaithfulness, as a tragic sufferer, or as a terrible revenge ghost. Dogsmay come singly or in groups--Edith Wharton has five of different sortsin _Kerfol_--or in packs, as in Eden Phillpotts's _Another Little HeathHound_. 

An illuminating instance of the power of fiction over human faith isfurnished by the case of Arthur Machen's _The Bowmen_, included here. This story it is which started the whole tissue of legendry concerningsupernatural aid given the allied armies during the war. This purelyfictitious account of an angel army that saved the day at Mons was sovivid that its readers accepted it as truth and obstinately clung tothat idea in the face of Mr. Machen's persistent and bewilderedexplanations that he had invented the whole thing. Editors wrote leadingarticles about it, ministers preached sermons on it, and the generalpublic preferred to believe in the Mons angels rather than in ArthurMachen. Mr. Machen has shown himself an artist in the supernatural, onewhom his generation has not been discerning enough to appreciate. Someof his material is painfully morbid, but his pen is magic and hisinkwell holds many dark secrets. 

In this collection I have attempted to include specimens of a few of thedistinctive types of modern ghosts, as well as to show the art ofindividual stories. Examples of the humorous ghosts are omitted here, asa number of them will be brought together in _Humorous Ghost Stories_, the companion volume to this. The ghost lover who reads these pages willthink of others that he would like to see included--for I believe thatreaders are more passionately attached to their own favorite ghost talesthan to any other form of literature. But critics will admit themanifest impossibility of bringing together in one volume all the famousexamples of the art. Some of the well-known tales, particularly theolder ones on which copyright has expired, have been reprinted so oftenas to be almost hackneyed, while others have been of necessity omittedbecause of the limitations of space. 

 D. S. 

NEW YORK, March, 1921. 

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 Willows

BY ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

 From _The Listener_, by Algernon Blackwood. Published in America by E. P. Dutton, and in England by Everleigh Nash, Ltd. By permission of the publishers and Algernon Blackwood. 

I

After leaving Vienna, and long before you come to Buda-Pesth, the Danubeenters a region of singular loneliness and desolation, where its watersspread away on all sides regardless of a main channel, and the countrybecomes a swamp for miles upon miles, covered by a vast sea of lowwillow-bushes. On the big maps this deserted area is painted in a fluffyblue, growing fainter in color as it leaves the banks, and across it maybe seen in large straggling letters the word _Sümpfe_, meaning marshes. 

In high flood this great acreage of sand, shingle-beds, and willow-grownislands is almost topped by the water, but in normal seasons the bushesbend and rustle in the free winds, showing their silver leaves to thesunshine in an ever-moving plain of bewildering beauty. These willowsnever attain to the dignity of trees; they have no rigid trunks; theyremain humble bushes, with rounded tops and soft outline, swaying onslender stems that answer to the least pressure of the wind; supple asgrasses, and so continually shifting that they somehow give theimpression that the entire plain is moving and _alive_. For the windsends waves rising and falling over the whole surface, waves of leavesinstead of waves of water, green swells like the sea, too, until thebranches turn and lift, and then silvery white as their under-side turnsto the sun. 

Happy to slip beyond the control of stern banks, the Danube here wandersabout at will among the intricate network of channels intersecting theislands everywhere with broad avenues down which the waters pour with ashouting sound; making whirlpools, eddies, and foaming rapids; tearingat the sandy banks; carrying away masses of shore and willow-clumps; andforming new islands innumerable which shift daily in size and shape andpossess at best an impermanent life, since the flood-time obliteratestheir very existence. 

Properly speaking, this fascinating part of the river's life begins soonafter leaving Pressburg, and we, in our Canadian canoe, with gipsy tentand frying-pan on board, reached it on the crest of a rising flood aboutmid-July. That very same morning, when the sky was reddening beforesunrise, we had slipped swiftly through still-sleeping Vienna, leavingit a couple of hours later a mere patch of smoke against the blue hillsof the Wienerwald on the horizon; we had breakfasted below Fischeramendunder a grove of birch trees roaring in the wind; and had then swept onthe tearing current past Orth, Hainburg, Petronell (the old RomanCarnuntum of Marcus Aurelius), and so under the frowning heights ofTheben on a spur of the Carpathians, where the March steals in quietlyfrom the left and the frontier is crossed between Austria and Hungary. 

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

The change came suddenly, as when a series of bioscope pictures snapsdown on the streets of a town and shifts without warning into thescenery 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 norred roof, nor any single sign of human habitation and civilizationwithin sight. The sense of remoteness from the world of human kind, theutter isolation, the fascination of this singular world of willows, winds, and waters, instantly laid its spell upon us both, so that weallowed laughingly to one another that we ought by rights to have heldsome special kind of passport to admit us, and that we had, somewhataudaciously, come without asking leave into a separate little kingdom ofwonder and magic--a kingdom that was reserved for the use of others whohad a right to it, with everywhere unwritten warnings to trespassers forthose who had the imagination to discover them. 

Though still early in the afternoon, the ceaseless buffetings of a mosttempestuous wind made us feel weary, and we at once began casting aboutfor a suitable camping-ground for the night. But the bewilderingcharacter of the islands made landing difficult; the swirling floodcarried us in-shore and then swept us out again; the willow branchestore our hands as we seized them to stop the canoe, and we pulled many ayard of sandy bank into the water before at length we shot with a greatsideways blow from the wind into a backwater and managed to beach thebows in a cloud of spray. Then we lay panting and laughing after ourexertions on hot yellow sand, sheltered from the wind, and in the fullblaze of a scorching sun, a cloudless blue sky above, and an immensearmy of dancing, shouting willow bushes, closing in from all sides, shining with spray and clapping their thousand little hands as though toapplaud the success of our efforts. 

"What a river!" I said to my companion, thinking of all the way we hadtraveled from the source in the Black Forest, and how we had often beenobliged 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 alittle farther into safety up the sand, and then composing himself for anap. 

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

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

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

It was full of tricks, too, in its early life before the great worldknew it. There were places in the upper reaches among the Swabianforests, when yet the first whispers of its destiny had not reached it, where it elected to disappear through holes in the ground, to appearagain on the other side of the porous limestone hills and start a newriver with another name; leaving, too, so little water in its own bedthat we had to climb out and wade and push the canoe through miles ofshallows!

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

This was many days back, of course, and since then we had come to knowother aspects of the great creature, and across the Bavarian wheat plainof Straubing she wandered so slowly under the blazing June sun that wecould well imagine only the surface inches were water, while below theremoved, 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 andanimals that haunted the shores. Cormorants lined the banks in lonelyplaces in rows like short black palings; gray crows crowded theshingle-beds; storks stood fishing in the vistas of shallower water thatopened up between the islands, and hawks, swans, and marsh birds of allsorts filled the air with glinting wings and singing, petulant cries. Itwas impossible to feel annoyed with the river's vagaries after seeing adeer leap with a splash into the water at sunrise and swim past the bowsof 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 tiltround a corner and entered another reach of the river. Foxes, too, everywhere haunted the banks, tripping daintily among the driftwood anddisappearing so suddenly that it was impossible to see how they managedit. 

But now, after leaving Pressburg, everything changed a little, and theDanube became more serious. It ceased trifling. It was halfway to theBlack Sea, within scenting distance almost of other, stranger countrieswhere no tricks would be permitted or understood. It became suddenlygrown-up, and claimed our respect and even our awe. It broke out intothree arms, for one thing, that only met again a hundred kilometersfarther down, and for a canoe there were no indications which one wasintended to be followed. 

"If you take a side channel, " said the Hungarian officer we met in thePressburg shop while buying provisions, "you may find yourselves, whenthe flood subsides, forty miles from anywhere, high and dry, and you mayeasily starve. There are no people, no farms, no fishermen. I warn younot to continue. The river, too, is still rising, and this wind willincrease. "

The rising river did not alarm us in the least, but the matter of beingleft 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 therest, the officer's prophecy held true, and the wind, blowing down aperfectly clear sky, increased steadily till it reached the dignity of awesterly gale. 

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

I stood there for several minutes, watching the impetuous crimson floodbearing down with a shouting roar, dashing in waves against the bank asthough to sweep it bodily away, and then swirling by in two foamingstreams on either side. The ground seemed to shake with the shock andrush while the furious movement of the willow bushes as the wind pouredover them increased the curious illusion that the island itself actuallymoved. Above, for a mile or two, I could see the great river descendingupon me: it was like looking up the slope of a sliding hill, white withfoam, and leaping up everywhere to show itself to the sun. 

The rest of the island was too thickly grown with willows to makewalking pleasant, but I made the tour, nevertheless. From the lower endthe light, of course, changed, and the river looked dark and angry. Onlythe backs of the flying waves were visible, streaked with foam, andpushed forcibly by the great puffs of wind that fell upon them frombehind. For a short mile it was visible, pouring in and out among theislands, and then disappearing with a huge sweep into the willows, whichclosed about it like a herd of monstrous antediluvian creatures crowdingdown to drink. They made me think of gigantic sponge-like growths thatsucked the river up into themselves. They caused it to vanish fromsight. They herded there together in such overpowering numbers. 

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

A rising river, perhaps, always suggests something of the ominous: manyof the little islands I saw before me would probably have been sweptaway by the morning; this resistless, thundering flood of water touchedthe sense of awe. Yet I was aware that my uneasiness lay deeper far thanthe emotions of awe and wonder. It was not that I felt. Nor had itdirectly to do with the power of the driving wind--this shoutinghurricane that might almost carry up a few acres of willows into the airand scatter them like so much chaff over the landscape. The wind wassimply enjoying itself, for nothing rose out of the flat landscape tostop it, and I was conscious of sharing its great game with a kind ofpleasurable excitement. Yet this novel emotion had nothing to do withthe wind. Indeed, so vague was the sense of distress I experienced, thatit was impossible to trace it to its source and deal with itaccordingly, though I was aware somehow that it had to do with myrealization of our utter insignificance before this unrestrained powerof the elements about me. The huge-grown river had something to do withit too--a vague, unpleasant idea that we had somehow trifled with thesegreat elemental forces in whose power we lay helpless every hour of theday and night. For here, indeed, they were gigantically at playtogether, and the sight appealed to the imagination. 

But my emotion, so far as I could understand it, seemed to attach itselfmore particularly to the willow bushes, to these acres and acres ofwillows, crowding, so thickly growing there, swarming everywhere the eyecould reach, pressing upon the river as though to suffocate it, standingin dense array mile after mile beneath the sky, watching, waiting, listening. And, apart quite from the elements, the willows connectedthemselves subtly with my malaise, attacking the mind insidiouslysomehow by reason of their vast numbers, and contriving in some way orother 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 wayor another, and I was no stranger to moods of the kind. Mountainsoverawe and oceans terrify, while the mystery of great forests exercisesa spell peculiarly its own. But all these, at one point or another, somewhere link on intimately with human life and human experience. Theystir comprehensible, even if alarming, emotions. They tend on the wholeto exalt. 

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

The feeling, however, though it refused to yield its meaning entirely toanalysis, did not at the time trouble me by passing into menace. Yet itnever left me quite, even during the very practical business of puttingup 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 mostdelightful camping-ground of a good portion of its charm. To mycompanion, however, I said nothing, for he was a man I considered devoidof imagination. In the first place, I could never have explained to himwhat I meant, and in the second, he would have laughed stupidly at me ifI had. 

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

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

But the experience of a collapsing tent at midnight had taught us manydevices, and we made the cosy gipsy house as safe as possible, and thenset about collecting a store of wood to last till bedtime. Willow bushesdrop no branches, and driftwood was our only source of supply. We huntedthe shores pretty thoroughly. Everywhere the banks were crumbling as therising flood tore at them and carried away great portions with a splashand a gurgle. 

"The island's much smaller than when we landed, " said the accurateSwede. "It won't last long at this rate. We'd better drag the canoeclose to the tent, and be ready to start at a moment's notice. _I_ shallsleep in my clothes. "

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

"By Jove!" I heard him call, a moment later, and turned to see what hadcaused 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 hisvoice had become serious. 

I ran up quickly and joined him on the bank. He was looking over theriver, 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 rapidlypast. It kept disappearing and coming up to the surface again. It wasabout twenty feet from the shore, and just as it was opposite to wherewe stood it lurched round and looked straight at us. We saw its eyesreflecting the sunset, and gleaming an odd yellow as the body turnedover. Then it gave a swift, gulping plunge, and dived out of sight in aflash. 

"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 exactlylike the body of a drowned man turning helplessly in the current. Farbelow it came to the surface once again, and we saw its black skin, wetand shining in the sunlight. 

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

Whether it was due to the slanting sunlight, or the refraction from thewonderfully illumined water, I cannot say, but, whatever the cause, Ifound it difficult to focus my sight properly upon the flyingapparition. It seemed, however, to be a man standing upright in a sortof flat-bottomed boat, steering with a long oar, and being carried downthe opposite shore at a tremendous pace. He apparently was lookingacross in our direction, but the distance was too great and the lighttoo uncertain for us to make out very plainly what he was about. Itseemed to me that he was gesticulating and making signs at us. His voicecame across the water to us shouting something furiously but the winddrowned it so that no single word was audible. There was somethingcurious about the whole appearance--man, boat, signs, voice--that madean impression on me out of all proportion to its cause. 

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

"I believe you're right, " the Swede said, shading his eyes with his handand 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 caughtthem in the bend of the river and turned them into a great crimson wallof 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 didhe mean by his signs and shouting? D'you think he wished to warn usabout something?"

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

"If they had enough imagination, " I laughed loudly--I remember trying tomake as much _noise_ as I could--"they might well people a place likethis with the old gods of antiquity. The Romans must have haunted allthis region more or less with their shrines and sacred groves andelemental deities. "

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

"The river's still rising, though, " he added, as if following out somethoughts of his own, and dropping his load with a gasp. "This islandwill 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 theriver. "

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

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

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

We lay on the sandy patch beside the fire, smoking, listening to thenoises of the night round us, and talking happily of the journey we hadalready made, and of our plans ahead. The map lay spread in the door ofthe tent, but the high wind made it hard to study, and presently welowered the curtain and extinguished the lantern. The firelight wasenough to smoke and see each other's faces by, and the sparks flew aboutoverhead like fireworks. A few yards beyond, the river gurgled andhissed, and from time to time a heavy splash announced the falling awayof further portions of the bank. 

Our talk, I noticed, had to do with the far-away scenes and incidents ofour first camps in the Black Forest, or of other subjects altogetherremote from the present setting, for neither of us spoke of the actualmoment more than was necessary--almost as though we had agreed tacitlyto avoid discussion of the camp and its incidents. Neither the otter northe boatman, for instance, received the honor of a single mention, though ordinarily these would have furnished discussion for the greaterpart of the evening. They were, of course, distinct events in such aplace. 

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

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

"When this has burnt up, " I said firmly, "I shall turn in, " and mycompanion watched me lazily as I moved off into the surroundingshadows. 

For an unimaginative man I thought he seemed unusually receptive thatnight, unusually open to suggestion of things other than sensory. He toowas touched by the beauty and loneliness of the place. I was notaltogether pleased, I remember, to recognize this slight change in him, and instead of immediately collecting sticks, I made my way to the farpoint of the island where the moonlight on plain and river could be seento 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 Iwished to face and probe to the bottom. 

When I reached the point of sand jutting out among the waves, the spellof 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 whisperingwillows; I heard the ceaseless beating of the tireless wind; and, oneand all, each in its own way, stirred in me this sensation of a strangedistress. But the _willows_ especially: for ever they went on chatteringand talking among themselves, laughing a little, shrilly crying out, sometimes sighing--but what it was they made so much to-do aboutbelonged to the secret life of the great plain they inhabited. And itwas utterly alien to the world I knew, or to that of the wild yetkindly elements. They made me think of a host of beings from anotherplane of life, another evolution altogether, perhaps, all discussing amystery known only to themselves. I watched them moving busily together, oddly shaking their big bushy heads, twirling their myriad leaves evenwhen 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 ourcamp, shaking their innumerable silver spears defiantly, formed allready 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 welcomeor rejection. At first it may not always be apparent, because the busypreparations of tent and cooking prevent, but with the firstpause--after supper usually--it comes and announces itself. And the noteof this willow-camp now became unmistakably plain to me: we wereinterlopers, trespassers, we were not welcomed. The sense ofunfamiliarity grew upon me as I stood there watching. We touched thefrontier of a region where our presence was resented. For a night'slodging we might perhaps be tolerated; but for a prolonged andinquisitive 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 notwanted. _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 theyshould rise up, like a swarm of living creatures, marshaled by the godswhose territory we had invaded, sweep towards us off the vast swamps, booming overhead in the night--and then _settle down_! As I looked itwas so easy to imagine they actually moved, crept nearer, retreated alittle, huddled together in masses, hostile, waiting for the great windthat should finally start them a-running. I could have sworn theiraspect changed a little, and their ranks deepened and pressed moreclosely together. 

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

"You've been gone so long, " he shouted above the wind, "I thoughtsomething 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 Iunderstood the real reason for his coming. It was because the spell ofthe 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 companionshipthat gave the real importance to his words. 

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

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

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

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

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

II

Suddenly I found myself lying awake, peering from my sandy mattressthrough the door of the tent. I looked at my watch pinned against thecanvas, and saw by the bright moonlight that it was past twelveo'clock--the threshold of a new day--and I had therefore slept a coupleof hours. The Swede was asleep still beside me; the wind howled asbefore something plucked at my heart and made me feel afraid. There wasa sense of disturbance in my immediate neighborhood. 

I sat up quickly and looked out. The trees were swaying violently to andfro as the gusts smote them, but our little bit of green canvas laysnugly safe in the hollow, for the wind passed over it without meetingenough resistance to make it vicious. The feeling of disquietude did notpass however, and I crawled quietly out of the tent to see if ourbelongings 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 thatthe tops of the bushes opposite, with their moving tracery of leaves, made shapes against the sky. I sat back on my haunches and stared. Itwas incredible, surely, but there, opposite and slightly above me, wereshapes of some indeterminate sort among the willows, and as the branchesswayed in the wind they seemed to group themselves about these shapes, forming a series of monstrous outlines that shifted rapidly beneath themoon. 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 Ishould not welcome corroboration; and meanwhile I crouched there staringin amazement with smarting eyes. I was wide awake. I remember saying tomyself that I was _not_ dreaming. 

They first became properly visible, these huge figures, just within thetops of the bushes--immense bronze-colored, moving, and whollyindependent of the swaying of the branches. I saw them plainly andnoted, now I came to examine them more calmly, that they were very muchlarger than human, and indeed that something in their appearanceproclaimed them to be _not human_ at all. Certainly they were not merelythe moving tracery of the branches against the moonlight. They shiftedindependently. They rose upwards in a continuous stream from earth tosky, vanishing utterly as soon as they reached the dark of the sky. Theywere interlaced one with another, making a great column, and I saw theirlimbs and huge bodies melting in and out of each other, forming thisserpentine line that bent and swayed and twisted spirally with thecontortions of the wind-tossed trees. They were nude, fluid shapes, passing up the bushes, _within_ the leaves almost--rising up in a livingcolumn into the heavens. Their faces I never could see. Unceasingly theypoured upwards, swaying in great bending curves, with a hue of dullbronze upon their skins. 

I stared, trying to force every atom of vision from my eyes. For a longtime I thought they _must_ every moment disappear and resolve themselvesinto the movements of the branches and prove to be an optical illusion. I searched everywhere for a proof of reality, when all the while Iunderstood quite well that the standard of reality had changed. For thelonger I looked the more certain I became that these figures were realand living, though perhaps not according to the standards that thecamera and the biologist would insist upon. 

Far from feeling fear, I was possessed with a sense of awe and wondersuch as I have never known. I seemed to be gazing at the personifiedelemental forces of this haunted and primeval region. Our intrusion hadstirred the powers of the place into activity. It was we who were thecause of the disturbance, and my brain filled to bursting with storiesand legends of the spirits and deities of places that have beenacknowledged and worshiped by men in all ages of the world's history. But, before I could arrive at any possible explanation, somethingimpelled me to go farther out, and I crept forward on to the sand andstood upright. I felt the ground still warm under my bare feet; the windtore at my hair and face; and the sound of the river burst upon my earswith a sudden roar. These things, I knew, were real, and proved that mysenses were acting normally. Yet the figures still rose from earth toheaven, silent, majestically, in a great spiral of grace and strengththat overwhelmed me at length with a genuine deep emotion of worship. Ifelt that I must fall down and worship--absolutely worship. 

Perhaps in another minute I might have done so, when a gust of windswept against me with such force that it blew me sideways, and I nearlystumbled and fell. It seemed to shake the dream violently out of me. Atleast it gave me another point of view somehow. The figures stillremained, still ascended into heaven from the heart of the night, but myreason at last began to assert itself. It must be a subjectiveexperience, I argued--none the less real for that, but still subjective. The moonlight and the branches combined to work out these pictures uponthe mirror of my imagination, and for some reason I projected themoutwards and made them appear objective. I knew this must be the case, of course. I was the subject of a vivid and interesting hallucination. Itook courage, and began to move forward across the open patches of sand. By Jove, though, was it all hallucination? Was it merely subjective? Didnot my reason argue in the old futile way from the little standard ofthe known?

I only know that great column of figures ascended darkly into the skyfor what seemed a very long period of time, and with a very completemeasure of reality as most men are accustomed to gauge reality. Thensuddenly they were gone!

And, once they were gone and the immediate wonder of their greatpresence had passed, fear came down upon me with a cold rush. Theesoteric meaning of this lonely and haunted region suddenly flamed upwithin me and I began to tremble dreadfully. I took a quick lookround--a look of horror that came near to panic--calculating vainly waysof escape; and then, realizing how helpless I was to achieve anythingreally effective, I crept back silently into the tent and lay down againupon my sandy mattress, first lowering the door-curtain to shut out thesight of the willows in the moonlight, and then burying my head asdeeply as possible beneath the blankets to deaden the sound of theterrifying wind. 

III

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

But this second time I jumped up with a genuine start of terror. It wasneither the wind nor the river that woke me, but the slow approach ofsomething that caused the sleeping portion of me to grow smaller andsmaller till at last it vanished altogether, and I found myself sittingbolt upright--listening. 

Outside there was a sound of multitudinous little patterings. They hadbeen coming, I was aware, for a long time, and in my sleep they hadfirst become audible. I sat there nervously wide awake as though I hadnot slept at all. It seemed to me that my breathing came withdifficulty, and that there was a great weight upon the surface of mybody. In spite of the hot night, I felt clammy with cold and shivered. Something surely was pressing steadily against the sides of the tent andweighing down upon it from above. Was it the body of the wind? Was thisthe pattering rain, the dripping of the leaves? The spray blown fromthe river by the wind and gathering in big drops? I thought quickly of adozen things. 

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

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

A cold, gray light filtered down through the bushes and lay on thefaintly gleaming sand. Stars still crowded the sky directly overhead, and the wind howled magnificently, but the fire no longer gave out anyglow, and I saw the east reddening in streaks through the trees. Severalhours must have passed since I stood there before, watching theascending 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 ragingwind! Yet, though the deep lassitude of a sleepless night was on me, mynerves were tingling with the activity of an equally tirelessapprehension, and all idea of repose was out of the question. The riverI saw had risen further. Its thunder filled the air, and a fine spraymade itself felt through my thin sleeping shirt. 

Yet nowhere did I discover the slightest evidences of anything to causealarm. This deep, prolonged disturbance in my heart remained whollyunaccounted for. 

My companion had not stirred when I called him, and there was no need towaken him now. I looked about me carefully, noting everything: theturned-over canoe; the yellow paddles--two of them, I'm certain; theprovision sack and the extra lantern hanging together from the tree;and, crowding everywhere about me, enveloping all, the willows, thoseendless, shaking willows. A bird uttered its morning cry, and a stringof duck passed with whirring flight overhead in the twilight. The sandwhirled, 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, sothat I could see across the river to the farther landscape, and the sameprofound yet indefinable emotion of distress seized upon me again as Isaw the interminable sea of bushes stretching to the horizon, lookingghostly and unreal in the wan light of dawn. I walked softly here andthere, still puzzling over that odd sound of infinite pattering, and ofthat pressure upon the tent that had wakened me. It _must_ have been thewind, I reflected--the wind beating upon the loose, hot sand, drivingthe dry particles smartly against the taut canvas--the wind droppingheavily 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 hadaltered in the night, and what masses of sand the river had torn away. Idipped my hands and feet into the cool current, and bathed my forehead. Already there was a glow of sunrise in the sky and the exquisitefreshness of coming day. On my way back I passed purposely beneath thevery 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 senseof vast terror. From the shadows a large figure went swiftly by. Someone passed me, as sure as ever man did. . . . 

It was a great staggering blow from the wind that helped me forwardagain, and once out in the more open space, the sense of terrordiminished strangely. The winds were about and walking, I remembersaying to myself; for the winds often move like great presences underthe trees. And altogether the fear that hovered about me was such anunknown and immense kind of fear, so unlike anything I had ever feltbefore, that it woke a sense of awe and wonder in me that did much tocounteract its worst effects; and when I reached a high point in themiddle 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 sooverpowering that a sort of wild yearning woke in me and almost broughta cry up into the throat. 

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

For a change, I thought, had somehow come about in the arrangement ofthe landscape. It was not that my point of vantage gave me a differentview, but that an alteration had apparently been effected in therelation of the tent to the willows, and of the willows to the tent. Surely the bushes now crowded much closer--unnecessarily, unpleasantlyclose. _They had moved nearer_. 

Creeping with silent feet over the shifting sands, drawing imperceptiblynearer by soft, unhurried movements, the willows had come closer duringthe night. But had the wind moved them, or had they moved of themselves?I recalled the sound of infinite small patterings and the pressure uponthe tent and upon my own heart that caused me to wake in terror. Iswayed for a moment in the wind like a tree, finding it hard to keep myupright position on the sandy hillock. There was a suggestion here ofpersonal agency, of deliberate intention, of aggressive hostility, andit 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 readilythan the cry, for the knowledge that my mind was so receptive to suchdangerous imaginings brought the additional terror that it was throughour minds and not through our physical bodies that the attack wouldcome, and was coming. 

The wind buffeted me about, and, very quickly it seemed, the sun came upover the horizon, for it was after four o'clock, and I must have stoodon that little pinnacle of sand longer than I knew, afraid to come downat close quarters with the willows. I returned quietly, creepily, to thetent, first taking another exhaustive look round and--yes, I confessit--making a few measurements. I paced out on the warm sand thedistances between the willows and the tent, making a note of theshortest 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 myexperiences were not corroborated, I could find strength somehow to denythem, perhaps. With the daylight I could persuade myself that it was alla subjective hallucination, a fantasy of the night, a projection of theexcited 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 soundof multitudinous pattering, or of feeling the pressure upon my heartthat had made it difficult to breathe. 

IV

The sun was high in the heavens when my companion woke me from a heavysleep and announced that the porridge was cooked and there was justtime to bathe. The grateful smell of frizzling bacon entered the tentdoor. 

"River still rising, " he said, "and several islands out in midstreamhave 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, " helaughed, "but there's enough to last us till then. "

I plunged in from the point of the island, which had indeed altered alot in size and shape during the night, and was swept down in a momentto the landing place opposite the tent. The water was icy, and the banksflew by like the country from an express train. Bathing under suchconditions was an exhilarating operation, and the terror of the nightseemed cleansed out of me by a process of evaporation in the brain. Thesun 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 flashedacross me, showing that he no longer wished to leave posthaste, and hadchanged his mind. "Enough to last till to-morrow"--he assumed we shouldstay on the island another night. It struck me as odd. The night beforehe was so positive the other way. How had the change come about?

Great crumblings of the banks occurred at breakfast, with heavysplashings and clouds of spray which the wind brought into ourfrying-pan, and my fellow-traveler talked incessantly about thedifficulty the Vienna-Pesth steamers must have to find the channel inflood. But the state of his mind interested and impressed me far morethan the state of the river or the difficulties of the steamers. He hadchanged somehow since the evening before. His manner was different--atrifle excited, a trifle shy, with a sort of suspicion about his voiceand gestures. I hardly know how to describe it now in cold blood, but atthe time I remember being quite certain of one thing, viz. , that he hadbecome frightened!

He ate very little breakfast, and for once omitted to smoke his pipe. Hehad 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 anopening that must bring him indirectly to a partial confession at anyrate. And his answer puzzled me uncomfortably: "Rather! If they'll letus. "

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

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

"The elements are always the true immortals, " I replied, laughing asnaturally as I could manage, yet knowing quite well that my facereflected my true feelings when he looked up gravely at me and spokeacross 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 thepoint of the direct question. It was like agreeing to allow the dentistto extract the tooth; it _had_ to come anyhow in the long run, and therest 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 wasour rudder, and the Danube in flood without a rudder was suicide. "Butwhat----"

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

I continued staring at him, able only to repeat the words in his facesomewhat foolishly. There, in the heat of the sun, and on this burningsand, I was aware of a freezing atmosphere descending round us. I got upto follow him, for he merely nodded his head gravely and led the waytowards the tent a few yards on the other side of the fireplace. Thecanoe still lay there as I had last seen her in the night, ribsuppermost, 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 therent 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 thinkbetter of it, and I said nothing. I approached to see. 

There was a long, finely made tear in the bottom of the canoe where alittle slither of wood had been neatly taken clean out; it looked as ifthe tooth of a sharp rock or snag had eaten down her length, andinvestigation showed that the hole went through. Had we launched out inher without observing it we must inevitably have foundered. At first thewater would have made the wood swell so as to close the hole, but onceout in midstream the water must have poured in, and the canoe, nevermore than two inches above the surface, would have filled and sunk veryrapidly. 

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

I began to whistle--a thing I always do unconsciously when utterlynonplused--and purposely paid no attention to his words. I wasdetermined to consider them foolish. 

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

"We must have scratched her in landing, of course, " I stopped whistlingto say, "The stones are very sharp----"

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

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

A new and curious emotion spread freezingly over me as I took andexamined it. The blade was scraped down all over, beautifully scraped, as though someone had sand-papered it with care, making it so thin thatthe 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 blownagainst it by the wind, perhaps. "

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

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

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

Once alone with these perplexing evidences of personal agency, I thinkmy 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 howimpossible it was to suppose, under all the circumstances, that eitherof us had done it. That my companion, the trusted friend of a dozensimilar expeditions, could have knowingly had a hand in it, was asuggestion not to be entertained for a moment. Equally absurd seemed theexplanation that this imperturbable and densely practical nature hadsuddenly become insane and was busied with insane purposes. 

Yet the fact remained that what disturbed me most, and kept my fearactively alive even in this blaze of sunshine and wild beauty, was theclear certainty that some curious alteration had come about in his_mind_--that he was nervous, timid, suspicious, aware of goings on hedid not speak about, watching a series of secret and hithertounmentionable events--waiting, in a word, for a climax that he expected, and, I thought, expected very soon. This grew up in my mindintuitively--I hardly knew how. 

I made a hurried examination of the tent and its surroundings, but themeasurements of the night remained the same. There were deep hollowsformed in the sand, I now noticed for the first time, basin-shaped andof various depths and sizes, varying from that of a teacup to a largebowl. 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 itwhen we landed. The examination I made of the shore did not assist thistheory, but all the same I clung to it with that diminishing portion ofmy intelligence which I called my "reason. " An explanation of some kindwas an absolute necessity, just as some working explanation of theuniverse is necessary--however absurd--to the happiness of everyindividual who seeks to do his duty in the world and face the problemsof 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 atthe work, though under the best conditions in the world the canoe couldnot be safe for traveling till the following day. I drew his attentioncasually to the hollows in the sand. 

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

"Wind, of course, " I answered without hesitation. "Have you neverwatched those little whirlwinds in the street that twist and twirleverything into a circle? This sand's loose enough to yield, that'sall. "

He made no reply, and we worked on in silence for a bit. I watched himsurreptitiously all the time, and I had an idea he was watching me. Heseemed, too, to be always listening attentively to something I could nothear, or perhaps for something that he expected to hear, for he keptturning about and staring into the bushes, and up into the sky, and outacross the water where it was visible through the openings among thewillows. Sometimes he even put his hand to his ear and held it there forseveral minutes. He said nothing to me, however, about it, and I askedno questions. And meanwhile, as he mended that torn canoe with the skilland address of a red Indian, I was glad to notice his absorption in thework, for there was a vague dread in my heart that he would speak of thechanged aspect of the willows. And, if he had noticed _that_, myimagination 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 wantedto say something and get it over. "Queer thing, I mean, about that otterlast night. "

I had expected something so totally different that he caught me withsurprise, 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 youthink--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, " Ireplied. 

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

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

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

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

"I _did_ rather wonder, if you want to know, " he said slowly, "what thatthing 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 wasimpatience and a strain of anger too, in my feeling. 

"Look here now, " I cried, "this place is quite queer enough withoutgoing 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 goingdownstream as fast as they could lick. And that otter _was_ an otter, sodon't let's play the fool about it!"

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

"And for heaven's sake, " I went on, "don't keep pretending you hearthings, because it only gives me the jumps, and there's nothing to hearbut 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 justas well as I do!" he sneered with scorn in his voice, and a sort ofresignation. "The best thing you can do is to keep quiet and try to holdyour mind as firm as possible. This feeble attempt at self-deceptiononly 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 knewquite well his words were true, and that I was the fool, not _he_. Up toa certain stage in the adventure he kept ahead of me easily, and I thinkI felt annoyed to be out of it, to be thus proved less psychic, lesssensitive than himself to these extraordinary happenings, and halfignorant 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 missedthe point of his words about the necessity of there being a victim, andthat we ourselves were destined to satisfy the want. I dropped allpretense thenceforward, but thenceforward likewise my fear increasedsteadily to the climax. 

"But you're quite right about one thing, " he added, before the subjectpassed, "and that is that we're wiser not to talk about it, or even tothink about it, because what one _thinks_ finds expression in words, andwhat one _says_, happens. "

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

This lessening of the wind came as a great relief, for the incessantroaring, banging, and thundering had irritated our nerves. Yet thesilence that came about five o'clock with its sudden cessation was in amanner quite as oppressive. The booming of the river had everything itsown way then: it filled the air with deep murmurs, more musical than thewind 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 pedalnotes, that held a lugubrious quality foreign to the wind, and somehowseemed to me, in my then nervous state, to sound wonderfully well themusic of doom. 

It was extraordinary, too, how the withdrawal suddenly of brightsunlight took everything out of the landscape that made forcheerfulness; and since this particular landscape had already managed toconvey the suggestion of something sinister, the change of course wasall the more unwelcome and noticeable. For me, I know, the darkeningoutlook became distinctly more alarming, and I found myself more thanonce calculating how soon after sunset the full moon would get up in theeast, and whether the gathering clouds would greatly interfere with herlighting of the little island. 

With this general hush of the wind--though it still indulged inoccasional brief gusts--the river seemed to me to grow blacker, thewillows to stand more densely together. The latter, too, kept up a sortof independent movement of their own, rustling among themselves when nowind stirred, and shaking oddly from the roots upwards. When commonobjects in this way become charged with the suggestion of horror, theystimulate the imagination far more than things of unusual appearance;and these bushes, crowding huddled about us, assumed for me in thedarkness a bizarre _grotesquerie_ of appearance that lent to themsomehow the aspect of purposeful and living creatures. Their veryordinariness, I felt, masked what was malignant and hostile to us. Theforces of the region drew nearer with the coming of night. They werefocusing upon our island, and more particularly upon ourselves. Forthus, somehow, in the terms of the imagination, did my reallyindescribable sensations in this extraordinary place present themselves. 

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

The canoe we had carefully covered with a waterproof sheet during theday, and the one remaining paddle had been securely tied by the Swede tothe base of a tree, lest the wind should rob us of that too. From fiveo'clock onwards I busied myself with the stew-pot and preparations fordinner, it being my turn to cook that night. We had potatoes, onions, bits of bacon fat to add flavour, and a general thick residue fromformer stews at the bottom of the pot; with black bread broken up intoit the result was most excellent, and it was followed by a stew of plumswith sugar and a brew of strong tea with dried milk. A good pile of woodlay close at hand, and the absence of wind made my duties easy. Mycompanion sat lazily watching me, dividing his attentions betweencleaning his pipe and giving useless advice--an admitted privilege ofthe off-duty man. He had been very quiet all the afternoon, engaged inre-caulking the canoe, strengthening the tent ropes, and fishing fordriftwood while I slept. No more talk about undesirable things hadpassed between us, and I think his only remarks had to do with thegradual destruction of the island, which he declared was now fully athird smaller than when we first landed. 

The pot had just begun to bubble when I heard his voice calling to mefrom 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 hishand 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 onlythe deep note of the water and the hissings rising from its turbulentsurface. The willows, for once, were motionless and silent. Then a soundbegan to reach my ears faintly, a peculiar sound--something like thehumming of a distant gong. It seemed to come across to us in thedarkness from the waste of swamps and willows opposite. It was repeatedat regular intervals, but it was certainly neither the sound of a bellnor the hooting of a distant steamer. I can liken it to nothing so muchas to the sound of an immense gong, suspended far up in the sky, repeating incessantly its muffled metallic note, soft and musical, asit was repeatedly struck. My heart quickened as I listened. 

"I've heard it all day, " said my companion. "While you slept thisafternoon it came all round the island. I hunted it down, but couldnever get near enough to see--to localize it correctly. Sometimes it wasoverhead, and sometimes it seemed under the water. Once or twice, too, Icould have sworn it was not outside at all, but _within myself_--youknow--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 listenedcarefully, striving to associate it with any known familiar sound Icould think of, but without success. It changed in direction, too, coming nearer, and then sinking utterly away into remote distance. Icannot say that it was ominous in quality, because to me it seemeddistinctly musical, yet I must admit it set going a distressing feelingthat made me wish I had never heard it. 

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

"It comes off the whole swamp, " my friend answered. "It comes fromeverywhere at once. " He ignored my explanations. "It comes from thewillow bushes somehow----"

"But now the wind has dropped, " I objected "The willows can hardly makea 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 drownedbefore. It is the cry, I believe of the----"

I dashed back to my fire, warned by a sound of bubbling that the stewwas in danger, but determined at the same time to escape from furtherconversation. I was resolute, if possible, to avoid the exchanging ofviews. I dreaded, too, that he would begin again about the gods, or theelemental forces, or something else disquieting, and I wanted to keepmyself well in hand for what might happen later. There was another nightto be faced before we escaped from this distressing place, and there wasno knowing yet what it might bring forth. 

"Come and cut up bread for the pot, " I called to him, vigorouslystirring 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, fumblingin its mysterious depths, and then emptying the entire contents upon theground-sheet at his feet. 

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

The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter that startled me. It wasforced 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 containedlay upon the ground-sheet, but there was no loaf. 

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

"How criminally stupid of me!" I cried, still determined to beconsistent and find an explanation. "I clean forgot to buy a loaf atPressburg. That chattering woman put everything out of my head, and Imust have left it lying on the counter or----"

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

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 canget lots more at Komorn or Gran. In twenty-four hours we shall be milesfrom 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 addedwith a foolish laugh. He dragged the sack into the tent, for safety'ssake, I suppose, and I heard him mumbling on to himself, but soindistinctly that it seemed quite natural for me to ignore his words. 

Our meal was beyond question a gloomy one, and we ate it almost insilence, avoiding one another's eyes, and keeping the fire bright. Thenwe washed up and prepared for the night, and, once smoking, our mindsunoccupied with any definite duties, the apprehension I had felt all daylong 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 Ihad been able to ticket and face it squarely. The curious sound I havelikened to the note of a gong became now almost incessant, and filledthe stillness of the night with a faint, continuous ringing rather thana series of distinct notes. At one time it was behind and at anothertime in front of us. Sometimes I fancied it came from the bushes on ourleft, and then again from the clumps on our right. More often it hovereddirectly overhead like the whirring of wings. It was really everywhereat once, behind, in front, at our sides and over our heads, completelysurrounding us. The sound really defies description. But nothing withinmy knowledge is like that ceaseless muffled humming rising off thedeserted world of swamps and willows. 

We sat smoking in comparative silence, the strain growing every minutegreater. The worst feature of the situation seemed to me that we did notknow what to expect, and could therefore make no sort of preparation byway of defense. We could anticipate nothing. My explanations made in thesunshine, moreover, now came to haunt me with their foolish and whollyunsatisfactory nature, and it was more and more clear to me that somekind of plain talk with my companion was inevitable, whether I liked itor not. After all, we had to spend the night together, and to sleep inthe same tent side by side. I saw that I could not get along much longerwithout the support of his mind, and for that, of course, plain talk wasimperative. As long as possible, however, I postponed this littleclimax, and tried to ignore or laugh at the occasional sentences heflung 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 atotally different point of view. He composed such curious sentences, andhurled them at me in such an inconsequential sort of way, as though hismain line of thought was secret to himself, and these fragments were thebits he found it impossible to digest. He got rid of them by utteringthem. 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 thefire blazed between us. "We've strayed out of a safe line somewhere. "

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

"I don't think a phonograph would show any record of that. The sounddoesn't come to me by the ears at all. The vibrations reach me inanother manner altogether, and seem to be within me, which is preciselyhow 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 thefire and peered about me into the darkness. The clouds were massed allover 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 ownway. 

"It has that about it, " he went on, "which is utterly out of commonexperience. It is _unknown_. Only one thing describes it really: it is anon-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 tohave the thought out, and to have confined it by the limitation of wordsfrom dangerous wandering to and fro in the mind. 

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

Yet what I felt of dread was no ordinary ghostly fear. It was infinitelygreater, stranger, and seemed to arise from some dim ancestral sense ofterror more profoundly disturbing than anything I had known or dreamedof. We had "strayed, " as the Swede put it, into some region or some setof conditions where the risks were great, yet unintelligible to us;where the frontiers of some unknown world lay close about us. It was aspot held by the dwellers in some outer space, a sort of peephole whencethey could spy upon the earth, themselves unseen, a point where the veilbetween had worn a little thin. As the final result of too long asojourn here, we should be carried over the border and deprived of whatwe called "our lives, " yet by mental, not physical, processes. In thatsense, as he said, we should be the victims of our adventure--asacrifice. 

It took us in different fashion, each according to the measure of hissensitiveness and powers of resistance. I translated it vaguely into apersonification of the mightily disturbed elements, investing them withthe horror of a deliberate and malefic purpose, resentful of ouraudacious intrusion into their breeding-place; whereas my friend threwit into the unoriginal form at first of a trespass on some ancientshrine, some place where the old gods still held sway, where theemotional forces of former worshipers still clung, and the ancestralportion of him yielded to the old pagan spell. 

At any rate, here was a place unpolluted by men, kept clean by the windsfrom coarsening human influences, a place where spiritual agencies werewithin reach and aggressive. Never, before or since, have I been soattacked by indescribable suggestions of a "beyond region, " of anotherscheme of life, another evolution not parallel to the human. And in theend our minds would succumb under the weight of the awful spell, and weshould be drawn across the frontier into _their_ world. 

Small things testified to this amazing influence of the place, and nowin the silence round the fire they allowed themselves to be noted by themind. The very atmosphere had proved itself a magnifying medium todistort every indication: the otter rolling in the current, the hurryingboatman making signs, the shifting willows, one and all had been robbedof its natural character, and revealed in something of its otheraspect--as it existed across the border in that other region. And thischanged aspect I felt was new not merely to me, but to the race. Thewhole 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 tozero, " the Swede said suddenly, as if he had been actually following mythoughts. "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 "plaindetermination to provide a victim"; but, having now arranged my thoughtsbetter, I recognized that this was simply the cry of his frightened soulagainst the knowledge that he was being attacked in a vital part, andthat he would be somehow taken or destroyed. The situation called for acourage and calmness of reasoning that neither of us could compass, andI have never before been so clearly conscious of two persons in me--theone that explained everything, and the other that laughed at suchfoolish explanations, yet was horribly afraid. 

Meanwhile, in the pitchy night the fire died down and the woodpile grewsmall. Neither of us moved to replenish the stock, and the darknessconsequently came up very close to our faces. A few feet beyond thecircle of firelight it was inky black. Occasionally a stray puff of windset the billows shivering about us, but apart from this not very welcomesound a deep and depressing silence reigned, broken only by the gurglingof 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 thewind were about to rise again, I reached the point for me of saturation, the point where it was absolutely necessary to find relief in plainspeech, or else to betray myself by some hysterical extravagance thatmust have been far worse in its effect upon both of us. I kicked thefire into a blaze, and turned to my companion abruptly. He looked upwith a start. 

"I can't disguise it any longer, " I said; "I don't like this place, andthe darkness, and the noises, and the awful feelings I get. There'ssomething here that beats me utterly. I'm in a blue funk, and that's theplain truth. If the other shore was--different, I swear I'd be inclinedto 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 betrayedhis huge excitement by its unnatural calmness. For the moment, at anyrate, he was the strong man of the two. He was more phlegmatic, for onething. 

"It's not a physical condition we can escape from by running away, " hereplied, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing some grave disease; "we mustsit tight and wait. There are forces close here that could kill a herdof elephants in a second as easily as you or I could squash a fly. Ouronly chance is to keep perfectly still. Our insignificance perhaps maysave 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 diseasewhose symptoms had puzzled me. 

"I mean that so far, although aware of our disturbing presence, theyhave not _found_ us--not 'located' us, as the Americans say, " he wenton. "They're blundering about like men hunting for a leak of gas. Thepaddle and canoe and provisions prove that. I think they _feel_ us, butcannot actually see us. We must keep our minds quiet--it's our mindsthey 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, meanseither annihilation or release from the limitations of the senses, butit involves no change of character. _You_ don't suddenly alter justbecause the body's gone. But this means a radical alteration, a completechange, a horrible loss of oneself by substitution--far worse thandeath, and not even annihilation. We happen to have camped in a spotwhere their region touches ours where the veil between has wornthin"--horrors! he was using my very own phrase, my actual words--"sothat 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 hummingoverhead, everything except that I was waiting for an answer that Idreaded more than I can possibly explain. 

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

"All my life, " he said, "I have been strangely, vividly conscious ofanother region--not far removed from our own world in one sense, yetwholly different in kind--where great things go on unceasingly, whereimmense and terrible personalities hurry by, intent on vast purposescompared to which earthly affairs, the rise and fall of nations, thedestinies of empires, the fate of armies and continents, are all as dustin 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 Iwas face to face with a madman. But he instantly overbore me with historrent that _had_ to come. 

"You think, " he said, "it is the spirits of the elements, and I thoughtperhaps it was the old gods. But I tell you now it is--_neither_. Thesewould be comprehensible entities, for they have relations with men, depending upon them for worship or sacrifice, whereas these beings whoare now about us have absolutely nothing to do with mankind, and it ismere chance that their space happens just at this spot to touch ourown. "

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

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

"A sacrifice, a victim, might save us by distracting them until we couldget away, " he went on, "just as the wolves stop to devour the dogs andgive the sleigh another start. But--I see no chance of any other victimnow. "

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

"It's the willows, of course. The willows _mask_ the others, but theothers 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 hissanity. He was as sane as any man ever was. "If we can hold out throughthe night, " he added, "we may get off in the daylight unnoticed, orrather, _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 morethan 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, inorder that they may ignore us. "

"Even in thought?" He was extraordinarily agitated. 

"Especially in thought. Our thoughts make spirals in their world. Wemust keep them _out of our minds_ at all costs if possible. "

I raked the fire together to prevent the darkness having everything itsown way. I never longed for the sun as I longed for it then in the awfulblackness 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 tofollow his instructions, which I knew instinctively were true, "but thewind, 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 somethingtremendous, 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 beenaltered--had increased enormously, so that we should be crushed. "

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

"It's _their_ sound, " he whispered gravely. "It's the sound of theirworld, the humming in their region. The division here is so thin that itleaks through somehow. But, if you listen carefully, you'll find it'snot above so much as around us. It's in the willows. It's the willowsthemselves humming, because here the willows have been made symbols ofthe forces that are against us. "

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

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

"All right, " I managed to reply, simply breathless with his words andthe strangeness of it all; "all right, I'll try, but tell me one thingmore first. Tell me what you make of those hollows in the ground allabout 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 Iam glad. Don't try to. _They_ have put it into my mind; try your hardestto prevent their putting it into yours. "

He sank his voice again to a whisper before he finished, and I did notpress him to explain. There was already just about as much horror in meas I could hold. The conversation came to an end, and we smoked ourpipes busily in silence. 

Then something happened, something unimportant apparently, as the way iswhen the nerves are in a very great state of tension, and this smallthing for a brief space gave me an entirely different point of view. Ichanced to look down at my sand-shoe--the sort we used for thecanoe--and something to do with the hole at the toe suddenly recalledto me the London shop where I had bought them, the difficulty the manhad in fitting me, and other details of the uninteresting but practicaloperation. At once, in its train, followed a wholesome view of themodern skeptical world I was accustomed to move in at home. I thought ofroast beef and ale, motor-cars, policemen, brass bands, and a dozenother things that proclaimed the soul of ordinariness or utility. Theeffect was immediate and astonishing even to myself. Psychologically, Isuppose, it was simply a sudden and violent reaction after the strain ofliving in an atmosphere of things that to the normal consciousness mustseem impossible and incredible. But, whatever the cause, it momentarilylifted the spell from my heart, and left me for the short space of aminute feeling free and utterly unafraid. I looked up at my friendopposite. 

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

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

He had turned ashen white under the tan. He stood bolt upright in frontof 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--downthe river. "

He was talking, I saw, quite wildly, his words dictated by abjectterror--the terror he had resisted so long, but which had caught him atlast. 

"In the dark?" I exclaimed, shaking with fear after my hystericaloutburst, but still realizing our position better than he did. "Sheermadness! 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 forfifty miles but willows, willows, willows!"

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

"What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?" he whispered, with theawe 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 thenight. At sunrise we'll be off full speed for Komorn. Now, pull yourselftogether a bit, and remember your own advice about _not thinkingfear_!"

He said no more, and I saw that he would agree and obey. In somemeasure, too, it was a sort of relief to get up and make an excursioninto the darkness for more wood. We kept close together, almosttouching, groping among the bushes and along the bank. The hummingoverhead never ceased, but seemed to me to grow louder as we increasedour distance from the fire. It was shivery work!

We were grubbing away in the middle of a thickish clump of willows wheresome 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 forsupport. I heard his breath coming and going in short gasps. 

"Look! By my soul!" he whispered, and for the first time in myexperience 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 thedirection 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 gauzedrop-curtain used at the back of a theater--hazily a little. It wasneither a human figure nor an animal. To me it gave the strangeimpression of being as large as several animals grouped together, likehorses, two or three, moving slowly. The Swede, too, got a similarresult, though expressing it differently, for he thought it was shapedand sized like a clump of willow bushes, rounded at the top, and movingall over upon its surface--"coiling upon itself like smoke, " he saidafterwards. 

"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 ofwhistling cry. "_They've found us_. "

I gave one terrified glance, which just enabled me to see that theshadowy form was swinging towards us through the bushes, and then Icollapsed backwards with a crash into the branches. These failed, ofcourse, to support my weight, so that with the Swede on the top of me wefell in a struggling heap upon the sand. I really hardly knew what washappening. I was conscious only of a sort of enveloping sensation of icyfear that plucked the nerves out of their fleshly covering, twisted themthis way and that, and replaced them quivering. My eyes were tightlyshut; something in my throat choked me; a feeling that my consciousnesswas expanding, extending out into space, swiftly gave way to anotherfeeling that I was losing it altogether, and about to die. 

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

But it was this pain, he declared afterwards, that saved me: it causedme to _forget them_ and think of something else at the very instant whenthey were about to find me. It concealed my mind from them at the momentof discovery, yet just in time to evade their terrible seizing of me. Hehimself, he says, actually swooned at the same moment, and that was whatsaved him. 

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

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

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

"That's what saved _you_!" he replied. "Between us, we've managed to setthem off on a false tack somewhere. The humming has ceased. It'sgone--for the moment at any rate!"

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

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

"It's those sand-funnels, " exclaimed the Swede, when the tent was upagain 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 movingshadows there were deep funnel-shaped hollows in the sand, exactlysimilar to the ones we had already found over the island, only farbigger and deeper, beautifully formed, and wide enough in some instancesto admit the whole of my foot and leg. 

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

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

V

It was my firm intention to lie awake all night and watch, but theexhaustion of nerves and body decreed otherwise, and sleep after a whilecame over me with a welcome blanket of oblivion. The fact that mycompanion also slept quickened its approach. At first he fidgeted andconstantly sat up, asking me if I "heard this" or "heard that. " Hetossed about on his cork mattress, and said the tent was moving and theriver had risen over the point of the island; but each time I went outto look I returned with the report that all was well, and finally hegrew calmer and lay still. Then at length his breathing became regularand I heard unmistakable sounds of snoring--the first and only time inmy 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 myfirst thought was that my companion had rolled off his mattress on to myown in his sleep. I called to him and sat up, and at the same moment itcame to me that the tent was _surrounded_. That sound of multitudinoussoft pattering was again audible outside, filling the night with horror. 

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

I dashed out in a mad run, seized by a dreadful agitation, and themoment I was out I plunged into a sort of torrent of humming thatsurrounded me completely and came out of every quarter of the heavens atonce. It was that same familiar humming--gone mad! A swarm of greatinvisible bees might have been about me in the air. The sound seemed tothicken the very atmosphere, and I felt that my lungs worked withdifficulty. 

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

The dawn was just about to break, and a faint whitish light spreadupwards over the clouds from a thin strip of clear horizon. No windstirred. I could just make out the bushes and river beyond, and the palesandy patches. In my excitement I ran frantically to and fro about theisland, calling him by name, shouting at the top of my voice the firstwords that came into my head. But the willows smothered my voice, andthe humming muffled it, so that the sound only traveled a few feet roundme. I plunged among the bushes, tripping headlong, tumbling over roots, and scraping my face as I tore this way and that among the preventingbranches. 

Then, quite unexpectedly, I came out upon the island's point and saw adark 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 wouldhave taken the plunge. 

I threw myself upon him, flinging my arms about his waist and dragginghim shorewards with all my strength. Of course he struggled furiously, making a noise all the time just like that cursed humming, and using themost 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 morebesides, that I tried in vain to recall afterwards, but which turned mesick with horror and amazement as I listened. But in the end I managedto get him into the comparative safety of the tent, and flung himbreathless and cursing upon the mattress, where I held him until the fithad 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 hummingand pattering outside--I think this was almost the strangest part of thewhole business perhaps. For he just opened his eyes and turned his tiredface up to me so that the dawn threw a pale light upon it through thedoorway, 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 undermy eyes. He simply collapsed, and began to snore again as healthily asthough nothing had happened and he had never tried to offer his own lifeas a sacrifice by drowning. And when the sunlight woke him three hourslater--hours of ceaseless vigil for me--it became so clear to me that heremembered absolutely nothing of what he had attempted to do, that Ideemed it wise to hold my peace and ask no dangerous questions. 

He woke naturally and easily, as I have said, when the sun was alreadyhigh in a windless hot sky, and he at once got up and set about thepreparation of the fire for breakfast. I followed him anxiously atbathing, but he did not attempt to plunge in, merely dipping his headand 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 heremembered 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 justbefore he fainted was in his mind, and I was determined to know it. 

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

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

He began to look curiously about him. The sunlight lay in hot patcheson the sand. There was no wind. The willows were motionless. He slowlyrose 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 littleback-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 thehorror of the last twenty-four hours, and I hurried up to join him. Hewas pointing with his stick at a large black object that lay half in thewater and half on the sand. It appeared to be caught by some twistedwillow roots so that the river could not sweep it away. A few hoursbefore 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 thebody of a man. He turned it over. It was the corpse of a peasant, andthe face was hidden in the sand. Clearly the man had been drowned but afew hours before, and his body must have been swept down upon our islandsomewhere about the hour of the dawn--_at the very time the fit hadpassed_. 

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

"I suppose so, " I replied. I shuddered a little in spite of myself, forthere was something about the appearance of that poor drowned man thatturned 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 awaymuch of the clothing from the body, so that the neck and part of thechest lay bare. 

Halfway down the bank my companion suddenly stopped and held up his handin warning; but either my foot slipped, or I had gained too muchmomentum to bring myself quickly to a halt, for I bumped into him andsent him forward with a sort of leap to save himself. We tumbledtogether on to the hard sand so that our feet splashed into the water. And, before anything could be done, we had collided a little heavilyagainst 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 loudsound of humming--the sound of several hummings--which passed with avast commotion as of winged things in the air about us and disappearedupwards into the sky, growing fainter and fainter till they finallyceased in the distance. It was exactly as though we had disturbed someliving yet invisible creatures at work. 

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

The Swede started to save it, shouting again something I did not catchabout a "proper burial" and then abruptly dropped upon his knees on thesand and covered his eyes with his hands. I was beside him in aninstant. 

I saw what he had seen. 

For just as the body swung round to the current the face and the exposedchest turned full towards us, and showed plainly how the skin and fleshwere indented with small hollows, beautifully formed, and exactlysimilar in shape and kind to the sand-funnels that we had found all overthe island. 

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

And when I turned my eyes again from his ghastly face to the river, thecurrent had done its work, and the body had been swept away intomidstream 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

 From _The Wind in the Rose-bush_, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Copyright by Harper and Brothers. By permission of the publishers and 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 Glynngasped by way of assent. She sat in a wide flounce of black silk in thecorner of the sofa, and rolled terrified eyes from her sister Carolineto her sister Mrs. Stephen Brigham, who had been Emma Glynn, the onebeauty of the family. The latter was beautiful still, with a large, splendid, full-blown beauty, she filled a great rocking-chair with hersuperb bulk of femininity, and swayed gently back and forth, her blacksilks whispering and her black frills fluttering. Even the shock ofdeath--for her brother Edward lay dead in the house--could not disturbher outward serenity of demeanor. 

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

"I think Henry might have controlled his temper, when poor Edward was sonear his end, " she said with an asperity which disturbed slightly theroseate 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 hersister with a strange, sharp look of suspicion. Then she shrank as iffrom the other's possible answer. 

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

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

"Nobody means anything, " said Caroline firmly. She rose and crossed theroom 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 onceknew by her tone that she had some solemn and sad duty to perform in thechamber 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 satup 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 glancetoward the door. 

"I was just across the hall in the south parlor, and that door was openand 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 onhere 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 hefelt, " said she. "It must have looked to him as if Edward was living athis 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 hethought he had better go away. "

"What did Edward say?"

"That he would stay here as long as he lived and afterward, too, if hewas 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 scratchedhim?"

"Yes. Don't!"

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

Mrs. Brigham looked at her and hesitated. She glanced at the door, whichwas still ajar; it did not easily shut, being still swollen with thedamp weather of the summer. She rose and pushed it together with a sharpthud, which jarred the house. Rebecca started painfully with ahalf-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 itought to be fixed, it shut so hard. 

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

"I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself for talking as he did toEdward, " 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 tobe ashamed of himself. I shouldn't think he'd ever get over it, havingwords with poor Edward the very night before he died. Edward was enoughsight better disposition than Henry, with all his faults. "

"I never heard him speak a cross word, unless he spoke cross to Henrythat 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 thana whisper. She did not look at her sister. 

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

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

Mrs. Brigham hesitated a moment. "Was there any talk ofan--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 ofterrified understanding through their eyes. 

The old-fashioned latch of the door was heard to rattle, and a push fromwithout made the door shake ineffectually. "It's Henry, " Rebecca sighedrather than whispered. Mrs. Brigham settled herself, after a noiselessrush across the floor, into her rocking-chair again, and was swayingback and forth with her head comfortably leaning back, when the door atlast yielded and Henry Glynn entered. He cast a covertly sharp, comprehensive glance at Mrs. Brigham with her elaborate calm; at Rebeccaquietly huddled in the corner of the sofa with her handkerchief to herface 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 thestove. 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 thesame hard delicacy of form and aquilinity of feature. They confrontedeach other with the pitiless immovability of two statues in whosemarble lineaments emotions were fixed for all eternity. 

Then Henry Glynn smiled and the smile transformed his face. He lookedsuddenly years younger, and an almost boyish recklessness appeared inhis face. He flung himself into a chair with a gesture which wasbewildering from its incongruity with his general appearance. He leanedhis head back, flung one leg over the other, and looked laughingly atMrs. Brigham. 

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

She flushed a little, and her placid mouth widened at the corners. Shewas 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 forgetthat, " said he, in a deep, gentle voice; "but we have to speak to theliving, Caroline, and I have not seen Emma for a long time, and theliving are as dear as the dead. "

"Not to me, " said Caroline. 

She rose and went abruptly out of the room again. Rebecca also rose andhurried 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 wasstealing over her. Out of that confidence she spoke quite easily andnaturally. 

"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 hisdeath. "

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham felt a creep as of some live horror over her verysoul. 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 hadto do--some black for the funeral--and was out of the room. She went upto the front chamber which she occupied. Caroline was there. She wentclose to her and took her hands, and the two sisters looked at eachother. 

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

"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 workon 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 apiteous, pleading voice like a child's. 

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

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

"What have you put that lamp over there for?" asked Mrs. Brigham, withmore of impatience than her voice usually revealed. "Why didn't you setit in the hall, and have done with it? Neither Caroline nor I can see ifit 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 paperall spread around. Why don't you set the lamp on the study table in themiddle of the room, then we can both see?"

Rebecca hesitated. Her face was very pale. She looked with an appealthat 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 roomwithout another word. Then she seated herself on the sofa and placed ahand 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'twant the lamp?" asked Mrs. Brigham kindly. 

"I always like to sit in the dark, " replied Rebecca chokingly. Then shesnatched 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. Theglance became a steady stare. She looked intently, her work suspended inher hands. Then she looked away again and took a few more stitches, thenshe looked again, and again turned to her task. At last she laid herwork in her lap and stared concentratedly. She looked from the wallround the room, taking note of the various objects. Then she turned toher 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 theinkstand. 

"Why don't you turn around and look?" asked Mrs. Brigham in a wonderingand 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 walkinground the room, moving various articles of furniture, with her eyes onthe 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 waslivid with horror. She stood stiffly pointing at the shadow. 

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

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

"Caroline Glynn, you look!" said Mrs. Brigham. "Look! What is thatdreadful 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 ofconcentrated will. 

"It--it looks like--like--" stammered Mrs. Brigham in a tone of intensehorror. 

"I know what it looks like well enough, " said Caroline. "I've got eyesin 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 tonematched her sisters', "only--Oh, it is awful! What is it, Caroline?"

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

"It _must_ be something in the room, " said Mrs. Brigham, staring wildlyaround. 

"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 somethingin the room, " said she. "How you act! What do you mean talking so? Ofcourse it is something in the room. "

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

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

The door opened suddenly and Henry Glynn entered. He began to speak, then his eyes followed the direction of the others. He stood staring atthe 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 ofemotions. Horror, conviction, then furious incredulity. Suddenly hebegan hastening hither and thither about the room. He moved thefurniture with fierce jerks, turning ever to see the effect upon theshadow on the wall. Not a line of its terrible outlines wavered. 

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

His face changed, the inmost secrecy of his nature seemed evident uponhis face, until one almost lost sight of his lineaments. Rebecca stoodclose to her sofa, regarding him with woeful, fascinated eyes. Mrs. Brigham clutched Caroline's hand. They both stood in a corner out of hisway. 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 notaffect 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 tomake natural. As she spoke she lifted a chair near her. 

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

Terror and wrath were struggling for expression on her face. Her mouthwas set, her eyes shrinking. Henry lifted the chair with a show ofanxiety. 

"Just as good as ever, " he said pleasantly. He laughed again, looking athis sisters. "Did I scare you?" he said. "I should think you might beused to me by this time. You know my way of wanting to leap to thebottom of a mystery, and that shadow does look--queer, like--and Ithought if there was any way of accounting for it I would like towithout any delay. "

"You don't seem to have succeeded, " remarked Caroline dryly, with aslight 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 kepthis back to the wall--as did, indeed, the others. 

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

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

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

So they all sat in the south room with their sewing. Henry read thenewspaper, his chair drawn close to the lamp on the table. About nineo'clock he rose abruptly and crossed the hall to the study. The threesisters looked at one another. Mrs. Brigham rose, folded her rustlingskirts 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 somehowswollen beyond the limit with curious speed. It was still ajar and astreak of light showed from top to bottom. 

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

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

Henry Glynn, evidently reasoning that the source of the strange shadowmust be between the table on which the lamp stood and the wall, wasmaking systematic passes and thrusts with an old sword which hadbelonged to his father all over and through the intervening space. Notan inch was left unpierced. He seemed to have divided the space intomathematical sections. He brandished the sword with a sort of cold furyand calculation; the blade gave out flashes of light, the shadowremained unmoved. Mrs. Brigham, watching, felt herself cold with horror. 

Finally Henry ceased and stood with the sword in hand and raised as ifto strike, surveying the shadow on the wall threateningly. Mrs. Brighamtoddled back across the hall and shut the south room door behind herbefore she related what she had seen. 

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

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

"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 wasdeserted. Caroline called to Henry in the study to put out the lightbefore he came upstairs. They had been gone about an hour when he cameinto the room bringing the lamp which had stood in the study. He set iton the table, and waited a few minutes, pacing up and down. His face wasterrible, his fair complexion showed livid, and his blue eyes seemeddark blanks of awful reflections. 

Then he took up the lamp and returned to the library. He set the lamp onthe center table and the shadow sprang out on the wall. Again he studiedthe furniture and moved it about, but deliberately, with none of hisformer frenzy. Nothing affected the shadow. Then he returned to thesouth room with the lamp and again waited. Again he returned to thestudy and placed the lamp on the table, and the shadow sprang out uponthe wall. It was midnight before he went upstairs. Mrs. Brigham and theother sisters, who could not sleep, heard him. 

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

The next morning at breakfast Henry Glynn announced that he had to go tothe city for three days. The sisters looked at him with surprise. Hevery seldom left home, and just now his practice had been neglected onaccount 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 neighboringcity and who occasionally called upon him in the case of a consultation. 

After he had gone, Mrs. Brigham said to Caroline that, after all, Henryhad not said that he was going to consult with Doctor Mitford, and shethought 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 wasexpected home, but he did not arrive and the last train from the cityhad come. 

"I call it pretty queer work, " said Mrs. Brigham. "The idea of a doctorleaving his patients at such a time as this, and the idea of aconsultation lasting three days! There is no sense in it, and _now_ hehas 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; thedoor was ajar. 

Presently Mrs. Brigham rose--she could not have told why; somethingseemed to impel her--some will outside her own. She went out of theroom, again wrapping her rustling skirts round that she might passnoiselessly, 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 remaininglamp in the room, and followed her sister. Rebecca had risen, but shestood trembling, not venturing to follow. 

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

Caroline and her sister Emma entered the study. Caroline set the lamp onthe table. They looked at the wall, and there were two shadows. Thesisters stood clutching each other, staring at the awful things on thewall. 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

 Little gray messenger, Robed like painted Death, Your robe is dust. Whom do you seek Among lilies and closed buds At dusk?

 Among lilies and closed buds At dusk, Whom do you seek, Little gray messenger, Robed in the awful panoply Of painted Death? R. W. C. 

 From _The Mystery of Choice_, by Robert W. Chambers. Published, 1897, by D. Appleton and Company. Copyright by Robert W. Chambers. By permission of Robert W. Chambers. 

 All-wise, Hast thou seen all there is to see with thy two eyes? Dost thou know all there is to know, and so, Omniscient, Darest thou still to say thy brother lies? R. W. C. 

I

"The bullet entered here, " said Max Fortin, and he placed his middlefinger 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, firstwith 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 hishandkerchief. "I thought you might care to see one of the skulls, so Ibrought this over from the gravel pit. The men from Bannalec are diggingyet. They ought to stop. "

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

"They found thirty-eight skulls; there are thirty-nine noted in thelist. They lie piled up in the gravel pit on the edge of Le Bihan'swheat 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 thecliffs, Portin on one side, Môme on the other. 

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

"The list was found rolled up in a brass cylinder, " said the chemist. Headded: "You should not smoke here. You know that if a single sparkdrifted 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 theglowing bowl of the pipe. Then he continued:

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

"Is that the date?"

"The list is dated 'April, 1760. ' The Brigadier Durand has it. It is notwritten 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 in1760. "

"Except by priests, " said the chemist. 

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

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 histeeth obstinately over the wheat stem that he was chewing. 

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

"Where is the Brigadier Durand?" I asked, motioning Môme to come out ofthe wheat, which he was trampling as though it were heather. As I spokewe 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 mayorof St. Gildas. "

"I see, " said I; and we struck straight down, following a sun-bakedcattle 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 thewheat to where he stood. 

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

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

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

Durand pursed up his lips, twisted his tremendous mustache, and hookedhis 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 bowlof molten gold from the cliffs to the horizon. I followed his eyes. Onthe dark glistening cliffs, silhouetted against the glare of the sea, sat a cormorant, black, motionless, its horrible head raised towardheaven. 

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

The gendarme rummaged in his despatch pouch and produced a brasscylinder about a foot long. Very gravely he unscrewed the head anddumped out a scroll of thick yellow paper closely covered with writingon both sides. At a nod from Le Bihan he handed me the scroll. But Icould 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 weredigging, 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 squarepiece of sailcloth from what appeared to be a pile of cobblestones. 

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

"How many?" said I in Breton. 

"Thirty-eight, " they replied. 

I glanced around. Beyond the heap of skulls lay two piles of humanbones. Beside these was a mound of broken, rusted bits of iron andsteel. Looking closer, I saw that this mound was composed of rustybayonets, saber blades, scythe blades, with here and there a tarnishedbuckle attached to a bit of leather hard as iron. 

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

"I have heard my grandfather speak of the terrible English regiment, the27th Foot, which landed and stormed the fort up there, " said one of theBannalec 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 handedthe belt plate and buttons to the men and climbed the side of theexcavation. 

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

"There was a man, " said Le Bihan angrily, "an Englishman, who passedhere in a dog-cart on his way to Quimper about an hour ago, and what doyou 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 doyou know what he answered? He spat upon the ground, and said: 'Pig of anEnglishman, do you take me for a desecrator of graves?'"

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

"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 battlefieldsof 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 yourhomes, " 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 hisdripping jersey. 

"How much do you earn every year, Jean Marie?" I asked, turning to shakehands 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. Ithink 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 somebodyto 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 thatannoyed Le Bihan. 

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

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

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

Le Bihan turned red, but Durand rattled his saber and winked at MaxFortin, 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, andread me what is in the scroll. "

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

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

"First of all, " he began in a shrill voice, "I am going to light mypipe, and while lighting it I shall tell you what I have heard about theattack 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, squarestone structure on the sea cliff, now nothing but crumbling walls. Thenhe slowly produced a tobacco pouch, a bit of flint and tinder, and along-stemmed pipe fitted with a microscopical bowl of baked clay. Tofill such a pipe requires ten minutes' close attention. To smoke it to afinish takes but four puffs. It is very Breton, this Breton pipe. It isthe crystallization of everything Breton. 

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

"The fort, " said the mayor, "was built by Louis XIV, and was dismantledtwice by the English. Louis XV restored it in 1730. In 1760 it wascarried by assault by the English. They came across from the island ofGroix--three shiploads, and they stormed the fort and sacked St. Julienyonder, and they started to burn St. Gildas--you can see the marks oftheir bullets on my house yet; but the men of Bannalec and the men ofLorient fell upon them with pike and scythe and blunderbuss, and thosewho did not run away lie there below in the gravel pit now--thirty-eightof 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 histobacco pouch away. 

"The thirty-ninth skull, " he mumbled, holding the pipe stem between hisdefective teeth--"the thirty-ninth skull is no business of mine. I havetold 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 heset 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 hispocket. 

"The missing skull?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said I, impatiently. 

The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read, translating fromthe 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 theBreton forces now lying in Kerselec Forest, the bodies of thirty-eightEnglish soldiers of the 27th, 50th, and 72d regiments of Foot wereburied 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 theother side, "was buried the body of that vile traitor who betrayed thefort to the English. The manner of his death was as follows: By order ofthe most noble Count of Soisic, the traitor was first branded upon theforehead with the brand of an arrowhead. The iron burned through theflesh and was pressed heavily so that the brand should even burn intothe bone of the skull. The traitor was then led out and bidden tokneel. He admitted having guided the English from the island of Groix. Although a priest and a Frenchman, he had violated his priestly officeto aid him in discovering the password to the fort. This password heextorted during confession from a young Breton girl who was in the habitof rowing across from the island of Groix to visit her husband in thefort. When the fort fell, this young girl, crazed by the death of herhusband, sought the Count of Soisic and told how the priest had forcedher to confess to him all she knew about the fort. The priest wasarrested 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, andall her family and descendants. He was shot as he knelt, having a maskof leather over his face, because the Bretons who composed the squad ofexecution refused to fire at a priest unless his face was concealed. Thepriest was l'Abbé Sorgue, commonly known as the Black Priest on accountof his dark face and swarthy eyebrows. He was buried with a stakethrough his heart. "

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

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

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

"I have forbidden them to proceed, " said the mayor querulously. "Youheard 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 becurious 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 themayor 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 thebottom: "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 curseon St. Gildas, on Marie Trevec, and on her descendants. I will come backto St. Gildas when my remains are disturbed. Woe to that Englishman whommy branded skull shall touch!"

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

"I am going to test it, " said Fortin, "at the request of Monsieur leMaire. 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 inthe Breton language. This is a wonderfully interesting discovery, fornow, at last, the mystery of the Black Priest's disappearance is clearedup. You will, of course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?"

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

I looked at him and recognized that argument would be useless. But stillI 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 ofBannalec were carrying the bones of the English soldiers toward the St. Gildas cemetery, on the cliffs to the east, where already a knot ofwhite-coiffed women stood in attitudes of prayer; and I saw the somberrobe of a priest among the crosses of the little graveyard. 

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

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

"It was written in that scroll that Marie Trevec, of Groix Island, wascursed by the priest--she and her descendants, " I said, touching LeBihan on the arm. "There was a Marie Trevec who married an Yves Trevecof 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 andkicked 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 wasdescended 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'rekicking?"

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

"The thirty-ninth skull!" I exclaimed. "By jingo, it's the noddle of theBlack 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. "Idon't like it! The scroll says he will come back to St. Gildas when hisremains are disturbed. I--I don't like it, Monsieur Darrel--"

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

The mayor gave me a look. 

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

"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 pushedthe 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, butI 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 thedevil'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 timewe 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 Ihastened 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 terrifiedgallop, Max Fortin followed close behind. 

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

There lay the skull. 

"I rolled a stone down instead of the skull, " I muttered to myself. Thenwith the butt of my gun I pushed the skull over the edge of the pit andwatched 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, andmade off across the moor. 

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

"What the mischief is the matter with that dog!" I thought. He had neverbefore played me such a trick. 

Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the skull. Ilooked 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 rolledagain down the sides of the pit to the bottom. Breathlessly I stared atit, then, confused and scarcely comprehending, I stepped back from thepit, still facing it, one, ten, twenty paces, my eyes almost startingfrom my head, as though I expected to see the thing roll up from thebottom of the pit under my very gaze. At last I turned my back to thepit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland toward my home. AsI reached the road that winds from St. Gildas to St. Julien I gave onehasty glance at the pit over my shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sodabout the excavation. There was something white and bare and round onthe turf at the edge of the pit. It might have been a stone; there wereplenty of them lying about. 

II

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

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

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

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

Môme slunk off into the house, and I followed, mounting directly to mywife'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 somewhatgrimy 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 chairout 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 acrossthe moor? If you do it again I'll push you along with a charge of dustshot. "

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

"To think, " I said aloud, "that those old woman's tales of Max Fortinand 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 thatI had mistaken a round stone for a skull each time, and had pushed acouple 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 acondition if I see such things when I'm awake! Lys will know what togive me. "

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

But after a while I ceased speculating, dismissed the mayor, thechemist, and the skull from my mind, and smoked pensively, watching thesun low dipping in the western ocean. As the twilight fell for a momentover 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; theforest was shrouded. 

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

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

The interminable monotone of the ocean intensified the silence. I satmotionless, holding my breath as one who listens to the first low rumorof an organ. All at once the pure whistle of a nightingale cut thesilence, 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 thegravel walks, watching the moonbeams sparkle on the sand bar as the tideebbed and ebbed. The broad beds of white pinks about us were atremblewith hovering white moths; the October roses hung all abloom, perfumingthe salt wind. 

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

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

"A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I told Catherinenot to touch them until you had seen them. "

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

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

"Unhappy little bunny--and what a beauty! O Dick, you are a splendidshot, are you not?"

I evaded the question and hauled out a partridge. 

"Poor little dead things'" said Lys in a whisper; "it seems apity--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 mybreast. 

"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 musthave climbed up by the bay tree. "

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

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

Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile. "He will not care to venturein 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 somefoolish lout from Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would dosuch a thing. "

I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys treated it as astupid 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 HerbertStuart down to meet her. 

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

"Don't you think he might spare a week to flirt with the prettiest girlin 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 Lysapproved. 

"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 huggedMôme--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 theOctober nights are often chilly in Finistere--Lys curled up in thechimney corner with her embroidery, and gave me a swift glance fromunder her dropping lashes. 

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

She pushed back her heavy burnished hair thoughtfully. Her wrist was aswhite 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 thinkit will fit?"

"Fit?" repeated Lys. Then she laughed

"And, " I persisted, "are you perfectly sure that you--er--we shall needit?"

"Perfectly, " said Lys. A delicate color touched her cheeks and neck. Sheheld up the little garment, all fluffy with misty lace and wrought withquaint 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 fingersamong 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 hasthem. 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 lowvoice, and Josephine trotted away, bobbing her white-coiffed head with a"Bien, Madame!"

After a few minutes she returned, bearing a tattered, musty volume, fromwhich 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 ofmalice in her eyes. 

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

"Dick!" cried Lys. 

"All right, " said I. "Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec who rode toSaladin's tent alone to seek for medicine for St. Louise? Or shall Iread about--what is it? Oh, here it is, all down in black andwhite--about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva'seyes rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain? It'sall written here. But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevec who waskilled 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 shouldagree upon some feudal system. My dear, I drink to the king!" and Iraised my wine glass and looked at Lys. 

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

After a silence I said: "I will tell the king stories. His majesty shallbe 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. "Doyou, Lys?"

"I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the werewolf, andJeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters, and--O dear me, I knowlots 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 fromthe gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbitsfrom the forest of Kerselec----"

"And I, " said Lys, "will bring the first primrose, the first branch ofaubepine, 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 theforehead, on a field----"

I sat up and stared at my wife. 

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

"So that is how you come by the crest, " I said quietly; but I thought ofthe 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 booksays it was a pious action, and the Sieur de Trevec got great merit byit. 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 awhite 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 theold chronicler, and of the other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some said hewas a lineal descendant of the traitor. Of course the first Black Priestwas bad enough for anything. But if he did have a child, it need nothave been the ancestor of the last Jacques Sorgue. They say he was sogood 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, andthoughtlessly told her the story of the morning. I had utterlyforgotten the masked man at her window, but before I finished Iremembered him fast enough, and realized what I had done as I saw herface whiten. 

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

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

III

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

"My clever Bannalec maid, " said I, "what is good for a stirrup-cup atthe 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 littleBordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing black eyes. 

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

"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 handand held up the glass. 

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

"Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the broad room. Ibelieve 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 Fortinopened it. Dust covered his spectacles and nose; his hat, with the tinyvelvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry. 

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

"The collections?" I asked, entering the room. "You must be very carefulin packing those butterfly cases; the slightest jar might break wingsand 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 feltaround each box. The Entomological Society of Paris pays the freight. "

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

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

All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple emperor, theApatura Iris, that fatal specimen that had given the Purple Emperor hisname 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 ofa box full of cases. 

"It is settled, then, " said he, "that madame, your wife, gives thePurple 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 isworth a great deal of money, " persisted Le Bihan. 

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

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

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

"It was not nonsense, " said Le Bihan doggedly, "and I should prefer notto 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 handsinto my pockets; "you swallow every nursery tale that is invented. "

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

"Oh!" I sneered, "does the Mayor of St. Gildas and St. Julien believe inthe 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 faithin 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 thatthe Purple Emperor was a scientific man. Now suppose I should tell youthat he always refused to include in his collection a Death'sMessenger?"

"A what?" I exclaimed. 

"You know what I mean--that moth that flies by night; some call it theDeath'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 asthe 'death's-head moth. ' Why the mischief should the people here call itdeath'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 hiscommentaries on Jacques Sorgue's _Chronicles_. The book is in yourlibrary. "

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

"Jacques Sorgue [Transcriber's note: the original reads "Sorque"] was theson of some unfrocked priest--I forget. It was during the crusades. "

"Good Heavens!" I burst out, "I've been hearing of nothing but crusadesand priests and death and sorcery ever since I kicked that skull intothe gravel pit, and I am tired of it, I tell you frankly. One wouldthink we lived in the dark ages. Do you know what year of our Lord itis, 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; "itmeans evil to the house and the people in it. "

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

"See here, Le Bihan, " I said; "by a stretch of imagination one can makeout 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 LeBihan. 

"Pigs, " added the mayor. 

"Yes, and asses, " I replied. "Listen, Le Bihan: do you mean to tell methat 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; lethim 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 byitself, " said Fortin with a shiver, "but--but then, how did it come upout 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 youmistook 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 Iregret to say that I took the trouble to roll two innocent cobblestonesinto the gravel pit, imagining each time that it was the skull I wasrolling. "

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

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

Fortin and Le Bihan scrambled hastily from their knees, dropping hammerand 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; "Froissartquotes it from Jacques Sorgue:

 "'When the Black Priest rises from the dead, St. Gildas folk shall shriek in bed; When the Black Priest rises from his grave, May the good God St. Gildas save!'"

"Aristide Le Bihan, " I said angrily, "and you, Max Fortin, I've gotenough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been in St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools like you. If you havenothing better to talk about than nursery legends I'll wait until youcome to your senses. Good-morning. " And I walked out, more disturbedthan I cared to acknowledge to myself. 

The day had become misty and overcast. Heavy, wet clouds hung in theeast. I heard the surf thundering against the cliffs, and the gray gullssquealed as they tossed and turned high in the sky. The tide wascreeping across the river sands, higher, higher, and I saw the seaweedfloating on the beach, and the lancons springing from the foam, silverythreadlike flashes in the gloom. Curlew were flying up the river in twosand threes; the timid sea swallows skimmed across the moors toward somequiet, lonely pool, safe from the coming tempest. In every hedge fieldbirds were gathering, huddling together, twittering restlessly. 

When I reached the cliffs I sat down, resting my chin on my clenchedhands. Already a vast curtain of rain, sweeping across the ocean milesaway, hid the island of Groix. To the east, behind the white semaphoreon the hills, black clouds crowded up over the horizon. After a littlethe thunder boomed, dull, distant, and slender skeins of lightningunraveled across the crest of the coming storm. Under the cliff at myfeet the surf rushed foaming over the shore, and the lancons jumped andskipped and quivered until they seemed to be but the reflections of themeshed lightning. 

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

As I rose to go, a cold raindrop fell upon the back of my hand, andanother, 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 tofling 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 gorsestems glimmered with a dull metallic green, and the heather, no longerviolet and purple, hung drenched and dun-colored among the dreary rocks. The wet turf creaked under my heavy boots, the black-thorn scraped andgrated against knee and elbow. Over all lay a strange light, pallid, ghastly, where the sea spray whirled across the landscape and drove intomy face until it grew numb with the cold. In broad bands, rank afterrank, billow on billow, the rain burst out across the endless moors, andyet there was no wind to drive it at such a pace. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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'sknees. 

"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 dothat. 

"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 embroideryfalling 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 thatfluttered--something that flapped, and squeaked, and beat upon the rugwith soft, moist wings. 

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

The dark day passed slowly as we sat beside the fire, hand in hand, herhead against my breast, speaking of sorrow and mystery and death. ForLys believed that there were things on earth that none might understand, things that must be nameless forever and ever, until God rolls up thescroll 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, ofthe shadow of sin, of omens, and of love. The moth still lay on thefloor quivering its somber wings in the warmth of the fire, the skulland ribs clearly etched upon its neck and body. 

"If it is a messenger of death to this house, " I said, "why should wefear, Lys?"

"Death should be welcome to those who love God, " murmured Lys, and shedrew the cross from her breast and kissed it. 

"The moth might die if I threw it out into the storm, " I said after asilence. 

"Let it remain, " sighed Lys. 

Late that night my wife lay sleeping, and I sat beside her bed and readin the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue. I shaded the candle, but Lys grewrestless, and finally I took the book down into the morning room, wherethe 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 leftit. At first I thought it was dead, but when I looked closer I saw alambent fire in its amber eyes. The straight white shadow it cast acrossthe floor wavered as the candle flickered. 

The pages of the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue were damp and sticky; theilluminated gold and blue initials left flakes of azure and gilt wheremy hand brushed them. 

"It is not paper at all; it is thin parchment, " I said to myself; and Iheld the discolored page close to the candle flame and read, translatinglaboriously:

"I, Jacques Sorgue, saw all these things. And I saw the Black Masscelebrated in the chapel of St. Gildas-on-the-Cliff. And it was said bythe Abbé Sorgue, my kinsman: for which deadly sin the apostate priestwas seized by the most noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him condemnedto be burned with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body and flyto its master the devil. But when the Black Priest lay in the crypt ofPlougastel, his master Satan came at night and set him free, and carriedhim across land and sea to Mahmoud, which is Soldan or Saladin. And I, Jacques Sorgue, traveling afterward by sea, beheld with my own eyes mykinsman, the Black Priest of St. Gildas, borne along in the air upon avast black wing, which was the wing of his master Satan. And this wasseen also by two men of the crew. "

I turned the page. The wings of the moth on the floor began to quiver. Iread on and on, my eyes blurring under the shifting candle flame. I readof battles and of saints, and I learned how the Great Soldan made hispact with Satan, and then I came to the Sieur de Trevec, and read how heseized the Black Priest in the midst of Saladin's tents and carried himaway and cut off his head first branding him on the forehead. "Andbefore he suffered, " said the Chronicle, "he cursed the Sieur de Trevecand 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 evilI 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 ofstrong wings, and my candle flashed up as in a sudden breeze. A hummingfilled 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 itunder my hand, but the thing squeaked and I shrank back. Then suddenlyit darted across the candle flame; the light flared and went out, and atthe same moment a shadow moved in the darkness outside. I raised my eyesto 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 beforeit like mist, and through the smoke of my revolver I saw something creepswiftly into the room. Then I tried to cry out, but the thing was at mythroat, and I fell backward among the ashes of the hearth. 

 * * * * *

When my eyes unclosed I was lying on the hearth, my head among the coldashes. Slowly I got on my knees, rose painfully, and groped my way to achair. On the floor lay my revolver, shining in the pale light of earlymorning. My mind clearing by degrees, I looked, shuddering, at thewindow. The glass was unbroken. I stooped stiffly, picked up my revolverand opened the cylinder. Every cartridge had been fired. Mechanically Iclosed the cylinder and placed the revolver in my pocket. The book, theChronicles of Jacques Sorgue, lay on the table beside me, and as Istarted to close it I glanced at the page. It was all splashed withrain, and the lettering had run, so that the page was merely a confusedblur of gold and red and black. As I stumbled toward the door I cast afearful glance over my shoulder. The death's-head moth crawled shiveringon the rug. 

IV

The sun was about three hours high. I must have slept, for I was arousedby the sudden gallop of horses under our window. People were shoutingand calling in the road. I sprang up and opened the sash. Le Bihan wasthere, an image of helplessness, and Max Fortin stood beside himpolishing his glasses. Some gendarmes had just arrived from Quimperle, and I could hear them around the corner of the house, stamping, andrattling their sabres and carbines, as they led their horses into mystable. 

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 atroubled 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 isall this fuss about, anyway?"

"We were telegraphed for an hour ago, " said Durand briskly, "and for asufficient 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 atdaybreak. See, it's splashed all over the grass, too. A trail of itleads into your garden, across the flower beds to your very window, theone that opens from the morning room. There is another trail leadingfrom 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 tomount 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 Ishould not have believed it. "

The little chemist of Quimperle came up at that moment, rubbing hisglasses with a colored handkerchief. 

"Yes, it is human blood, " he said, "but one thing puzzles me: thecorpuscles are yellow. I never saw any human blood before with yellowcorpuscles. 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 hecalled 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, howit lies over and weighs down the wet grass blades. Pah!"

It was a heavy, evil-looking clot, and I stepped back from it, my throatclosing in disgust. 

"My theory, " said the brigadier, "is this: Some of those Biribifishermen, probably the Icelanders, got an extra glass of cognac intotheir hides and quarreled on the road. Some of them were slashed, andstaggered 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 woundedman, let us say, staggered first to your house and then back here, andhe 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 theKerselec forest?"

"Yes; you will hear us calling. Are you coming, Max Fortin? And you, LeBihan? Good; take the dog-cart. "

The big gendarme tramped around the corner to the stable and presentlyreturned mounted on a strong gray horse, his sabre shone on his saddle;his pale yellow and white facings were spotless. The little crowd ofwhite-coiffed women with their children fell back as Durand touchedspurs and clattered away followed by his two troopers. Soon after LeBihan 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 wasbeating 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 moorlandtoward the sea. I called the servants together and questioned them. Josephine, Catherine, Jean Marie Tregunc, not one of them had heard theslightest disturbance during the night. Then I told Jean Marie to saddlemy 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, lookingme earnestly in the face. 

"But there is nothing to tell--only a drunken brawl, and some onewounded. "

"And you are going to ride--where, Dick?"

"Well, over to the edge of Kerselec forest. Durand and the mayor, andMax 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, andstopped. 

"I dreamed that you were in great danger, and I could not move hand orfoot to save you; but you had your revolver, and I called out to you tofire----"

"I did fire!" I cried excitedly. 

"You--you fired?"

I took her in my arms. "My darling, " I said "something strange hashappened--something that I cannot understand as yet. But, of course, there is an explanation. Last night I thought I fired at the BlackPriest. "

"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 topieces. "Of course it was human! The whole affair is plain enough. Not adrunken 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 fullof bullets, and he has crawled away to die in Kerselec forest. It's aterrible affair; I'm sorry I fired so hastily; but that idiot Le Bihanand Max Fortin have been working on my nerves till I am as hysterical asa schoolgirl, " I ended angrily. 

"You fired--but the window glass was not shattered, " said Lys in a lowvoice. 

"Well, the window was open, then. And as for the--the rest--I've gotnervous 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 thegate. 

"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 youmay come upon. Lys, you don't really think there is anythingsupernatural in this affair?"

"Dick, " she answered gently, "I am a Bretonne. " With both arms around myneck, my wife said, "Death is the gift of God. I do not fear it when weare together. But alone--oh, my husband, I should fear a God who couldtake you away from me!"

We kissed each other soberly, simply, like two children. Then Lyshurried away to change her gown, and I paced up and down the gardenwaiting 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 Lysin the saddle beside me, no matter what had happened or might happenwas impossible. Moreover, Môme came sneaking after us. I asked Treguncto catch him, for I was afraid he might be brained by our horses' hoofsif he followed, but the wily puppy dodged and bolted after Lys, who wastrotting along the highroad. "Never mind, " I thought; "if he's hit he'lllive, 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 weshook out our bridles and galloped toward the forest of Kerselec. 

We said very little as we rode. I always loved to watch Lys in thesaddle. Her exquisite figure and lovely face were the incarnation ofyouth and grace; her curling hair glistened like threaded gold. 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the spoiled puppy Môme come boundingcheerfully alongside, oblivious of our horses' heels. Our road swungclose to the cliffs. A filthy cormorant rose from the black rocks andflapped heavily across our path. Lys's horse reared, but she pulled himdown, and pointed at the bird with her riding crop. 

"I see, " said I; "it seems to be going our way. Curious to see acormorant in a forest, isn't it?"

"It is a bad sign, " said Lys. "You know the Morbihan proverb: 'When thecormorant turns from the sea, Death laughs in the forest, and wisewoodsmen build boats. '"

"I wish, " said I sincerely, "that there were fewer proverbs inBrittany. "

We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could see thesparkle of gendarmes' trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan'ssilver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took it withoutdifficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durandstood gesticulating. 

They bowed ceremoniously to Lys as we rode up. 

"The trail is horrible--it is a river, " said the mayor in his squeakyvoice. "Monsieur Darrel, I think perhaps madame would scarcely care tocome any nearer. "

Lys drew bridle and looked at me. 

"It is horrible!" said Durand, walking up beside me; "it looks as thougha bleeding regiment had passed this way. The trail winds and winds abouthere 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. Thesun 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, Mômetrotting cheerfully in the rear. 

We entered the sunny woods about a quarter of a kilometer from where weleft 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 whichoverhung a shallow brook gurgling among the beech trees. Lys sat downand drew off her gauntlets. Môme pushed his head into her lap, receivedan undeserved caress, and came doubtfully toward me. I was weak enoughto condone his offense, but I made him lie down at my feet, greatly tohis disgust. 

I rested my head on Lys's knees, looking up at the sky through thecrossed 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 fouryears ago when the Red Admiral's son tried to kill you? But I know youhave 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 theday 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 dippedthem in holy water. You must not laugh, Dick, " said Lys gently, layingher cool hands on my lips. 

"Laugh, my darling!"

Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst, and the sunlight burned likeorange flame through the yellow leaves of beech and oak. Gnats andmidges danced and wavered overhead; a spider dropped from a twig halfwayto 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 thebeeches and the humming of forest flies overhead. Presently even thesewere stilled. 

The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears ringing with ascream, and I saw Lys cowering beside me, covering her white face withboth hands. 

As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my knees. I saw mydog rush growling into a thicket, then I heard him whimper, and he camebacking out, whining, ears flat, tail down. I stooped and disengagedLys'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 thethicket. 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 headresting in his hands, his rusty black robe gathered around him. For amoment my hair stirred under my cap; sweat started on forehead and cheekbone; then I recovered my reason, and understood that the man was humanand 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 littlehollow, 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 beforehim, almost at his very feet, lay a deep, shining swamp. 

As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig. At the sound the figurestarted 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 andthe others broke through the thicket at the same moment and hurried tomy side. 

"Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest's robe?" said thegendarme loudly. 

There was no answer. 

"See--see the stiff blood all over his robe, " muttered Le Bihan toFortin. 

"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 strippedoff the mask and threw back the man's head. We were looking into the eyesockets of a skull. Durand stood rigid; the mayor shrieked. The skeletonburst out from its rotting robes and collapsed on the ground before us. From between the staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurted a torrentof black blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then the thingshuddered, and fell over into the black ooze of the bog. Little bubblesof iridescent air appeared from the mud; the bones were slowly engulfed, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight, up from the depths andalong 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 shenever knew the truth about the affair, and she never will know, sinceshe has promised not to read this book. I wish I might tell you aboutthe king and his coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted. I wishthat I were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boarhunt in Quimperle, and how the hounds raced the quarry right through thetown, overturning three gendarmes, the notary, and an old woman. But Iam becoming garrulous and Lys is calling me to come and hear the kingsay that he is sleepy. And his highness shall not be kept waiting. 

THE KING'S CRADLE SONG

 Seal with a seal of gold The scroll of a life unrolled; Swathe him deep in his purple stole; Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal, Drops of gold in each scented fold. 

 Crimson wings of the Little Death, Stir his hair with your silken breath; Flaming wings of sins to be, Splendid pinions of prophecy, Smother his eyes with hues and dyes, While the white moon spins and the winds arise, And the stars drip through the skies. 

 Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Seal his sight and stifle his breath, Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed; From north to north, from west to west, Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies, And the ghosts of God arise. 

Lazarus

BY LEONID ANDREYEV

TRANSLATED BY ABRAHAM YARMOLINSKY

 From _Lazarus and the Gentleman from San Francisco_. Published by The Stratford Company. By permission of the publishers. 

I

When Lazarus left the grave, where, for three days and three nights hehad been under the enigmatical sway of death, and returned alive to hisdwelling, for a long time no one noticed in him those sinister oddities, which, as time went on, made his very name a terror. Gladdenedunspeakably by the sight of him who had been returned to life, thosenear to him caressed him unceasingly, and satiated their burning desireto serve him, in solicitude for his food and drink and garments. Andthey dressed him gorgeously, in bright colors of hope and laughter, andwhen, like to a bridegroom in his bridal vestures, he sat again amongthem at the table, and again ate and drank, they wept, overwhelmed withtenderness. And they summoned the neighbors to look at him who had risenmiraculously from the dead. These came and shared the serene joy of thehosts. Strangers from far-off towns and hamlets came and adored themiracle in tempestuous words. Like to a beehive was the house of Maryand Martha. 

Whatever was found new in Lazarus' face and gestures was thought to besome trace of a grave illness and of the shocks recently experienced. Evidently, the destruction wrought by death on the corpse was onlyarrested by the miraculous power, but its effects were still apparent;and what death had succeeded in doing with Lazarus' face and body, waslike an artist's unfinished sketch seen under thin glass. On Lazarus'temples, under his eyes, and in the hollows of his cheeks, lay a deepand cadaverous blueness; cadaverously blue also were his long fingers, and around his fingernails, grown long in the grave, the blue had becomepurple and dark. On his lips the skin, swollen in the grave, had burstin places, and thin, reddish cracks were formed, shining as thoughcovered with transparent mica. And he had grown stout. His body, puffedup in the grave, retained its monstrous size and showed those frightfulswellings, in which one sensed the presence of the rank liquid ofdecomposition. 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 cracksclosed up, although they never disappeared altogether. That is howLazarus looked when he appeared before people, in his second life, buthis face looked natural to those who had seen him in the coffin. 

In addition to the changes in his appearance, Lazarus' temper seemed tohave undergone a transformation, but this circumstance startled no oneand attracted no attention. Before his death Lazarus had always beencheerful and carefree, fond of laughter and a merry joke. It was becauseof this brightness and cheerfulness, with not a touch of malice anddarkness, that the Master had grown so fond of him. But now Lazarus hadgrown grave and taciturn, he never jested, himself, nor responded withlaughter to other people's jokes; and the words which he uttered, veryinfrequently, were the plainest, most ordinary, and necessary words, asdeprived of depth and significance, as those sounds with which animalsexpress pain and pleasure, thirst and hunger. They were the words thatone can say all one's life, and yet they give no indication of whatpains and gladdens the depths of the soul. 

Thus, with the face of a corpse which for three days had been under theheavy sway of death, dark and taciturn, already appallingly transformed, but still unrecognized by anyone in his new self, he was sitting at thefeasting table, among friends and relatives, and his gorgeous nuptialgarments glittered with yellow gold and bloody scarlet. Broad waves ofjubilation, now soft, now tempestuously sonorous surged around him; warmglances of love were reaching out for his face, still cold with thecoldness of the grave; and a friend's warm palm caressed his blue, heavyhand. And music played the tympanum and the pipe, the cithara and theharp. It was as though bees hummed, grasshoppers chirped and birdswarbled over the happy house of Mary and Martha. 

II

One of the guests incautiously lifted the veil. By a thoughtless word hebroke the serene charm and uncovered the truth in all its nakedugliness. Ere the thought formed itself in his mind, his lips utteredwith a smile:

"Why dost thou not tell us what happened yonder?"

And all grew silent, startled by the question. It was as if it occurredto them only now that for three days Lazarus had been dead, and theylooked at him, anxiously awaiting his answer. But Lazarus kept silence. 

"Thou dost not wish to tell us, "--wondered the man, "is it so terribleyonder?"

And again his thought came after his words. Had it been otherwise, hewould not have asked this question, which at that very moment oppressedhis heart with its insufferable horror. Uneasiness seized all present, and with a feeling of heavy weariness they awaited Lazarus' words, buthe was silent, sternly and coldly, and his eyes were lowered. And as iffor the first time, they noticed the frightful blueness of his face andhis repulsive obesity. On the table, as though forgotten by Lazarus, rested his bluish-purple wrist, and to this all eyes turned, as if itwere from it that the awaited answer was to come. The musicians werestill playing, but now the silence reached them too, and even as waterextinguishes scattered embers, so were their merry tunes extinguished inthe silence. The pipe grew silent; the voices of the sonorous tympanumand the murmuring harp died away; and as if the strings had burst, thecithara answered with a tremulous, broken note. Silence. 

"Thou dost not wish to say?" repeated the guest, unable to check hischattering tongue. But the stillness remained unbroken, and thebluish-purple hand rested motionless. And then he stirred slightly andeveryone felt relieved. He lifted up his eyes, and lo! straightwayembracing everything in one heavy glance, fraught with weariness andhorror, he looked at them, --Lazarus who had arisen from the dead. 

It was the third day since Lazarus had left the grave. Ever since thenmany had experienced the pernicious power of his eye, but neither thosewho were crushed by it forever, nor those who found the strength toresist in it the primordial sources of life, --which is as mysterious asdeath, --never could they explain the horror which lay motionless in thedepth of his black pupils. Lazarus looked calmly and simply with nodesire 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 onlylater did they learn with astonishment and fear who that calm stout manwas, that walked slowly by, almost touching them with his gorgeous anddazzling garments. The sun did not cease shining, when he was looking, nor did the fountain hush its murmur, and the sky overhead remainedcloudless and blue. But the man under the spell of his enigmatical lookheard no more the fountain and saw not the sky overhead. Sometimes, hewept bitterly, sometimes he tore his hair and in frenzy called for help;but more often it came to pass that apathetically and quietly he beganto die, and so he languished many years, before everybody's very eyes, wasted away, colorless, flabby, dull, like a tree, silently drying up ina 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?" repeatedthe man. But now his voice was impassive and dull, and deadly grayweariness showed in Lazarus' eyes. And deadly gray weariness coveredlike dust all the faces, and with dull amazement the guests stared ateach other and did not understand wherefore they had gathered here andsat at the rich table. The talk ceased. They thought it was time to gohome, but could not overcome the flaccid lazy weariness which gluedtheir muscles, and they kept on sitting there, yet apart and torn awayfrom each other, like pale fires scattered over a dark field. 

But the musicians were paid to play and again they took theirinstruments and again tunes full of studied mirth and studied sorrowbegan to flow and to rise. They unfolded the customary melody but theguests hearkened in dull amazement. Already they knew not wherefore isit 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 oneafter another, for night was already come. And when placid darknessencircled them and they began to breathe with more ease, suddenlyLazarus' image loomed up before each one in formidable radiance: theblue face of a corpse, grave-clothes gorgeous and resplendent, a coldlook, in the depths of which lay motionless an unknown horror. As thoughpetrified, they were standing far apart, and darkness enveloped them, but in the darkness blazed brighter and brighter the supernatural visionof 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, buthe had been dead; children had played, streams murmured over pebbles, the wayfarer had lifted up hot dust in the highroad, --but he had beendead. And now he is again among them, --touches them, --looks atthem, --looks at them! and through the black discs of his pupils, asthrough darkened glass, stares the unknowable Yonder. 

III

No one was taking care of Lazarus, for no friends no relatives were leftto him, and the great desert which encircled the holy city, came nearthe very threshold of his dwelling. And the desert entered his house, and stretched on his couch, like a wife and extinguished the fires. Noone was taking care of Lazarus. One after the other, his sisters--Maryand Martha--forsook him. For a long while Martha was loath to abandonhim, for she knew not who would feed him and pity him, she wept andprayed. But one night, when the wind was roaming in the desert and witha hissing sound the cypresses were bending over the roof, she dressednoiselessly and secretly left the house. Lazarus probably heard the doorslam; it banged against the side-post under the gusts of the desertwind, but he did not rise to go out and to look at her that wasabandoning him. All the night long the cypresses hissed over his headand plaintively thumped the door, letting in the cold, greedy desert. 

Like a leper he was shunned by everyone, and it was proposed to tie abell to his neck, as is done with lepers, to warn people against suddenmeetings. But someone remarked, growing frightfully pale, that it wouldbe too horrible if by night the moaning of Lazarus' bell were suddenlyheard under the windows, --and so the project was abandoned. 

And since he did not take care of himself, he would probably havestarved to death, had not the neighbors brought him food in fear ofsomething that they sensed but vaguely. The food was brought to him bychildren; they were not afraid of Lazarus, nor did they mock him withnaive cruelty, as children are wont to do with the wretched andmiserable. They were indifferent to him, and Lazarus answered them withthe 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 theDesert, his house was crumbling down, and long since had his famishing, lowing goats wandered away to the neighboring pastures. And his bridalgarments became threadbare. Ever since that happy day, when themusicians played, he had worn them unaware of the difference of the newand the worn. The bright colors grew dull and faded; vicious dogs andthe sharp thorn of the Desert turned the tender fabric into rags. 

By day, when the merciless sun slew all things alive, and even scorpionssought 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 beared 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 thesun?"

And he had answered:

"Yes, it does. "

So strong, it seemed, was the cold of his three days' grave, so deep thedarkness, that there was no heat on earth to warm Lazarus, nor asplendor that could brighten the darkness of his eyes. That is what cameto the mind of those who spoke to Lazarus, and with a sigh they lefthim. 

And when the scarlet, flattened globe would lower, Lazarus would set outfor the desert and walk straight toward the sun, as though striving toreach it. He always walked straight toward the sun and those who triedto 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 managainst the red background of an enormous flattened disc. Night pursuedthem with her horrors, and so they did not learn of Lazarus' doings inthe desert, but the vision of the black on red was forever branded ontheir brain. Just as a beast with a splinter in its eye furiously rubsits muzzle with its paws, so they too foolishly rubbed their eyes, butwhat Lazarus had given was indelible, and Death alone could efface it. 

But there were people who lived far away, who never saw Lazarus and knewof him only by report. With daring curiosity, which is stronger thanfear and feeds upon it, with hidden mockery, they would come to Lazaruswho was sitting in the sun and enter into conversation with him. Bythis time Lazarus' appearance had changed for the better and was not soterrible. The first minute they snapped their fingers and thought of howstupid the inhabitants of the holy city were; but when the short talkwas over and they started homeward, their looks were such that theinhabitants of the holy city recognized them at once and said:

"Look, there is one more fool on whom Lazarus has set his eye, "--andthey shook their heads regretfully, and lifted up their arms. 

There came brave, intrepid warriors, with tinkling weapons; happy youthscame with laughter and song; busy tradesmen, jingling their money, ranin for a moment, and haughty priests leaned their crosiers againstLazarus' door, and they were all strangely changed, as they came back. The same terrible shadow swooped down upon their souls and gave a newappearance 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, andtransparent, --similar to lightsome shadows in the darkness of night;

"for, that great darkness, which holds the whole cosmos, was dispersedneither by the sun or by the moon and the stars, but like an immenseblack shroud enveloped the earth and, like a mother, embraced it;

"it penetrated all the bodies, iron and stone, --and the particles ofthe bodies, having lost their ties, grew lonely; and it penetrated intothe depth of the particles, and the particles of particles becamelonely;

"for that great void, which encircles the cosmos, was not filled bythings visible: neither by the sun, nor by the moon and the stars, butreigned unrestrained, penetrating everywhere, severing body from body, particle from particle;

"in the void hollow trees spread hollow roots threatening a fantasticfall; temples, palaces, and horses loomed up and they were hollow; andin the void men moved about restlessly but they were light and hollowlike shadows;

"for, Time was no more, and the beginning of all things came near theirend: the building was still being built, and builders were stillhammering away, and its ruins were already seen and the void in itsplace; the man was still being born, but already funeral candles wereburning at his head, and now they were extinguished, and there was thevoid in place of the man and of the funeral candles. 

"and wrapped by void and darkness the man in despair trembled in theface of the Horror of the Infinite. "

Thus spake the men who had still a desire to speak. But, surely, muchmore could have told those who wished not to speak, and died insilence. 

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 andasserted that there was something even more beautiful, that he could notembody either in marble or in bronze. "I have not yet gathered theglimmers of the moon, nor have I my fill of sunshine, " he was wont tosay, "and there is no soul in my marble, no life in my beautifulbronze. " And when on moonlight nights he slowly walked along the road, crossing the black shadows of cypresses, his white tunic glittering inthe moonshine, those who met him would laugh in a friendly way and say:

"Art thou going to gather moonshine, Aurelius? Why then didst thou notfetch baskets?"

And he would answer, laughing and pointing to his eyes:

"Here are the baskets wherein I gather the sheen of the moon and theglimmer of the sun. "

And so it was: the moon glimmered in his eyes and the sun sparkledtherein. But he could not translate them into marble and therein lay theserene tragedy of his life. 

He was descended from an ancient patrician race, had a good wife andchildren, and suffered from no want. 

When the obscure rumor about Lazarus reached him, he consulted his wifeand friends and undertook the far journey to Judea to see him who hadmiraculously risen from the dead. He was somewhat weary in those daysand he hoped that the road would sharpen his blunted senses. What wassaid 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. 

 "In this life, --life and beauty; beyond, --Death, the enigmatical"--

thought he, and there is no better thing for a man to do than to delightin life and in the beauty of all things living. He had even avainglorious desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of his own view andrestore his soul to life, as his body had been restored. This seemed somuch easier because the rumors, shy and strange, did not render thewhole truth about Lazarus and but vaguely warned against somethingfrightful. 

Lazarus had just risen from the stone in order to follow the sun whichwas 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 fineclothes, and precious stones sparkling in the sun. The red light lent tothe Roman's face and head the appearance of gleaming bronze--that alsoLazarus noticed. He resumed obediently his place and lowered his wearyeyes. 

"Yes, thou art ugly, my poor Lazarus, "--quietly said the Roman, playingwith his golden chain; "thou art even horrible, my poor friend; andDeath was not lazy that day when thou didst fall so heedlessly into hishands. But thou art stout, and, as the great Cæsar used to say, fatpeople are not ill-tempered; to tell the truth, I don't understand whymen fear thee. Permit me to spend the night in thy house; the hour islate, 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 Romananswered. "We shall build a fire. "

"I have no fire. "

"Then we shall have our talk in the darkness, like two friends. I thinkthou 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. Nowine! Why, then we shall do without it: there are words that make thehead go round better than the Falernian. "

By a sign he dismissed the slave, and they remained all alone. And againthe sculptor started speaking, but it was as if, together with thesetting sun, life had left his words; and they grew pale and hollow, asif they staggered on unsteady feet, as if they slipped and fell down, drunk with the heavy lees of weariness and despair. And black chasmsgrew up between the words--like far-off hints of the great void and thegreat darkness. 

"Now I am thy guest, and thou wilt not be unkind to me, Lazarus!"--saidhe. "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 becold . . . And that is whence comes thy ill habit of going without fireand wine. As to me, I like fire; it grows dark here so rapidly. . . . Thelines of thy eyebrows and forehead are quite, quite interesting: theyare like ruins of strange palaces, buried in ashes after an earthquake. But why dost thou wear such ugly and queer garments? I have seenbridegrooms in thy country, and they wear such clothes--are they notfunny--and terrible. . . . But art thou a bridegroom?"

The sun had already disappeared, a monstrous black shadow came runningfrom the east--it was as if gigantic bare feet began rumbling on thesand, and the wind sent a cold wave along the backbone. 

"In the darkness thou seemest still larger, Lazarus, as if thou hastgrown stouter in these moments. Dost thou feed on darkness, Lazarus? Iwould fain have a little fire--at least a little fire, a little fire. Ifeel somewhat chilly, your nights are so barbarously cold. . . . Were itnot so dark, I should say that thou wert looking at me, Lazarus. Yes, itseems to me, thou art looking. . . . Why, thou art looking at me, I feelit, --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 agreat 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 coldmarble, I melt sonorous bronze in fire, in bright hot fire. . . . Why didstthou 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, whenthe sun was already high in the sky. And he beheld his master side byside with Lazarus: in profound silence were they sitting right under thedazzling and scorching sunrays and looking upward. The slave began toweep and cried out:

"My master, what has befallen thee, master?"

The very same day the sculptor left for Rome. On the way Aurelius waspensive and taciturn, staring attentively at everything--the men, theship, the sea, as though trying to retain something. On the high sea astorm burst upon them, and all through it Aurelius stayed on the deckand eagerly scanned the seas looming near and sinking with a thud. 

At home his friends were frightened at the change which had taken placein Aurelius, but he calmed them, saying meaningly:

"I have found it. "

And without changing the dusty clothes he wore on his journey, he fellto work, and the marble obediently resounded under his sonorous hammer. Long and eagerly worked he, admitting no one, until one morning heannounced that the work was ready and ordered his friends to besummoned, severe critics and connoisseurs of art. And to meet them heput on bright and gorgeous garments, that glittered with yellowgold--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 shapesfamiliar 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 restedaskew a blind, ugly, shapeless, outspread mass of something utterly andinconceivably distorted, a mad leap of wild and bizarre fragments, allfeebly and vainly striving to part from one another. And, as if bychance, beneath one of the wildly-rent salients a butterfly was chiseledwith divine skill, all airy loveliness, delicacy, and beauty, withtransparent wings, which seemed to tremble with an impotent desire totake flight. 

"Wherefore this wonderful butterfly, Aurelius?" said somebodyfalteringly. 

"I know not"--was the sculptor's answer. 

But it was necessary to tell the truth, and one of his friends who lovedhim best said firmly:

"This is ugly, my poor friend. It must be destroyed. Give me thehammer. "

And with two strokes he broke the monstrous man into pieces, leavingonly the infinitely delicate butterfly untouched. 

From that time on Aurelius created nothing. With profound indifferencehe looked at marble and bronze, and on his former divine works, whereeverlasting beauty rested. With the purpose of arousing his formerfervent passion for work and, awakening his deadened soul, his friendstook him to see other artists' beautiful works, --but he remainedindifferent as before, and the smile did not warm up his tightened lips. And only after listening to lengthy talks about beauty, he would retortwearily 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, heexposed his bare head to the glare and heat. Red and white butterfliesfluttered around; from the crooked lips of a drunken satyr, waterstreamed down with a splash into a marble cistern, but he satmotionless and silent, --like a pallid reflection of him who, in thefar-off distance, at the very gates of the stony desert, sat under thefiery sun. 

V

And now it came to pass that the great, deified Augustus himselfsummoned Lazarus. The imperial messengers dressed him gorgeously, insolemn nuptial clothes, as if Time had legalized them, and he was toremain until his very death the bridegroom of an unknown bride. It wasas 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, asif in bridal procession indeed, and those foremost trumpeted loudly, bidding people to clear the way for the emperor's messengers. ButLazarus' way was deserted: his native land cursed the hateful name ofhim who had miraculously risen from the dead, and people scattered atthe very news of his appalling approach. The solitary voice of the brasstrumpets sounded in the motionless air, and the wilderness aloneresponded with its languid echo. 

Then Lazarus went by sea. And his was the most magnificently arrayed andthe most mournful ship that ever mirrored itself in the azure waves ofthe Mediterranean Sea. Many were the travelers aboard, but like a tombwas the ship, all silence and stillness, and the despairing water sobbedat the steep, proudly curved prow. All alone sat Lazarus exposing hishead to the blaze of the sun, silently listening to the murmur andsplash of the wavelets, and afar seamen and messengers were sitting, avague group of weary shadows. Had the thunder burst and the windattacked the red sails, the ships would probably have perished, for noneof those aboard had either the will or the strength to struggle forlife. With a supreme effort some mariners would reach the board andeagerly scan the blue, transparent deep, hoping to see a naiad's pinkshoulder flash in the hollow of an azure wave, or a drunken gay centaurdash along and in frenzy splash the wave with his hoof. But the sea waslike a wilderness, and the deep was dumb and deserted. 

With utter indifference did Lazarus set his feet on the street of theeternal city. As though all her wealth, all the magnificence of herpalaces built by giants, all the resplendence, beauty, and music of herrefined life were but the echo of the wind in the wilderness, thereflection of the desert quicksand. Chariots were dashing, and along thestreets were moving crowds of strong, fair, proud builders of theeternal city and haughty participants in her life; a song sounded;fountains and women laughed a pearly laughter; drunken philosophersharangued, and the sober listened to them with a smile; hoofs struck thestone pavements. And surrounded by cheerful noise, a stout, heavy manwas moving, a cold spot of silence and despair, and on his way he soweddisgust, anger, and vague, gnawing weariness. Who dares to be sad inRome, wondered indignantly the citizens, and frowned. In two days theentire city already knew all about him who had miraculously risen fromthe 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 whohad risen from the dead go about visiting others. 

And Lazarus came to a cheerful Epicurean, and the host met him withlaughter on his lips:

"Drink, Lazarus, drink!"--shouted he. "Would not Augustus laugh to seethee drunk!"

And half-naked drunken women laughed, and rose petals fell on Lazarus'blue hands. But then the Epicurean looked into Lazarus' eyes, and hisgaiety ended forever. Drunkard remained he for the rest of his life;never did he drink, yet forever was he drunk. But instead of the gayreverie which wine brings with it, frightful dreams began to haunt him, the sole food of his stricken spirit. Day and night he lived in thepoisonous vapors of his nightmares, and death itself was not morefrightful than her raving, monstrous forerunners. 

And Lazarus came to a youth and his beloved, who loved each other andwere most beautiful in their passions. Proudly and strongly embracinghis love, the youth said with serene regret:

"Look at us, Lazarus, and share our joy. Is there anything strongerthan love?"

And Lazarus looked. And for the rest of their life they kept on lovingeach other, but their passion grew gloomy and joyless, like thosefuneral cypresses whose roots feed on the decay of the graves and whoseblack 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, theymingled tears with kisses, voluptuous pleasures with pain, and they feltthemselves doubly slaves, obedient slaves to life, and patient servantsof the silent Nothingness. Ever united, ever severed, they blazed likesparks 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 thoucanst frighten me with?"

But before long the sage felt that the knowledge of horror was far frombeing 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 betweenknowledge and ignorance, truth and falsehood, top and bottom, and theshapeless thought hung suspended in the void. Then the sage clutched hisgray head and cried out frantically:

"I cannot think! I cannot think!"

Thus under the indifferent glance for him, who miraculously had risenfrom the dead, perished everything that asserts life, its significanceand joys. And it was suggested that it was dangerous to let him see theemperor, that it was better to kill him and, having buried him secretly, to tell the emperor that he had disappeared no one knew whither. Alreadyswords were being whetted and youths devoted to the public welfareprepared for the murder, when Augustus ordered Lazarus to be broughtbefore him next morning, thus destroying the cruel plans. 

If there was no way of getting rid of Lazarus, at least it was possibleto soften the terrible impression his face produced. With this in view, skillful painters, barbers, and artists were summoned, and all nightlong they were busy over Lazarus' head. They cropped his beard, curledit, and gave it a tidy, agreeable appearance. By means of paints theyconcealed the corpse-like blueness of his hands and face. Repulsive werethe wrinkles of suffering that furrowed his old face, and they wereputtied, painted, and smoothed; then, over the smooth background, wrinkles of good-tempered laughter and pleasant, carefree mirth wereskillfully painted with fine brushes. 

Lazarus submitted indifferently to everything that was done to him. Soonhe was turned into a becomingly stout, venerable old man, into a quietand kind grandfather of numerous offspring. It seemed that the smile, with which only a while ago he was spinning funny yarns, was stilllingering on his lips, and that in the corner of his eye serenetenderness was hiding, the companion of old age. But people did not darechange his nuptial garments, and they could not change his eyes, twodark and frightful glasses through which looked at men, the unknowableYonder. 

VI

Lazarus was not moved by the magnificence of the imperial palace. It wasas though he saw no difference between the crumbling house, closelypressed by the desert, and the stone palace, solid and fair, andindifferently he passed into it. And the hard marble of the floors underhis feet grew similar to the quicksand of the desert, and the multitudeof 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 underthe appalling influence of his eyes; but when the sound of his heavyfootsteps had sufficiently died down, the courtiers raised their headsand with fearful curiosity examined the figure of a stout, tall, slightly bent old man, who was slowly penetrating into the very heart ofthe imperial palace. Were Death itself passing, it would be faced withno greater fear: for until then the dead alone knew Death, and thosealive knew Life only--and there was no bridge between them. But thisextraordinary man, although alive, knew Death, and enigmatical, appalling, was his cursed knowledge. "Woe, " people thought, "he willtake the life of our great, deified Augustus, " and they sent cursesafter Lazarus, who meanwhile kept on advancing into the interior of thepalace. 

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 miraculouslyrisen from the dead he wanted not to invoke human help. And so he metLazarus face to face:

"Lift not thine eyes upon me, Lazarus, " he ordered. "I heard thy face islike 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 intostone, "--added he in a tone of kingly jesting, not devoid of fear. 

Coming close to him, he carefully examined Lazarus' face and his strangefestal garments. And although he had a keen eye, he was deceived by hisappearance. 

"So. Thou dost not appear terrible, my venerable old man. But the worsefor us, if horror assumes such a respectable and pleasant air. Now letus have a talk. "

Augustus sat, and questioning Lazarus with his eye as much as withwords, 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 lifebefore it is covered with fruit, and disperse its odorous bloom to thewinds. 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 severelygiving 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 thedead. Thou art here one too many. I know not who thou art and what thousawest there; but, if thou liest, I hate thy lies, and if thou tellstthe truth, I hate thy truth. In my bosom I feel the throb of life; Ifeel strength in my arm, and my proud thoughts, like eagles, pierce thespace. And yonder in the shelter of my rule, under the protection oflaws created by me, people live and toil and rejoice. Dost thou hear thebattle-cry, the challenge men throw into the face of the future?"

Augustus, as in prayer, stretched forth his arms and exclaimedsolemnly:

"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 underDeath's teeth, thou inspirest weariness and disgust with life; like acaterpillar in the fields, thou gloatest on the rich ear of joy andbelchest out the drivel of despair and sorrow. Thy truth is like a rustysword in the hands of a nightly murderer, --and as a murderer thou shaltbe executed. But before that, let me look into thine eyes. Perchance, only cowards are afraid of them, but in the brave they awake the thirstfor 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 lookingat him, --so soft, so tenderly fascinating was Lazarus' glance. Itpromised not horror, but sweet rest and the Infinite seemed to him atender mistress, a compassionate sister, a mother. But stronger andstronger grew its embraces, and already the mouth, greedy of hissingkisses, interfered with the monarch's breathing, and already to thesurface of the soft tissues of the body came the iron of the bones andtightened 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 movingapart, and through the growing interstice the appalling horror of theInfinite poured in slowly and steadily. Like two shadows there enteredthe shoreless void and the unfathomable darkness; they extinguished thesun, ravished the earth from under the feet, and the roof from over thehead. No more did the frozen heart ache. 

"Look, look, Lazarus, " ordered Augustus tottering. 

Time stood still, and the beginning of each thing grew frightfully nearto its end. Augustus' throne just erected, crumbled down, and the voidwas already in the place of the throne and of Augustus. Noiselessly didRome crumble down, and a new city stood on its site and it too wasswallowed by the void. Like fantastic giants, cities, states, andcountries fell down and vanished in the void darkness--and withuttermost indifference did the insatiable black womb of the Infiniteswallow them. 

"Halt!"--ordered the emperor. 

In his voice sounded already a note of indifference, his hands droppedin languor, and in the vain struggle with the onrushing darkness hisfiery 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 hisdeadened heart. "They are doomed to death, " he thought wearily. "Sereneshadows in the darkness of the Infinite, " thought he, and horror grewupon him. "Frail vessels with living seething blood with a heart thatknows sorrow and also great joy, " said he in his heart, and tendernesspervaded it. 

Thus pondering and oscillating between the poles of Life and Death, heslowly came back to life, to find in its suffering and in its joys ashield against the darkness of the void and the horror of the Infinite. 

"No, thou hast not murdered me, Lazarus, " said he firmly, "but I willtake thy life. Be gone. "

That evening the deified Augustus partook of his meats and drinks withparticular joy. Now and then his lifted hand remained suspended in theair, and a dull glimmer replaced the bright sheen of his fiery eye. Itwas the cold wave of Horror that surged at his feet. Defeated, but notundone, ever awaiting its hour, that Horror stood at the emperor'sbedside, 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 hissinggusts of wind and the heat of the blazing sun. Again he was sitting on astone, his rough, bushy beard lifted up; and the two black holes inplace of his eyes looked at the sky with an expression of dull terror. Afar-off the holy city stirred noisily and restlessly, but around himeverything was deserted and dumb. No one approached the place wherelived he who had miraculously risen from the dead, and long since hisneighbors had forsaken their houses. Driven by the hot iron into thedepth of his skull, his cursed knowledge hid there in an ambush. Asthough leaping out from an ambush it plunged its thousand invisible eyesinto the man, --and no one dared look at Lazarus. 

And in the evening, when the sun, reddening and growing wider, wouldcome nearer and nearer the western horizon, the blind Lazarus wouldslowly follow it. He would stumble against stones and fall, stout andweak as he was; would rise heavily to his feet and walk on again; and onthe red screen of the sunset his black body and outspread hands wouldform a monstrous likeness of a cross. 

And it came to pass that once he went out and did not come back. Thusseemingly ended the second life of him who for three days had been underthe enigmatical sway of death, and rose miraculously from the dead. 

The Beast with Five Fingers

BY W. F. HARVEY

 From _The New Decameron_, by Various Hands. Copyright, 1919, by Robert M. McBride and Company. By permission of the publishers. 

When I was a little boy I once went with my father to call on AdrianBorlsover. I played on the floor with a black spaniel while my fatherappealed 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 tolook 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 inhis, awed by the still beauty of his face. He spoke to me kindly, andhoped that I should always try to please my father. Then he placed hisright 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 Iwanted to cry. But my father was in excellent spirits. 

"That old gentleman, Jim, " said he, "is the most wonderful man in thewhole town. For ten years he has been quite blind. "

"But I saw his eyes, " I said. "They were ever so black and shiny; theyweren'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 thatlooked dark and beautiful and shining without being able to see. 

"Just like Mrs. Tomlinson has big ears, " I said, "and can't hear at allexcept 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 goodboy. "

That was the only time I saw Adrian Borlsover. I soon forgot about himand the hand which he laid in blessing on my head. But for a week Iprayed that those dark tender eyes might see. 

"His spaniel may have puppies, " I said in my prayers, "and he will neverbe 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 ofan eccentric family. Borlsovers' sons, for some reason, always seemed tomarry very ordinary women, which perhaps accounted for the fact that noBorlsover had been a genius, and only one Borlsover had been mad. Butthey were great champions of little causes, generous patrons of oddsciences, founders of querulous sects, trustworthy guides to the bypathmeadows of erudition. 

Adrian was an authority on the fertilization of orchids. He had held atone time the family living at Borlsover Conyers, until a congenitalweakness of the lungs obliged him to seek a less rigorous climate in thesunny south coast watering-place where I had seen him. Occasionally hewould relieve one or other of the local clergy. My father described himas a fine preacher, who gave long and inspiring sermons from what manymen would have considered unprofitable texts. "An excellent proof, " hewould add, "of the truth of the doctrine of direct verbal inspiration. "

Adrian Borlsover was exceedingly clever with his hands. His penmanshipwas exquisite. He illustrated all his scientific papers, made his ownwoodcuts, and carved the reredos that is at present the chief feature ofinterest in the church at Borlsover Conyers. He had an exceedinglyclever knack in cutting silhouettes for young ladies and paper pigs andcows for little children, and made more than one complicated windinstrument of his own devising. 

When he was fifty years old Adrian Borlsover lost his sight. In awonderfully short time he had adapted himself to the new conditions oflife. He quickly learned to read Braille. So marvelous indeed was hissense of touch that he was still able to maintain his interest inbotany. The mere passing of his long supple fingers over a flower wassufficient means for its identification, though occasionally he woulduse his lips. I have found several letters of his among my father'scorrespondence. In no case was there anything to show that he wasafflicted with blindness and this in spite of the fact that he exercisedundue economy in the spacing of lines. Towards the close of his life theold man was credited with powers of touch that seemed almost uncanny: ithas been said that he could tell at once the color of a ribbon placedbetween his fingers. My father would neither confirm nor deny the story. 

I

Adrian Borlsover was a bachelor. His elder brother George had marriedlate in life, leaving one son, Eustace, who lived in the gloomy Georgianmansion at Borlsover Conyers, where he could work undisturbed incollecting material for his great book on heredity. 

Like his uncle, he was a remarkable man. The Borlsovers had always beenborn naturalists, but Eustace possessed in a special degree the power ofsystematizing his knowledge. He had received his university education inGermany, and then, after post-graduate work in Vienna and Naples, hadtraveled for four years in South America and the East, getting togethera huge store of material for a new study into the processes ofvariation. 

He lived alone at Borlsover Conyers with Saunders his secretary, a manwho bore a somewhat dubious reputation in the district, but whosepowers as a mathematician, combined with his business abilities, wereinvaluable to Eustace. 

Uncle and nephew saw little of each other. The visits of Eustace wereconfined to a week in the summer or autumn: long weeks, that draggedalmost as slowly as the bath-chair in which the old man was drawn alongthe sunny sea front. In their way the two men were fond of each other, though their intimacy would doubtless have been greater had they sharedthe same religious views. Adrian held to the old-fashioned evangelicaldogmas of his early manhood; his nephew for many years had been thinkingof embracing Buddhism. Both men possessed, too, the reticence theBorlsovers had always shown, and which their enemies sometimes calledhypocrisy. With Adrian it was a reticence as to the things he had leftundone; but with Eustace it seemed that the curtain which he was socareful to leave undrawn hid something more than a half-empty chamber. 

 * * * * *

Two years before his death Adrian Borlsover developed, unknown tohimself, the not uncommon power of automatic writing. Eustace made thediscovery by accident. Adrian was sitting reading in bed, the forefingerof his left hand tracing the Braille characters, when his nephew noticedthat a pencil the old man held in his right hand was moving slowly alongthe opposite page. He left his seat in the window and sat down besidethe bed. The right hand continued to move, and now he could see plainlythat they were letters and words which it was forming. 

"Adrian Borlsover, " wrote the hand, "Eustace Borlsover, GeorgeBorlsover, Francis Borlsover Sigismund Borlsover, Adrian Borlsover, Eustace Borlsover, Saville Borlsover. B, for Borlsover. Honesty is theBest 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--AdrianBorlsover, Eustace Borlsover. "

"It seems to me, " said his uncle, closing the book, "that you had muchbetter 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 articlesin _Nature_ about which we were speaking. "

He went along the promenade, but stopped at the first shelter, andseating himself in the corner best protected from the wind, he examinedthe book at leisure. Nearly every page was scored with a meaninglessjungle of pencil marks: rows of capital letters, short words, longwords, complete sentences, copy-book tags. The whole thing, in fact, hadthe appearance of a copy-book, and on a more careful scrutiny Eustacethought that there was ample evidence to show that the handwriting atthe beginning of the book, good though it was was not nearly so good asthe handwriting at the end. 

He left his uncle at the end of October, with a promise to return earlyin December. It seemed to him quite clear that the old man's power ofautomatic writing was developing rapidly, and for the first time helooked 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 anddictating nearly all his letters. Not until the day before he left hadEustace an opportunity of observing Adrian Borlsover's new-foundfaculty. 

The old man, propped up in bed with pillows, had sunk into a lightsleep. His two hands lay on the coverlet, his left hand tightly claspinghis right. Eustace took an empty manuscript book and placed a pencilwithin reach of the fingers of the right hand. They snatched at iteagerly; then dropped the pencil to unloose the left hand from itsrestraining grasp. 

"Perhaps to prevent interference I had better hold that hand, " saidEustace to himself, as he watched the pencil. Almost immediately itbegan to write. 

"Blundering Borlsovers, unnecessarily unnatural, extraordinarilyeccentric, 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 thetime?"

The fingers dropped the pencil and moved three or four times across thepaper. Then, picking up the pencil, they wrote:

"Ten minutes before four. Put your book away, Eustace. Adrian mustn'tfind us working at this sort of thing. He doesn't know what to make ofit, 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 leagueredcities 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 indoubtful paths. Choose your friends well. Your poor grandfather----"

A fit of coughing put an end to what he was saying, but Eustace saw thatthe 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 ofthe 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 lookedill when he said good-by, and the old man spoke despondently of thefailure his life had been. 

"Nonsense, uncle!" said his nephew. "You have got over your difficultiesin a way not one in a hundred thousand would have done. Every onemarvels at your splendid perseverance in teaching your hand to take theplace of your lost sight. To me it's been a revelation of thepossibilities of education. "

"Education, " said his uncle dreamily, as if the word had started a newtrain of thought, "education is good so long as you know to whom and forwhat purpose you give it. But with the lower orders of men, the base andmore 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, sensiblegirl. And if by any chance I don't see you again, my will is at mysolicitor's. I've not left you any legacy, because I know you're wellprovided for, but I thought you might like to have my books. Oh, andthere's just one other thing. You know, before the end people often losecontrol over themselves and make absurd requests. Don't pay anyattention to them, Eustace. Good-by!" and he held out his hand. Eustacetook it. It remained in his a fraction of a second longer than he hadexpected, and gripped him with a virility that was surprising. Therewas, too, in its touch a subtle sense of intimacy. 

"Why, uncle!" he said, "I shall see you alive and well for many longyears to come. "

Two months later Adrian Borlsover died. 

II

Eustace Borlsover was in Naples at the time. He read the obituary noticein the _Morning Post_ on the day announced for the funeral. 

"Poor old fellow!" he said. "I wonder where I shall find room for allhis books. "

The question occurred to him again with greater force when three dayslater he found himself standing in the library at Borlsover Conyers, ahuge room built for use, and not for beauty, in the year of Waterloo bya Borlsover who was an ardent admirer of the great Napoleon. It wasarranged on the plan of many college libraries, with tall, projectingbookcases forming deep recesses of dusty silence, fit graves for the oldhates of forgotten controversy, the dead passions of forgotten lives. Atthe end of the room, behind the bust of some unknown eighteenth-centurydivine, 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 itwill 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-roomthat evening. 

"Hullo!" said Eustace, standing before the fire with his hands in hispockets. "How goes the world, Saunders? Why these dress togs?" Hehimself was wearing an old shooting-jacket. He did not believe inmourning, as he had told his uncle on his last visit; and though heusually went in for quiet-colored ties, he wore this evening one of anugly red, in order to shock Morton the butler, and to make them thrashout the whole question of mourning for themselves in the servants' hall. Eustace was a true Borlsover. "The world, " said Saunders, "goes the sameas usual, confoundedly slow. The dress togs are accounted for by aninvitation 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 yearsfor 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'topened. There's also a box with a rat, or something, inside it thatcame by the evening post. Very likely it's the six-toed albino. I didn'tlook, because I didn't want to mess up my things but I should gatherfrom 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 anhonest penny. "

Dinner over and Saunders gone, Eustace went into the library. Though thefire 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 theswitches. "And, Morton, " he added, when the butler brought the coffee, "get me a screwdriver or something to undo this box. Whatever the animalis, he's kicking up the deuce of a row. What is it? Why are youdawdling?"

"If you please, sir, when the postman brought it he told me that they'dbored 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 isall, sir. "

"It's culpably careless of the man, whoever he was, " said Eustace, as heremoved the screws, "packing an animal like this in a wooden box with nomeans of getting air. Confound it all! I meant to ask Morton to bring mea 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 beenremoved, and went into the billiard-room. As he came back into thelibrary with an empty cage in his hand he heard the sound of somethingfalling, and then of something scuttling along the floor. 

"Bother it! The beast's got out. How in the world am I to find it againin this library!"

To search for it did indeed seem hopeless. He tried to follow the soundof the scuttling in one of the recesses where the animal seemed to berunning behind the books in the shelves, but it was impossible to locateit. Eustace resolved to go on quietly reading. Very likely the animalmight gain confidence and show itself. Saunders seemed to have dealt inhis usual methodical manner with most of the correspondence. There werestill the private letters. 

What was that? Two sharp clicks and the lights in the hideous candelabrathat hung from the ceiling suddenly went out. 

"I wonder if something has gone wrong with the fuse, " said Eustace, ashe went to the switches by the door. Then he stopped. There was a noiseat the other end of the room, as if something was crawling up the ironcorkscrew stair. "If it's gone into the gallery, " he said, "well andgood. " He hastily turned on the lights, crossed the room, and climbed upthe stair. But he could see nothing. His grandfather had placed a littlegate at the top of the stair, so that children could run and romp in thegallery without fear of accident. This Eustace closed, and havingconsiderably narrowed the circle of his search, returned to his desk bythe fire. 

How gloomy the library was! There was no sense of intimacy about theroom. The few busts that an eighteenth-century Borlsover had broughtback 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 ofthe 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 somelittle 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 againto his correspondence. The letter was from the family solicitor. Itspoke of his uncle's death and of the valuable collection of books thathad been left to him in the will. 

"There was one request, " he read, "which certainly came as a surprise tome. As you know, Mr. Adrian Borlsover had left instructions that hisbody was to be buried in as simple a manner as possible at Eastbourne. He expressed a desire that there should be neither wreaths nor flowersof any kind, and hoped that his friends and relatives would not considerit necessary to wear mourning. The day before his death we received aletter canceling these instructions. He wished his body to be embalmed(he gave us the address of the man we were to employ--Pennifer, LudgateHill), with orders that his right hand was to be sent to you, statingthat it was at your special request. The other arrangements as to thefuneral remained unaltered. "

"Good Lord!" said Eustace; "what in the world was the old boy drivingat? And what in the name of all that's holy is that?"

Someone was in the gallery. Someone had pulled the cord attached to oneof the blinds, and it had rolled up with a snap. Someone must be in thegallery, for a second blind did the same. Someone must be walking roundthe gallery, for one after the other the blinds sprang up, letting inthe moonlight. 

"I haven't got to the bottom of this yet, " said Eustace, "but I will dobefore the night is very much older, " and he hurried up the corkscrewstair. He had just got to the top when the lights went out a secondtime, and he heard again the scuttling along the floor. Quickly he stoleon tiptoe in the dim moonshine in the direction of the noise, feeling ashe went for one of the switches. His fingers touched the metal knob atlast. He turned on the electric light. 

About ten yards in front of him, crawling along the floor, was a man'shand. Eustace stared at it in utter astonishment. It was moving quickly, in the manner of a geometer caterpillar, the fingers humped up onemoment, flattened out the next; the thumb appeared to give a crab-likemotion to the whole. While he was looking, too surprised to stir, thehand disappeared round the corner Eustace ran forward. He no longer sawit, but he could hear it as it squeezed its way behind the books on oneof the shelves. A heavy volume had been displaced. There was a gap inthe row of books where it had got in. In his fear lest it should escapehim again, he seized the first book that came to his hand and plugged itinto the hole. Then, emptying two shelves of their contents, he took thewooden boards and propped them up in front to make his barrier doublysure. 

"I wish Saunders was back, " he said; "one can't tackle this sort ofthing alone. " It was after eleven, and there seemed little likelihood ofSaunders returning before twelve. He did not dare to leave the shelfunwatched, even to run downstairs to ring the bell. Morton the butleroften used to come round about eleven to see that the windows werefastened, but he might not come. Eustace was thoroughly unstrung. Atlast 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 thegallery, 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, "youmight hold up these boards for me, Morton. That beast in the box gotout, 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 couldhardly have been more than one when he returned with Saunders. "Allright, Morton, you can go now. I'm up here, Saunders. "

"What's all the row?" asked Saunders, as he lounged forward with hishands in his pockets. The luck had been with him all the evening. He wascompletely satisfied, both with himself and with Captain Lockwood'staste in wines. "What's the matter? You look to me to be in an absoluteblue funk. "

"That old devil of an uncle of mine, " began Eustace--"oh, I can'texplain it all. It's his hand that's been playing old Harry all theevening. But I've got it cornered behind these books. You've got to helpme 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 ofthose books and put your hand in and feel. "

"All right, " said Saunders; "but wait till I've rolled up my sleeve. Theaccumulated 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 funnystumpy end to it, whatever it is, and nips like a crab. Ah, no, youdon't!" He pulled his hand out in a flash. "Shove in a book quickly. Nowit can't get out. "

"What was it?" asked Eustace. 

"It was something that wanted very much to get hold of me. I felt whatseemed 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 cancover the ground far faster than I can walk. But I think I see how wecan manage it. The two books at the end of the shelf are big ones thatgo right back against the wall. The others are very thin. I'll take outone at a time, and you slide the rest along until we have it squashedbetween the end two. "

It certainly seemed to be the best plan. One by one, as they took outthe books, the space behind grew smaller and smaller. There wassomething in it that was certainly very much alive. Once they caughtsight of fingers pressing outward for a way of escape. At last they hadit 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. Isuppose this is a sort of infectious hallucination. I've read about suchcases 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 inthe screws, " said Eustace, "we won't run any risks. Put the box in thisold 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 youruncle. "

They sat up together until early morning. Saunders had no desire forsleep. Eustace was trying to explain and to forget: to conceal fromhimself a fear that he had never felt before--the fear of walking alonedown the long corridor to his bedroom. 

III

"Whatever it was, " said Eustace to Saunders on the following morning, "Ipropose that we drop the subject. There's nothing to keep us here forthe 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 everynight. Not for me thanks. Why not run up to town? Run's the exact wordin this case, isn't it? We're both in such a blessed funk. Pull yourselftogether Eustace, and let's have another look at the hand. "

"As you like, " said Eustace; "there's the key. " They went into thelibrary and opened the desk. The box was as they had left it on theprevious night. 

"What are you waiting for?" asked Eustace. 

"I am waiting for you to volunteer to open the lid. However, since youseem to funk it, allow me. There doesn't seem to be the likelihood ofany rumpus this morning, at all events. " He opened the lid and pickedout the hand. 

"Cold?" asked Eustace. 

"Tepid. A bit below blood-heat by the feel. Soft and supple too. If it'sthe embalming, it's a sort of embalming I've never seen before. Is ityour uncle's hand?"

"Oh, yes, it's his all right, " said Eustace. "I should know those longthin fingers anywhere. Put it back in the box, Saunders. Never mindabout the screws. I'll lock the desk, so that there'll be no chance ofits getting out. We'll compromise by motoring up to town for a week. Ifwe get off soon after lunch we ought to be at Grantham or Stamford bynight. "

"Right, " said Saunders; "and to-morrow--Oh, well, by to-morrow we shallhave forgotten all about this beastly thing. "

If when the morrow came they had not forgotten, it was certainly truethat at the end of the week they were able to tell a very vivid ghoststory at the little supper Eustace gave on Hallow E'en. 

"You don't want us to believe that it's true, Mr. Borlsover? Howperfectly awful!"

"I'll take my oath on it, and so would Saunders here; wouldn't you, oldchap?"

"Any number of oaths, " said Saunders. "It was a long thin hand, youknow, and it gripped me just like that. "

"Don't Mr. Saunders! Don't! How perfectly horrid! Now tell us anotherone, do. Only a really creepy one, please!"

 * * * * *

"Here's a pretty mess!" said Eustace on the following day as he threw aletter 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. "Shedoesn'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 amonth's notice as from Tuesday the 13th. For a long time I've felt theplace too big for me, but when Jane Parfit, and Emma Laidlaw go offwith scarcely as much as an 'if you please, ' after frightening the witsout of the other girls, so that they can't turn out a room by themselvesor walk alone down the stairs for fear of treading on half-frozen toadsor hearing it run along the passages at night, all I can say is thatit's no place for me. So I must ask you, Mr. Borlsover, sir, to find anew housekeeper that has no objection to large and lonely houses, whichsome people do say, not that I believe them for a minute, my poor motheralways 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 indealing with servants. You mustn't let poor old Merrit go. "

"Of course she shan't go, " said Saunders. "She's probably only anglingfor a rise in salary. I'll write to her this morning. "

"No; there's nothing like a personal interview. We've had enough oftown. We'll go back to-morrow, and you must work your cold for all it'sworth. Don't forget that it's got on to the chest, and will requireweeks 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 verysorry to hear of Mr. Saunders's cold, and how he lay awake all night inLondon coughing; very sorry indeed. She'd change his room for himgladly, and get the south room aired. And wouldn't he have a basin ofhot bread and milk last thing at night? But she was afraid that shewould 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 gladto come at the salary mentioned. 

"What's the matter with the servants, Morton?" asked Eustace thatevening when he brought the coffee into the library. "What's all thisabout Mrs. Merrit wanting to leave?"

"If you please, sir, I was going to mention it myself. I have aconfession to make, sir. When I found your note asking me to open thatdesk 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 makinga 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 theday you and Mr. Saunders left. I have it in my pocket now. "

It certainly seemed to be in Eustace's handwriting. It was written inpencil, and began somewhat abruptly. 

"Get a hammer, Morton, " he read, "or some other tool, and break open thelock 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. EustaceBorlsover. "

"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 wasturned, 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 keptthe library shut. Then that girl Emma Laidlaw left the door open whenshe 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--ahand 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 Parfitwas washing up the dishes in the scullery. She wasn't thinking aboutanything in particular. It was close on dusk. She took her hands out ofthe 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, onlycolder 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 thebutler. 

"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, andthere's nobody there when we go; and when we go round to draw the blindsof a night, as often as not somebody's been there before us. But as Isays to Mrs. Merrit, a young monkey might do wonderful things, and weall know that Mr. Borlsover has had some strange animals about theplace. "

"Very well, Morton, that will do. "

"What do you make of it?" asked Saunders when they were alone. "I meanof the letter he said you wrote. "

"Oh, that's simple enough, " said Eustace. "See the paper it's writtenon? I stopped using that years ago, but there were a few odd sheets andenvelopes left in the old desk. We never fastened up the lid of the boxbefore 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 toldSaunders more of what had happened at Eastbourne. 

"Well, " said Saunders, "in that case we have at least an explanation ofthe legacy. It was the hand which wrote unknown to your uncle thatletter to your solicitor, bequeathing itself to you. Your uncle had nomore to do with that request than I. In fact, it would seem that he hadsome 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 youruncle to educate and prepare a little body for it. Now it's got intothat 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 wecan't do that, we shall have to wait till the bally clockwork runsdown. 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 thebanister in the hall. He was taken unawares, and lost a full secondbefore he started in pursuit, only to find that the thing had escapedhim. 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 fingerscrept over the page, feeling the print as if it were reading; but beforehe had time to get up from his seat, it had taken the alarm and waspulling itself up the curtains. Eustace watched it grimly as it hung onto the cornice with three fingers, flicking thumb and forefinger at himin an expression of scornful derision. 

"I know what I'll do, " he said. "If I only get it into the open I'll setthe 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 outof doors. We'll get the dogs. There are the two terriers and theunder-keeper's Irish mongrel that's on to rats like a flash. Yourspaniel has not got spirit enough for this sort of game. " They broughtthe dogs into the house, and the keeper's Irish mongrel chewed up theslippers, and the terriers tripped up Morton as he waited at table; butall three were welcome. Even false security is better than no securityat all. 

For a fortnight nothing happened. Then the hand was caught, not by thedogs, but by Mrs. Merrit's gray parrot. The bird was in the habit ofperiodically removing the pins that kept its seed and water tins inplace, and of escaping through the holes in the side of the cage. Whenonce at liberty Peter would show no inclination to return, and wouldoften be about the house for days. Now, after six consecutive weeks ofcaptivity, Peter had again discovered a new means of unloosing his boltsand was at large, exploring the tapestried forests of the curtains andsinging songs in praise of liberty from cornice and picture rail. 

"It's no use your trying to catch him, " said Eustace to Mrs. Merrit, asshe 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 whenhe fancies he's hungry. You're far too softhearted. "

"Well, sir, I see he's right out of reach now on that picture rail, soif 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 thatfond of meat, though it does make him pull out his feathers to suck thequills. They _do_ say that if you cook--"

"Never mind, Mrs. Merrit, " said Eustace, who was busy writing. "Thatwill do; I'll keep an eye on the bird. "

There was silence in the room, unbroken but for the continuous whisperof 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 upat the picture rail, and there was the hand holding on to a hook withthree fingers, and slowly scratching the head of the parrot with thefourth. Eustace ran to the bell and pressed it hard; then across to thewindow, which he closed with a bang. Frightened by the noise the parrotshook its wings preparatory to flight, and as it did so the fingers ofthe hand got hold of it by the throat. There was a shrill scream fromPeter as he fluttered across the room, wheeling round in circles thatever descended, borne down under the weight that clung to him. The birddropped at last quite suddenly, and Eustace saw fingers and feathersrolled into an inextricable mass on the floor. The struggle abruptlyceased as finger and thumb squeezed the neck; the bird's eyes rolled upto show the whites, and there was a faint, half-choked gurgle. Butbefore the fingers had time to loose their hold, Eustace had them in hisown. 

"Send Mr. Saunders here at once, " he said to the maid who came in answerto the bell. "Tell him I want him immediately. "

Then he went with the hand to the fire. There was a ragged gash acrossthe back where the bird's beak had torn it, but no blood oozed from thewound. He noticed with disgust that the nails had grown long anddiscolored. 

"I'll burn the beastly thing, " he said. But he could not burn it. Hetried to throw it into the flames, but his own hands, as if restrainedby some old primitive feeling, would not let him. And so Saunders foundhim pale and irresolute, with the hand still clasped tightly in hisfingers. 

"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 somesort. "

"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 wegoing to do?"

"Drive a nail through it first, so that it can't get away; then we cantake our time over examining it. "

"Do it yourself, " said Saunders. "I don't mind helping you withguinea-pigs occasionally when there's something to be learned; partlybecause 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 byme. "

He took up a nail, and before Saunders had realised what he was doinghad driven it through the hand, deep into the board. 

"Oh, my aunt, " he giggled hysterically, "look at it now, " for the handwas writhing in agonized contortions, squirming and wriggling upon thenail like a worm upon the hook. 

"Well, " said Saunders, "you've done it now. I'll leave you to examineit. "

"Don't go, in heaven's name. Cover it up, man, cover it up! Shove acloth over it! Here!" and he pulled off the antimacassar from the backof a chair and wrapped the board in it. "Now get the keys from my pocketand open the safe. Chuck the other things out. Oh, Lord, it's gettingitself into frightful knots! and open it quick!" He threw the thing inand banged the door. 

"We'll keep it there till it dies, " he said. "May I burn in hell if Iever open the door of that safe again. "

 * * * * *

Mrs. Merrit departed at the end of the month. Her successor certainlywas more successful in the management of the servants. Early in her ruleshe declared that she would stand no nonsense, and gossip soon witheredand died. Eustace Borlsover went back to his old way of life. Old habitscrept over and covered his new experience. He was, if anything, lessmorose, and showed a greater inclination to take his natural part incountry society. 

"I shouldn't be surprised if he marries one of these days, " saidSaunders. "Well, I'm in no hurry for such an event. I know Eustace fartoo well for the future Mrs. Borlsover to like me It will be the sameold story again: a long friendship slowly made--marriage--and a longfriendship 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, underMrs. Handyside's management was excellent, and she seemed, too, to havea heaven-sent faculty in knowing when to stop dusting. 

Little by little the old life resumed its old power. Then came theburglary. The men, it was said, broke into the house by way of theconservatory. It was really little more than an attempt, for they onlysucceeded in carrying away a few pieces of plate from the pantry. Thesafe in the study was certainly found open and empty, but, as Mr. Borlsover informed the police inspector, he had kept nothing of value init during the last six months. 

"Then you're lucky in getting off so easily, sir, " the man replied. "Bythe way they have gone about their business, I should say they wereexperienced cracksmen. They must have caught the alarm when they werejust 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 tracethe men. I've said that they must have been old hands at the game. Theway they got in and opened the safe shows that. But there's one littlething that puzzles me. One of them was careless enough not to weargloves, and I'm bothered if I know what he was trying to do. I've tracedhis finger-marks on the new varnish on the window sashes in every one ofthe 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 afoolhardy fellow, and I rather think it was him that wrote that. " Hetook 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. ' Somegaol bird just escaped, I suppose. It will make it all the easier for usto 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 atluncheon. "I've got on far better during the last six months than ever Iexpected, 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 thingstogether, and join me with the car at Brighton on the day afterto-morrow. And bring the proofs of those two papers with you. We'll runover 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'vestuck to work pretty closely through the summer, and I for one need aholiday. I'll engage the rooms at Brighton. You'll find it best to breakthe journey at Hitchin. I'll wire to you there at the Crown to tell youthe Brighton address. "

The house he chose at Brighton was in a terrace. He had been therebefore. 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 thefirst floor. The two bedrooms were at the back, and opened out of eachother. "Saunders can have the smaller one, though it is the only onewith a fireplace, " he said. "I'll stick to the larger of the two, sinceit's got a bathroom adjoining. I wonder what time he'll arrive with thecar. "

Saunders came about seven, cold and cross and dirty. "We'll light thefire in the dining-room, " said Eustace, "and get Prince to unpack someof 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 oldEngland for a few months. "

They turned in soon after twelve. 

"You oughtn't to feel cold, Saunders, " said Eustace, "when you canafford to sport a great cat-skin lined coat like this. You do yourselfvery 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, " andhe tossed them through the door on to Eustace's bed, and went on withhis unpacking. A minute later he heard a shrill cry of terror. "Oh, Lord, " he heard, "it's in the glove! Quick, Saunders, quick!" Then camea smacking thud. Eustace had thrown it from him. "I've chucked it intothe 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 hishand, 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, andwe'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 upthe 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 thebottom. You utter idiot! It's got out!" There was the sound ofsomething dropping on to the hard flagstones below, and Eustace fellback fainting. 

 * * * * *

For a fortnight he was ill. 

"I don't know what to make of it, " the doctor said to Saunders. "I canonly suppose that Mr. Borlsover has suffered some great emotional shock. You had better let me send someone to help you nurse him. And by allmeans indulge that whim of his never to be left alone in the dark. Iwould keep a light burning all night if I were you. But he _must_ havemore fresh air. It's perfectly absurd this hatred of open windows. "

Eustace, however, would have no one with him but Saunders. "I don't wantthe other men, " he said. "They'd smuggle it in somehow. I know theywould. "

"Don't worry about it, old chap. This sort of thing can't go onindefinitely. You know I saw it this time as well as you. It wasn't halfso active. It won't go on living much longer, especially after thatfall. I heard it hit the flags myself. As soon as you're a bit strongerwe'll leave this place; not bag and baggage, but with only the clotheson our backs, so that it won't be able to hide anywhere. We'll escape itthat way. We won't give any address, and we won't have any parcels sentafter us. Cheer up, Eustace! You'll be well enough to leave in a day ortwo. 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 noworse 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 twentiethcentury, and even the parsons have dropped the idea of your old sinsfinding you out. Before you caught the hand in the library it was filledwith pure malevolence--to you and all mankind. After you spiked itthrough with that nail it naturally forgot about other people, andconcentrated its attention on you. It was shut up in the safe, you know, for nearly six months. That gives plenty of time for thinking ofrevenge. "

Eustace Borlsover would not leave his room, but he thought that theremight be something in Saunders's suggestion to leave Brighton withoutnotice. 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 thewindows had been wide open, they had been shut an hour or so beforedusk. Mrs. Prince had long since ceased to wonder at the strange habitsof the gentlemen on the first floor. Soon after their arrival she hadbeen 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 leftlying 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 ofthe room. "

"Couldn't I open the window just a little?" he said to Eustace thatevening. "We're simply roasting in here, you know. "

"No, leave well alone. We're not a couple of boarding-school missesfresh from a course of hygiene lectures. Get the chessboard out. "

They sat down and played. At ten o'clock Mrs. Prince came to the doorwith a note. "I am sorry I didn't bring it before, " she said, "but itwas left in the letter-box. "

"Open it, Saunders, and see if it wants answering. "

It was very brief. There was neither address nor signature. 

"Will eleven o'clock to-night be suitable for our last appointment?"

"Who is it from?" asked Borlsover. 

"It was meant for me, " said Saunders. "There's no answer, Mrs. Prince, "and he put the paper into his pocket. "A dunning letter from a tailor; Isuppose he must have got wind of our leaving. "

It was a clever lie, and Eustace asked no more questions. They went onwith their game. 

On the landing outside Saunders could hear the grandfather's clockwhispering the seconds, blurting out the quarter-hours. 

"Check!" said Eustace. The clock struck eleven. At the same time therewas a gentle knocking on the door; it seemed to come from the bottompanel. 

"Who's there?" asked Eustace. 

There was no answer. 

"Mrs. Prince, is that you?"

"She is up above, " said Saunders; "I can hear her walking about theroom. "

"Then lock the door; bolt it too. Your move, Saunders. "

While Saunders sat with his eyes on the chessboard, Eustace walked overto the window and examined the fastenings. He did the same in Saunders'sroom and the bathroom. There were no doors between the three rooms, orhe would have shut and locked them too. 

"Now, Saunders, " he said, "don't stay all night over your move. I've hadtime to smoke one cigarette already. It's bad to keep an invalidwaiting. There's only one possible thing for you to do. What was that?"

"The ivy blowing against the window. There, it's your move now, Eustace. "

"It wasn't the ivy, you idiot. It was someone tapping at the window, "and he pulled up the blind. On the outer side of the window, clinging tothe sash, was the hand. 

"What is it that it's holding?"

"It's a pocket-knife. It's going to try to open the window by pushingback the fastener with the blade. "

"Well, let it try, " said Eustace. "Those fasteners screw down; theycan't be opened that way. Anyhow, we'll close the shutters. It's yourmove, Saunders. I've played. "

But Saunders found it impossible to fix his attention on the game. Hecould not understand Eustace, who seemed all at once to have lost hisfear. "What do you say to some wine?" he asked. "You seem to be takingthings coolly, but I don't mind confessing that I'm in a blessed funk. "

"You've no need to be. There's nothing supernatural about that hand, Saunders. I mean it seems to be governed by the laws of time and space. It's not the sort of thing that vanishes into thin air or slides throughoaken doors. And since that's so, I defy it to get in here. We'll leavethe place in the morning. I for one have bottomed the depths of fear. Fill your glass, man! The windows are all shuttered, the door is lockedand bolted. Pledge me my uncle Adrian! Drink, man! What are you waitingfor?"

Saunders was standing with his glass half raised. "It can get in, " hesaid hoarsely; "it can get in! We've forgotten. There's the fireplace inmy bedroom. It will come down the chimney. "

"Quick!" said Eustace, as he rushed into the other room; "we haven't aminute to lose. What can we do? Light the fire, Saunders. Give me amatch, quick!"

"They must be all in the other room. I'll get them. "

"Hurry, man, for goodness' sake! Look in the bookcase! Look in thebathroom! Here, come and stand here; I'll look. "

"Be quick!" shouted Saunders. "I can hear something!"

"Then plug a sheet from your bed up the chimney. No, here's a match. " Hehad found one at last that had slipped into a crack in the floor. 

"Is the fire laid? Good, but it may not burn. I know--the oil from thatold reading-lamp and this cotton-wool. Now the match, quick! Pull thesheet away, you fool! We don't want it now. "

There was a great roar from the grate as the flames shot up. Saundershad been a fraction of a second too late with the sheet. The oil hadfallen on to it. It, too, was burning. 

"The whole place will be on fire!" cried Eustace, as he tried to beatout the flames with a blanket. "It's no good! I can't manage it. Youmust open the door, Saunders, and get help. "

Saunders ran to the door and fumbled with the bolts. The key was stiffin the lock. 

"Hurry!" shouted Eustace; "the whole place is ablaze!"

The key turned in the lock at last. For half a second Saunders stoppedto look back. Afterwards he could never be quite sure as to what he hadseen, but at the time he thought that something black and charred wascreeping slowly, very slowly, from the mass of flames towards EustaceBorlsover. For a moment he thought of returning to his friend, but thenoise and the smell of the burning sent him running down the passagecrying, "Fire! Fire!" He rushed to the telephone to summon help, andthen back to the bathroom--he should have thought of that before--forwater. As he burst open the bedroom door there came a scream of terrorwhich ended suddenly, and then the sound of a heavy fall. 

The Mass of Shadows

BY ANATOLE FRANCE

 From _Mother of Pearl_, by Anatole France. Copyright by John Lane Company. By permission of the publishers. 

This tale the sacristan of the church of St. Eulalie at Neuvilled'Aumont told me, as we sat under the arbor of the White Horse, one finesummer evening, drinking a bottle of old wine to the health of the deadman, now very much at his ease, whom that very morning he had borne tothe grave with full honors, beneath a pall powdered with smart silvertears. 

"My poor father who is dead" (it is the sacristan who is speaking, ) "wasin his lifetime a grave-digger. He was of an agreeable disposition, theresult, no doubt, of the calling he followed, for it has often beenpointed out that people who work in cemeteries are of a jovial turn. Death has no terrors for them; they never give it a thought. I, forinstance, monsieur, enter a cemetery at night as little perturbed asthough it were the arbor of the White Horse. And if by chance I meetwith a ghost, I don't disturb myself in the least about it, for Ireflect that he may just as likely have business of his own to attend toas I. I know the habits of the dead, and I know their character. Indeed, so far as that goes, I know things of which the prieststhemselves are ignorant. If I were to tell you all I have seen, youwould be astounded. But a still tongue makes a wise head, and my father, who, all the same, delighted in spinning a yarn, did not disclose atwentieth part of what he knew. To make up for this he often repeatedthe same stories, and to my knowledge he told the story of CatherineFontaine at least a hundred times. 

"Catherine Fontaine was an old maid whom he well remembered having seenwhen he was a mere child. I should not be surprised if there were still, perhaps, three old fellows in the district who could remember havingheard folks speak of her, for she was very well known and of excellentreputation, though poor enough. She lived at the corner of the Rue auxNonnes, in the turret which is still to be seen there, and which formedpart of an old half-ruined mansion looking on to the garden of theUrsuline nuns. On that turret can still be traced certain figures andhalf-obliterated inscriptions. The late curé of St. Eulalie, MonsieurLevasseur, asserted that there are the words in Latin, _Love is strongerthan death_, 'which is to be understood, ' so he would add, 'of divinelove. '

"Catherine Fontaine lived by herself in this tiny apartment. She was alace-maker. You know, of course, that the lace made in our part of theworld was formerly held in high esteem. No one knew anything of herrelatives or friends. It was reported that when she was eighteen yearsof age she had loved the young Chevalier d'Aumont-Cléry, and had beensecretly affianced to him. But decent folk didn't believe a word of it, and said it was nothing but a tale concocted because CatherineFontaine's demeanor was that of a lady rather than that of a workingwoman, and because, moreover, she possessed beneath her white locks theremains of great beauty. Her expression was sorrowful, and on one fingershe wore one of those rings fashioned by the goldsmith into thesemblance of two tiny hands clasped together. In former days folks wereaccustomed to exchange such rings at their betrothal ceremony. I am sureyou know the sort of thing I mean. 

"Catherine Fontaine lived a saintly life. She spent a great deal of timein churches, and every morning, whatever might be the weather, she wentto assist at the six o'clock Mass at St. Eulalie. 

"Now one December night, whilst she was in her little chamber, she wasawakened by the sound of bells, and nothing doubting that they wereringing for the first Mass, the pious woman dressed herself, and camedownstairs and out into the street. The night was so obscure that noteven the walls of the houses were visible, and not a ray of light shonefrom the murky sky. And such was the silence amid this black darkness, that there was not even the sound of a distant dog barking, and afeeling of aloofness from every living creature was perceptible. ButCatherine Fontaine knew well every single stone she stepped on, and, asshe could have found her way to the church with her eyes shut, shereached without difficulty the corner of the Rue aux Nonnes and the Ruede la Paroisse, where the timbered house stands with the tree of Jessecarved on one of its massive beams. When she reached this spot sheperceived that the church doors were open, and that a great light wasstreaming out from the wax tapers. She resumed her journey, and when shehad passed through the porch she found herself in the midst of a vastcongregation which entirely filled the church. But she did not recognizeany of the worshipers and was surprised to observe that all of thesepeople were dressed in velvets and brocades, with feathers in theirhats, and that they wore swords in the fashion of days gone by. Herewere gentlemen who carried tall canes with gold knobs, and ladies withlace caps fastened with coronet-shaped combs. Chevaliers of the Order ofSt. Louis extended their hands to these ladies, who concealed behindtheir fans painted faces, of which only the powdered brow and the patchat the corner of the eye were visible! All of them proceeded to taketheir places without the slightest sound, and as they moved neither thesound of their footsteps on the pavement, nor the rustle of theirgarments could be heard. The lower places were filled with a crowd ofyoung artisans in brown jackets, dimity breeches, and blue stockings, with their arms round the waists of pretty blushing girls who loweredtheir eyes. Near the holy water stoups peasant women, in scarletpetticoats and laced bodices, sat upon the ground as immovable asdomestic animals, whilst young lads, standing up behind them, stared outfrom wide-open eyes and twirled their hats round and round on theirfingers, and all these sorrowful countenances seemed centred irremovablyon one and the same thought, at once sweet and sorrowful. On her knees, in her accustomed place, Catherine Fontaine saw the priest advancetoward the altar, preceded by two servers. She recognized neither priestnor clerks. The Mass began. It was a silent Mass, during which neitherthe sound of the moving lips nor the tinkle of the bell was audible. Catherine Fontaine felt that she was under the observation and theinfluence also of her mysterious neighbor, and when, scarcely turningher head, she stole a glance at him, she recognized the young Chevalierd'Aumont-Cléry, who had once loved her, and who had been dead for fiveand forty years. She recognized him by a small mark which he had overthe left ear, and above all by the shadow which his long black eyelashescast upon his cheeks. He was dressed in his hunting clothes, scarletwith gold lace, the very clothes he wore that day when he met her in St. Leonard's Wood, begged of her a drink, and stole a kiss. He hadpreserved his youth and good looks. When he smiled, he still displayedmagnificent teeth. Catherine said to him in an undertone:

"'Monseigneur, you who were my friend, and to whom in days gone by Igave all that a girl holds most dear, may God keep you in His grace! O, that He would at length inspire me with regret for the sin I committedin yielding to you; for it is a fact that, though my hair is white and Iapproach my end, I have not yet repented of having loved you. But, deardead friend and noble seigneur, tell me, who are these folk, habitedafter the antique fashion, who are here assisting at this silent Mass?'

"The Chevalier d'Aumont-Cléry replied in a voice feebler than a breath, but none the less crystal clear:

"'Catherine, these men and women are souls from purgatory who havegrieved God by sinning as we ourselves sinned through love of thecreature, but who are not on that account cast off by God, inasmuch astheir sin, like ours, was not deliberate. 

"'Whilst separated from those whom they loved upon earth, they arepurified in the cleansing fires of purgatory, they suffer the pangs ofabsence, which is for them the most cruel of tortures. They are sounhappy that an angel from heaven takes pity upon their love-torment. Bythe permission of the Most High, for one hour in the night, he reuniteseach year lover to loved in their parish church, where they arepermitted to assist at the Mass of Shadows, hand clasped in hand. Theseare the facts. If it has been granted to me to see thee before thydeath, Catherine, it is a boon which is bestowed by God's specialpermission. '

"And Catherine Fontaine answered him:

"'I would die gladly enough, dear, dead lord, if I might recover thebeauty that was mine when I gave you to drink in the forest. '

"Whilst they thus conversed under their breath, a very old canon wastaking the collection and proffering to the worshipers a great copperdish, wherein they let fall, each in his turn, ancient coins which havelong since ceased to pass current: écus of six livres, florins, ducatsand ducatoons, jacobuses and rose-nobles, and the pieces fell silentlyinto the dish. When at length it was placed before the Chevalier, hedropped into it a louis which made no more sound than had the otherpieces of gold and silver. 

"Then the old canon stopped before Catherine Fontaine, who fumbled inher pocket without being able to find a farthing. Then, being unwillingto allow the dish to pass without an offering from herself, she slippedfrom her finger the ring which the Chevalier had given her the daybefore his death, and cast it into the copper bowl. As the golden ringfell, a sound like the heavy clang of a bell rang out, and on the strokeof this reverberation the Chevalier, the canon, the celebrant, theservers, the ladies and their cavaliers, the whole assembly vanishedutterly; the candles guttered out, and Catherine Fontaine was left alonein the darkness. "

Having concluded his narrative after this fashion, the sacristan drank along draught of wine, remained pensive for a moment, and then resumedhis talk in these words:

"I have told you this tale exactly as my father has told it to me overand over again, and I believe that it is authentic, because it agrees inall respects with what I have observed of the manners and customspeculiar to those who have passed away. I have associated a good dealwith the dead ever since my childhood, and I know that they areaccustomed to return to what they have loved. 

"It is on this account that the miserly dead wander at night in theneighborhood of the treasures they conceal during their life time. Theykeep a strict watch over their gold; but the trouble they givethemselves, far from being of service to them, turns to theirdisadvantage; and it is not a rare thing at all to come upon moneyburied in the ground on digging in a place haunted by a ghost. In thesame way deceased husbands come by night to harass their wives who havemade a second matrimonial venture, and I could easily name several whohave kept a better watch over their wives since death than they ever didwhile living. 

"That sort of thing is blameworthy, for in all fairness the dead have nobusiness to stir up jealousies. Still I do but tell you what I haveobserved myself. It is a matter to take into account if one marries awidow. Besides, the tale I have told you is vouchsafed for in themanner following:

"The morning after that extraordinary night Catherine Fontaine wasdiscovered dead in her chamber. And the beadle attached to St. Eulaliefound in the copper bowl used for the collection a gold ring with twoclasped hands. Besides, I'm not the kind of man to make jokes. Supposewe order another bottle of wine?. . . "

What Was It?

BY FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN

It is, I confess, with considerable diffidence, that I approach thestrange narrative which I am about to relate. The events which I purposedetailing are of so extraordinary a character that I am quite preparedto meet with an unusual amount of incredulity and scorn. I accept allsuch beforehand. I have, I trust, the literary courage to face unbelief. I have, after mature consideration resolved to narrate, in as simple andstraightforward a manner as I can compass, some facts that passed undermy observation, in the month of July last, and which, in the annals ofthe mysteries of physical science, are wholly unparalleled. 

I live at No. ---- Twenty-sixth Street, in New York. The house is in somerespects a curious one. It has enjoyed for the last two years thereputation of being haunted. It is a large and stately residence, surrounded by what was once a garden, but which is now only a greenenclosure used for bleaching clothes. The dry basin of what has been afountain, and a few fruit trees ragged and unpruned, indicate that thisspot in past days was a pleasant, shady retreat, filled with fruits andflowers and the sweet murmur of waters. 

The house is very spacious. A hall of noble size leads to a large spiralstaircase winding through its center, while the various apartments areof imposing dimensions. It was built some fifteen or twenty years sinceby Mr. A----, the well-known New York merchant, who five years ago threwthe commercial world into convulsions by a stupendous bank fraud. Mr. A----, as everyone knows, escaped to Europe, and died not long after, ofa broken heart. Almost immediately after the news of his decease reachedthis country and was verified, the report spread in Twenty-sixth Streetthat No. ---- was haunted. Legal measures had dispossessed the widow ofits former owner, and it was inhabited merely by a caretaker and hiswife, placed there by the house agent into whose hands it had passed forthe purposes of renting or sale. These people declared that they weretroubled with unnatural noises. Doors were opened without any visibleagency. The remnants of furniture scattered through the various roomswere, during the night, piled one upon the other by unknown hands. Invisible feet passed up and down the stairs in broad daylight, accompanied by the rustle of unseen silk dresses, and the gliding ofviewless hands along the massive balusters. The caretaker and his wifedeclared they would live there no longer. The house agent laughed, dismissed them, and put others in their place. The noises andsupernatural manifestations continued. The neighborhood caught up thestory, and the house remained untenanted for three years. Severalpersons negotiated for it; but, somehow, always before the bargain wasclosed they heard the unpleasant rumors and declined to treat anyfurther. 

It was in this state of things that my landlady, who at that time kept aboarding-house in Bleecker Street, and who wished to move further uptown, conceived the bold idea of renting No. ---- Twenty-sixth Street. Happening to have in her house rather a plucky and philosophical set ofboarders, she laid her scheme before us, stating candidly everything shehad heard respecting the ghostly qualities of the establishment to whichshe wished to remove us. With the exception of two timid persons, --asea-captain and a returned Californian, who immediately gave notice thatthey would leave, --all of Mrs. Moffat's guests declared that they wouldaccompany her in her chivalric incursion into the abode of spirits. 

Our removal was effected in the month of May, and we were charmed withour new residence. The portion of Twenty-sixth Street where our house issituated, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, is one of the pleasantestlocalities in New York. The gardens back of the houses, running downnearly to the Hudson, form, in the summer time, a perfect avenue ofverdure. The air is pure and invigorating, sweeping, as it does, straight across the river from the Weehawken heights, and even theragged garden which surrounded the house, although displaying on washingdays rather too much clothesline, still gave us a piece of greensward tolook at, and a cool retreat in the summer evenings, where we smoked ourcigars in the dusk, and watched the fireflies flashing their darklanterns in the long grass. 

Of course we had no sooner established ourselves at No. ---- than webegan to expect ghosts. We absolutely awaited their advent witheagerness. Our dinner conversation was supernatural. One of theboarders, who had purchased Mrs. Crowe's _Night Side of Nature_ for hisown private delectation, was regarded as a public enemy by the entirehousehold for not having bought twenty copies. The man led a life ofsupreme wretchedness while he was reading this volume. A system ofespionage was established, of which he was the victim. If heincautiously laid the book down for an instant and left the room, it wasimmediately seized and read aloud in secret places to a select few. Ifound myself a person of immense importance, it having leaked out that Iwas tolerably well versed in the history of supernaturalism, and hadonce written a story the foundation of which was a ghost. If a table ora wainscot panel happened to warp when we were assembled in the largedrawing-room, there was an instant silence, and everyone was preparedfor an immediate clanking of chains and a spectral form. 

After a month of psychological excitement, it was with the utmostdissatisfaction that we were forced to acknowledge that nothing in theremotest degree approaching the supernatural had manifested itself. Oncethe black butler asseverated that his candle had been blown out by someinvisible agency while he was undressing himself for the night; but as Ihad more than once discovered this colored gentleman in a condition whenone candle must have appeared to him like two, thought it possible that, by going a step further in his potations, he might have reversed thisphenomenon, and seen no candle at all where he ought to have beheld one. 

Things were in this state when an accident took place so awful andinexplicable in its character that my reason fairly reels at the barememory of the occurrence. It was the tenth of July. After dinner wasover I repaired, with my friend Dr. Hammond, to the garden to smoke myevening pipe. Independent of certain mental sympathies which existedbetween the Doctor and myself, we were linked together by a vice. Weboth smoked opium. We knew each other's secret, and respected it. Weenjoyed together that wonderful expansion of thought, that marvelousintensifying of the perceptive faculties, that boundless feeling ofexistence when we seem to have points of contact with the wholeuniverse, --in short, that unimaginable spiritual bliss, which I wouldnot surrender for a throne, and which I hope you, reader, willnever--never taste. 

Those hours of opium happiness which the Doctor and I spent together insecret were regulated with a scientific accuracy. We did not blindlysmoke the drug of paradise, and leave our dreams to chance. Whilesmoking, we carefully steered our conversation through the brightest andcalmest channels of thought. We talked of the East, and endeavored torecall the magical panorama of its glowing scenery. We criticized themost sensuous poets, --those who painted life ruddy with health, brimmingwith passion, happy in the possession of youth and strength and beauty. If we talked of Shakespeare's _Tempest_, we lingered over Ariel, andavoided Caliban. Like the Guebers, we turned our faces to the East, andsaw only the sunny side of the world. 

This skillful coloring of our train of thought produced in oursubsequent visions a corresponding tone. The splendors of Arabianfairyland dyed our dreams. We paced the narrow strip of grass with thetread and port of kings. The song of the _rana arborea_, while he clungto the bark of the ragged plum-tree, sounded like the strains of divinemusicians. Houses, walls, and streets melted like rain clouds, andvistas of unimaginable glory stretched away before us. It was arapturous companionship. We enjoyed the vast delight more perfectlybecause, even in our most ecstatic moments, we were conscious of eachother's presence. Our pleasures, while individual, were still twin, vibrating and moving in musical accord. 

On the evening in question, the tenth of July, the Doctor and myselfdrifted into an unusually metaphysical mood. We lit our largemeerschaums, filled with fine Turkish tobacco, in the core of whichburned a little black nut of opium, that, like the nut in the fairytale, held within its narrow limits wonders beyond the reach of kings;we paced to and fro, conversing. A strange perversity dominated thecurrents of our thought. They would _not_ flow through the sun-litchannels into which we strove to divert them. For some unaccountablereason, they constantly diverged into dark and lonesome beds, where acontinual gloom brooded. It was in vain that, after our old fashion, weflung ourselves on the shores of the East, and talked of its gaybazaars, of the splendors of the time of Haroun, of harems and goldenpalaces. Black afreets continually arose from the depths of our talk, and expanded, like the one the fisherman released from the coppervessel, until they blotted everything bright from our vision. Insensibly, we yielded to the occult force that swayed us, and indulgedin gloomy speculation. We had talked some time upon the proneness of thehuman mind to mysticism, and the almost universal love of the terrible, when Hammond suddenly said to me. "What do you consider to be thegreatest element of terror?"

The question puzzled me. That many things were terrible, I knew. Stumbling over a corpse in the dark; beholding, as I once did, a womanfloating down a deep and rapid river, with wildly lifted arms, andawful, upturned face, uttering, as she drifted, shrieks that rent one'sheart while we, spectators, stood frozen at a window which overhung theriver at a height of sixty feet, unable to make the slightest effort tosave her, but dumbly watching her last supreme agony and herdisappearance. A shattered wreck, with no life visible, encounteredfloating listlessly on the ocean, is a terrible object, for it suggestsa huge terror, the proportions of which are veiled. But it now struckme, for the first time, that there must be one great and rulingembodiment of fear, --a King of Terrors, to which all others mustsuccumb. What might it be? To what train of circumstances would it oweits existence?

"I confess, Hammond, " I replied to my friend, "I never considered thesubject before. That there must be one Something more terrible than anyother thing, I feel. I cannot attempt, however, even the most vaguedefinition. "

"I am somewhat like you, Harry, " he answered. "I feel my capacity toexperience a terror greater than anything yet conceived by the humanmind;--something combining in fearful and unnatural amalgamationhitherto supposed incompatible elements. The calling of the voices inBrockden Brown's novel of _Wieland_ is awful; so is the picture of theDweller of the Threshold, in Bulwer's _Zanoni_; but, " he added, shakinghis head gloomily, "there is something more horrible still than those. "

"Look here, Hammond, " I rejoined, "let us drop this kind of talk, forHeaven's sake! We shall suffer for it, depend on it. "

"I don't know what's the matter with me to-night, " he replied, "but mybrain is running upon all sorts of weird and awful thoughts. I feel asif I could write a story like Hoffman, to-night, if I were only masterof a literary style. "

"Well, if we are going to be Hoffmanesque in our talk, I'm off to bed. Opium and nightmares should never be brought together. How sultry it is!Good-night, Hammond. "

"Good-night, Harry. Pleasant dreams to you. "

"To you, gloomy wretch, afreets, ghouls, and enchanters. "

We parted, and each sought his respective chamber. I undressed quicklyand got into bed, taking with me, according to my usual custom, a book, over which I generally read myself to sleep. I opened the volume as soonas I had laid my head upon the pillow, and instantly flung it to theother side of the room. It was Goudon's _History of Monsters_, --acurious French work, which I had lately imported from Paris, but which, in the state of mind I had then reached, was anything but an agreeablecompanion. I resolved to go to sleep at once; so, turning down my gasuntil nothing but a little blue point of light glimmered on the top ofthe tube, I composed myself to rest. 

The room was in total darkness. The atom of gas that still remainedalight did not illuminate a distance of three inches round the burner. Idesperately drew my arm across my eyes, as if to shut out even thedarkness, and tried to think of nothing. It was in vain. The confoundedthemes touched on by Hammond in the garden kept obtruding themselves onmy brain. I battled against them. I erected ramparts of would-beblackness of intellect to keep them out. They still crowded upon me. While I was lying still as a corpse, hoping that by a perfect physicalinaction I should hasten mental repose, an awful incident occurred. ASomething dropped, as it seemed, from the ceiling, plumb upon my chest, and the next instant I felt two bony hands encircling my throat, endeavoring to choke me. 

I am no coward, and am possessed of considerable physical strength. Thesuddenness of the attack, instead of stunning me, strung every nerve toits highest tension. My body acted from instinct, before my brain hadtime to realize the terrors of my position. In an instant I wound twomuscular arms around the creature, and squeezed it, with all thestrength of despair, against my chest. In a few seconds the bony handsthat had fastened on my throat loosened their hold, and I was free tobreathe once more. Then commenced a struggle of awful intensity. Immersed in the most profound darkness, totally ignorant of the natureof the Thing by which I was so suddenly attacked, finding my graspslipping every moment, by reason, it seemed to me, of the entirenakedness of my assailant, bitten with sharp teeth in the shoulder, neck, and chest, having every moment to protect my throat against a pairof sinewy, agile hands, which my utmost efforts could notconfine, --these were a combination of circumstances to combat whichrequired all the strength, skill, and courage that I possessed. 

At last, after a silent, deadly, exhausting struggle, I got my assailantunder by a series of incredible efforts of strength. Once pinned, withmy knee on what I made out to be its chest, I knew that I was victor. Irested for a moment to breathe. I heard the creature beneath me pantingin the darkness, and felt the violent throbbing of a heart. It wasapparently as exhausted as I was; that was one comfort. At this moment Iremembered that I usually placed under my pillow, before going to bed, alarge yellow silk pocket handkerchief. I felt for it instantly; it wasthere. In a few seconds more I had, after a fashion, pinioned thecreature's arms. 

I now felt tolerably secure. There was nothing more to be done but toturn on the gas, and, having first seen what my midnight assailant waslike, arouse the household. I will confess to being actuated by acertain pride in not giving the alarm before; I wished to make thecapture alone and unaided. 

Never losing my hold for an instant, I slipped from the bed to thefloor, dragging my captive with me. I had but a few steps to make toreach the gas-burner; these I made with the greatest caution, holdingthe creature in a grip like a vice. At last I got within arm's length ofthe tiny speck of blue light which told me where the gas-burner lay. Quick as lightning I released my grasp with one hand and let on the fullflood of light. Then I turned to look at my captive. 

I cannot even attempt to give any definition of my sensations theinstant after I turned on the gas. I suppose I must have shrieked withterror, for in less than a minute afterward my room was crowded with theinmates of the house. I shudder now as I think of that awful moment. _Isaw nothing_! Yes; I had one arm firmly clasped round a breathing, panting, corporeal shape, my other hand gripped with all its strength athroat as warm, as apparently fleshy, as my own; and yet, with thisliving substance in my grasp, with its body pressed against my own, andall in the bright glare of a large jet of gas, I absolutely beheldnothing! Not even an outline, --a vapor!

I do not, even at this hour, realize the situation in which I foundmyself. I cannot recall the astounding incident thoroughly. Imaginationin vain tries to compass the awful paradox. 

It breathed. I felt its warm breath upon my cheek. It struggledfiercely. It had hands. They clutched me. Its skin was smooth, like myown. There it lay, pressed close up against me, solid as stone, --andyet utterly invisible!

I wonder that I did not faint or go mad on the instant. Some wonderfulinstinct must have sustained me; for, absolutely, in place of looseningmy hold on the terrible Enigma, I seemed to gain an additional strengthin my moment of horror, and tightened my grasp with such wonderful forcethat I felt the creature shivering with agony. 

Just then Hammond entered my room at the head of the household. As soonas he beheld my face--which, I suppose, must have been an awful sight tolook at--he hastened forward, crying, "Great heaven, Harry! what hashappened?"

"Hammond! Hammond!" I cried, "come here. O, this is awful! I have beenattacked in bed by something or other, which I have hold of; but I can'tsee it, --I can't see it!"

Hammond, doubtless struck by the unfeigned horror expressed in mycountenance, made one or two steps forward with an anxious yet puzzledexpression. A very audible titter burst from the remainder of myvisitors. This suppressed laughter made me furious. To laugh at a humanbeing in my position! It was the worst species of cruelty. _Now_, I canunderstand why the appearance of a man struggling violently, as it wouldseem, with an airy nothing, and calling for assistance against a vision, should have appeared ludicrous. _Then_, so great was my rage against themocking crowd that had I the power I would have stricken them deadwhere they stood. 

"Hammond! Hammond!" I cried again, despairingly, "for God's sake come tome. I can hold the--the thing but a short while longer. It isoverpowering me. Help me! Help me!"

"Harry, " whispered Hammond, approaching me, "you have been smoking toomuch opium. "

"I swear to you, Hammond, that this is no vision, " I answered, in thesame low tone. "Don't you see how it shakes my whole frame with itsstruggles? If you don't believe me, convince yourself. Feel it, --touchit. "

Hammond advanced and laid his hand in the spot I indicated. A wild cryof horror burst from him. He had felt it!

In a moment he had discovered somewhere in my room a long piece of cord, and was the next instant winding it and knotting it about the body ofthe unseen being that I clasped in my arms. 

"Harry, " he said, in a hoarse, agitated voice, for, though he preservedhis presence of mind, he was deeply moved, "Harry, it's all safe now. You may let go, old fellow, if you're tired. The Thing can't move. "

I was utterly exhausted, and I gladly loosed my hold. 

Hammond stood holding the ends of the cord that bound the Invisible, twisted round his hand, while before him, self-supporting as it were, hebeheld a rope laced and interlaced, and stretching tightly around avacant space. I never saw a man look so thoroughly stricken with awe. Nevertheless his face expressed all the courage and determination whichI knew him to possess. His lips, although white, were set firmly, andone could perceive at a glance that, although stricken with fear, he wasnot daunted. 

The confusion that ensued among the guests of the house who werewitnesses of this extraordinary scene between Hammond and myself, --whobeheld the pantomime of binding this struggling Something, --who beheldme almost sinking from physical exhaustion when my task of jailer wasover, --the confusion and terror that took possession of the bystanders, when they saw all this, was beyond description. The weaker ones fledfrom the apartment. The few who remained clustered near the door andcould not be induced to approach Hammond and his Charge. Stillincredulity broke out through their terror. They had not the courage tosatisfy themselves, and yet they doubted. It was in vain that I beggedof some of the men to come near and convince themselves by touch of theexistence in that room of a living being which was invisible. They wereincredulous, but did not dare to undeceive themselves. How could asolid, living, breathing body be invisible, they asked. My reply wasthis. I gave a sign to Hammond, and both of us--conquering our fearfulrepugnance to touch the invisible creature--lifted it from the ground, manacled as it was, and took it to my bed. Its weight was about that ofa boy of fourteen. 

"Now my friends, " I said, as Hammond and myself held the creaturesuspended over the bed, "I can give you self-evident proof that here isa solid, ponderable body, which, nevertheless, you cannot see. Be goodenough to watch the surface of the bed attentively. "

I was astonished at my own courage in treating this strange event socalmly; but I had recovered from my first terror, and felt a sort ofscientific pride in the affair, which dominated every other feeling. 

The eyes of the bystanders were immediately fixed on my bed. At a givensignal Hammond and I let the creature fall. There was a dull sound of aheavy body alighting on a soft mass. The timbers of the bed creaked. Adeep impression marked itself distinctly on the pillow, and on the beditself. The crowd who witnessed this gave a low cry, and rushed from theroom. Hammond and I were left alone with our Mystery. 

We remained silent for some time, listening to the low, irregularbreathing of the creature on the bed, and watching the rustle of thebedclothes as it impotently struggled to free itself from confinement. Then Hammond spoke. 

"Harry, this is awful. "

"Ay, awful. "

"But not unaccountable. "

"Not unaccountable! What do you mean? Such a thing has never occurredsince the birth of the world. I know not what to think, Hammond. Godgrant that I am not mad, and that this is not an insane fantasy!"

"Let us reason a little, Harry. Here is a solid body which we touch, butwhich we cannot see. The fact is so unusual that it strikes us withterror. Is there no parallel, though, for such a phenomenon? Take apiece of pure glass. It is tangible and transparent. A certain chemicalcoarseness is all that prevents its being so entirely transparent as tobe totally invisible. It is not _theoretically impossible_, mind you, tomake a glass which shall not reflect a single ray of light, --a glass sopure and homogeneous in its atoms that the rays from the sun will passthrough it as they do through the air, refracted but not reflected. Wedo not see the air, and yet we feel it. "

"That's all very well, Hammond, but these are inanimate substances. Glass does not breathe, air does not breathe. _This_ thing has a heartthat palpitates, --a will that moves it, --lungs that play, and inspireand respire. "

"You forget the phenomena of which we have so often heard of late, "answered the Doctor, gravely. "At the meetings called 'spirit circles, 'invisible hands have been thrust into the hands of those persons roundthe table, --warm, fleshly hands that seemed to pulsate with mortallife. "

"What? Do you think, then, that this thing is----"

"I don't know what it is, " was the solemn reply; "but please the gods Iwill, with your assistance, thoroughly investigate it. "

We watched together, smoking many pipes, all night long, by the bedsideof the unearthly being that tossed and panted until it was apparentlywearied out. Then we learned by the low, regular breathing that itslept. 

The next morning the house was all astir. The boarders congregated onthe landing outside my room, and Hammond and myself were lions. We hadto answer a thousand questions as to the state of our extraordinaryprisoner, for as yet not one person in the house except ourselves couldbe I induced to set foot in the apartment. 

The creature was awake. This was evidenced by the convulsive manner inwhich the bedclothes were moved in its efforts to escape. There wassomething truly terrible in beholding, as it were, those second-handindications of the terrible writhings and agonized struggles for libertywhich themselves were invisible. 

Hammond and myself had racked our brains during the long night todiscover some means by which we might realize the shape and generalappearance of the Enigma. As well as we could make out by passing ourhands over the creature's form, its outlines and lineaments were human. There was a mouth; a round, smooth head without hair; a nose, which, however, was little elevated above the cheeks; and its hands and feetfelt like those of a boy. At first we thought of placing the being on asmooth surface and tracing its outlines with chalk, as shoemakers tracethe outline of the foot. This plan was given up as being of no value. Such an outline would give not the slightest idea of its conformation. 

A happy thought struck me. We would take a cast of it in plaster ofParis. This would give us the solid figure, and satisfy all our wishes. But how to do it? The movements of the creature would disturb thesetting of the plastic covering, and distort the mold. Another thought. Why not give it chloroform? It had respiratory organs, --that was evidentby its breathing. Once reduced to a state of insensibility, we could dowith it what we would. Doctor X---- was sent for; and after the worthyphysician had recovered from the first shock of amazement, he proceededto administer the chloroform. In three minutes afterward we were enabledto remove the fetters from the creature's body, and a modeler was busilyengaged in covering the invisible form with the moist clay. In fiveminutes more we had a mold, and before evening a rough facsimile of theMystery. It was shaped like a man--distorted, uncouth, and horrible, butstill a man. It was small, not over four feet and some inches in height, and its limbs revealed a muscular development that was unparalleled. Itsface surpassed in hideousness anything I had ever seen. Gustav Doré, orCallot, or Tony Johannot, never conceived anything so horrible. Thereis a face in one of the latter's illustrations to _Un Voyage où il vousplaira_, which somewhat approaches the countenance of this creature, butdoes not equal it. It was the physiognomy of what I should fancy a ghoulmight be. It looked as if it was capable of feeding on human flesh. 

Having satisfied our curiosity, and bound every one in the house tosecrecy, it became a question what was to be done with our Enigma? Itwas impossible that we should keep such a horror in our house; it wasequally impossible that such an awful being should be let loose upon theworld. I confess that I would have gladly voted for the creature'sdestruction. But who would shoulder the responsibility? Who wouldundertake the execution of this horrible semblance of a human being? Dayafter day this question was deliberated gravely. The boarders all leftthe house. Mrs. Moffat was in despair, and threatened Hammond and myselfwith all sorts of legal penalties if we did not remove the Horror. Ouranswer was, "We will go if you like, but we decline taking this creaturewith us. Remove it yourself if you please. It appeared in your house. Onyou the responsibility rests. " To this there was, of course, no answer. Mrs. Moffat could not obtain for love or money a person who would evenapproach the Mystery. 

The most singular part of the affair was that we were entirely ignorantof what the creature habitually fed on. Everything in the way ofnutriment that we could think of was placed before it, but was nevertouched. It was awful to stand by, day after day, and see the clothestoss, and hear the hard breathing, and know that it was starving. 

Ten, twelve days, a fortnight passed, and it still lived. The pulsationsof the heart, however, were daily growing fainter, and had now nearlyceased. It was evident that the creature was dying for want ofsustenance. While this terrible life-struggle was going on, I feltmiserable. I could not sleep. Horrible as the creature was, it waspitiful to think of the pangs it was suffering. 

At last it died. Hammond and I found it cold and stiff one morning inthe bed. The heart had ceased to beat, the lungs to inspire. We hastenedto bury it in the garden. It was a strange funeral, the dropping of thatviewless corpse into the damp hole. The cast of its form I gave toDoctor X----, who keeps it in his museum in Tenth Street. 

As I am on the eve of a long journey from which I may not return, I havedrawn up this narrative of an event the most singular that has ever cometo my knowledge. 

The Middle Toe of the Right Foot

BY AMBROSE BIERCE

 From _Can Such Things Be?_ by Ambrose Bierce. Copyright by the Neale Publishing Company. By permission of the publishers. 

I

It is well known that the old Manton house is haunted. In all the ruraldistrict near about, and even in the town of Marshall, a mile away, notone person of unbiased mind entertains a doubt of it; incredulity isconfined to those opinionated persons who will be called "cranks" assoon as the useful word shall have penetrated the intellectual demesneof the Marshall _Advance_. The evidence that the house is haunted is oftwo kinds; the testimony of disinterested witnesses who have had ocularproof, and that of the house itself. The former may be disregarded andruled out on any of the various grounds of objection which may be urgedagainst it by the ingenious; but facts within the observation of all arematerial and controlling. 

In the first place the Manton house has been unoccupied by mortals formore than ten years, and with its outbuildings is slowly falling intodecay--a circumstance which in itself the judicious will hardly ventureto ignore. It stands a little way off the loneliest reach of theMarshall and Harriston road, in an opening which was once a farm and isstill disfigured with strips of rotting fence and half covered withbrambles overrunning a stony and sterile soil long unacquainted with theplow. The house itself is in tolerably good condition, though badlyweather-stained and in dire need of attention from the glazier, thesmaller male population of the region having attested in the manner ofits kind its disapproval of dwelling without dwellers. It is two storiesin height, nearly square, its front pierced by a single doorway flankedon each side by a window boarded up to the very top. Correspondingwindows above, not protected, serve to admit light and rain to the roomsof the upper floor. Grass and weeds grow pretty rankly all about, and afew shade trees, somewhat the worse for wind, and leaning all in onedirection, seem to be making a concerted effort to run away. In short, as the Marshall town humorist explained in the columns of the _Advance_, "the proposition that the Manton house is badly haunted is the onlylogical conclusion from the premises. " The fact that in this dwellingMr. Manton thought it expedient one night some ten years ago to rise andcut the throats of his wife and two small children, removing at once toanother part of the country, has no doubt done its share in directingpublic attention to the fitness of the place for supernatural phenomena. 

To this house, one summer evening, came four men in a wagon. Three ofthem promptly alighted, and the one who had been driving hitched theteam to the only remaining post of what had been a fence. The fourthremained seated in the wagon. "Come, " said one of his companions, approaching him, while the others moved away in the direction of thedwelling--"this is the place. "

The man addressed did not move. "By God!" he said harshly, "this is atrick, and it looks to me as if you were in it. "

"Perhaps I am, " the other said, looking him straight in the face andspeaking in a tone which had something of contempt in it. "You willremember, however, that the choice of place was with your own assentleft to the other side. Of course if you are afraid of spooks--"

"I am afraid of nothing, " the man interrupted with another oath, andsprang to the ground. The two then joined the others at the door, whichone of them had already opened with some difficulty, caused by rust oflock and hinge. All entered. Inside it was dark, but the man who hadunlocked the door produced a candle and matches and made a light. Hethen unlocked a door on their right as they stood in the passage. Thisgave them entrance to a large, square room that the candle but dimlylighted. The floor had a thick carpeting of dust, which partly muffledtheir footfalls. Cobwebs were in the angles of the walls and dependedfrom the ceiling like strips of rotting lace making undulatory movementsin the disturbed air. The room had two windows in adjoining sides, butfrom neither could anything be seen except the rough inner surfaces ofboards a few inches from the glass. There was no fireplace, nofurniture; there was nothing: besides the cobwebs and the dust, the fourmen were the only objects there which were not a part of the structure. 

Strange enough they looked in the yellow light of the candle. The onewho had so reluctantly alighted was especially spectacular--he mighthave been called sensational. He was of middle age, heavily built, deepchested, and broad shouldered. Looking at his figure, one would havesaid that he had a giant's strength; at his features, that he would useit like a giant. He was clean shaven, his hair rather closely croppedand gray. His low forehead was seamed with wrinkles above the eyes, andover the nose these became vertical. The heavy black brows followed thesame law, saved from meeting only by an upward turn at what wouldotherwise have been the point of contact. Deeply sunken beneath these, glowed in the obscure light a pair of eyes of uncertain color, butobviously enough too small. There was something forbidding in theirexpression, which was not bettered by the cruel mouth and wide jaw. Thenose was well enough, as noses go; one does not expect much of noses. All that was sinister in the man's face seemed accentuated by anunnatural pallor--he appeared altogether bloodless. 

The appearance of the other men was sufficiently commonplace; they weresuch persons as one meets and forgets that he met. All were younger thanthe man described, between whom and the eldest of the others, who stoodapart, there was apparently no kindly feeling. They avoided looking ateach other. 

"Gentlemen, " said the man holding the candle and keys, "I believeeverything is right. Are you ready, Mr. Rosser?"

The man standing apart from the group bowed and smiled. 

"And you, Mr. Grossmith?"

The heavy man bowed and scowled. 

"You will be pleased to remove your outer clothing. "

Their hats, coats, waistcoats, and neckwear were soon removed and thrownoutside the door, in the passage. The man with the candle now nodded, and the fourth man--he who had urged Grossmith to leave thewagon--produced from the pocket of his overcoat two long, murderous-looking bowie-knives, which he drew now from their leatherscabbards. 

"They are exactly alike, " he said, presenting one to each of the twoprincipals--for by this time the dullest observer would have understoodthe nature of this meeting. It was to be a duel to the death. 

Each combatant took a knife, examined it critically near the candle andtested the strength of the blade and handle across his lifted knee. Theirpersons were then searched in turn, each by the second of the other. 

"If it is agreeable to you, Mr. Grossmith, " said the man holding thelight, "you will place yourself in that corner. "

He indicated the angle of the room farthest from the door, whitherGrossmith retired, his second parting from him with a grasp of the handwhich had nothing of cordiality in it. In the angle nearest the door Mr. Rosser stationed himself, and after a whispered consultation his secondleft him, joining the other near the door. At that moment the candle wassuddenly extinguished, leaving all in profound darkness. This may havebeen done by a draught from the opened door; whatever the cause, theeffect was startling. 

"Gentlemen, " said a voice which sounded strangely unfamiliar in thealtered condition affecting the relations of the senses--"gentlemen, youwill not move until you hear the closing of the outer door. "

A sound of trampling ensued, then the closing of the inner door; andfinally the outer one closed with a concussion which shook the entirebuilding. 

A few minutes afterward a belated farmer's boy met a light wagon whichwas being driven furiously toward the town of Marshall. He declared thatbehind the two figures on the front seat stood a third, with its handsupon the bowed shoulders of the others, who appeared to struggle vainlyto free themselves from its grasp. This figure, unlike the others, wasclad in white, and had undoubtedly boarded the wagon as it passed thehaunted house. As the lad could boast a considerable former experiencewith the supernatural thereabouts his word had the weight justly due tothe testimony of an expert. The story (in connection with the next day'sevents) eventually appeared in the _Advance_, with some slight literaryembellishments and a concluding intimation that the gentlemen referredto would be allowed the use of the paper's columns for their version ofthe night's adventure. But the privilege remained without a claimant. 

II

The events that led up to this "duel in the dark" were simple enough. One evening three young men of the town of Marshall were sitting in aquiet corner of the porch of the village hotel, smoking and discussingsuch matters as three educated young men of a Southern village wouldnaturally find interesting. Their names were King, Sancher, and Rosser. At a little distance, within easy hearing, but taking no part in theconversation, sat a fourth. He was a stranger to the others. Theymerely knew that on his arrival by the stage-coach that afternoon he hadwritten in the hotel register the name of Robert Grossmith. He had notbeen observed to speak to anyone except the hotel clerk. He seemed, indeed, singularly fond of his own company--or, as the _personnel_ ofthe _Advance_ expressed it, "grossly addicted to evil associations. " Butthen it should be said in justice to the stranger that the _personnel_was himself of a too convivial disposition fairly to judge onedifferently gifted, and had, moreover, experienced a slight rebuff in aneffort at an "interview. "

"I hate any kind of deformity in a woman, " said King, "whether naturalor--acquired. I have a theory that any physical defect has itscorrelative mental and moral defect. "

"I infer, then, " said Rosser, gravely, "that a lady lacking the moraladvantage of a nose would find the struggle to become Mrs. King anarduous enterprise. "

"Of course you may put it that way, " was the reply; "but, seriously, Ionce threw over a most charming girl on learning quite accidentally thatshe had suffered amputation of a toe. My conduct was brutal if you like, but if I had married that girl I should have been miserable for life andshould have made her so. "

"Whereas, " said Sancher, with a light laugh, "by marrying a gentleman ofmore liberal view she escaped with a parted throat. "

"Ah, you know to whom I refer. Yes, she married Manton, but I don't knowabout his liberality; I'm not sure but he cut her throat because hediscovered that she lacked that excellent thing in woman, the middle toeof the right foot. "

"Look at that chap!" said Rosser in a low voice, his eyes fixed upon thestranger. 

That chap was obviously listening intently to the conversation. 

"Damn his impudence!" muttered King--"what ought we to do?"

"That's an easy one, " Rosser replied, rising. "Sir, " he continued, addressing the stranger, "I think it would be better if you would removeyour chair to the other end of the veranda. The presence of gentlemen isevidently an unfamiliar situation to you. "

The man sprang to his feet and strode forward with clenched hands, hisface white with rage. All were now standing. Sancher stepped between thebelligerents. 

"You are hasty and unjust, " he said to Rosser; "this gentleman has donenothing to deserve such language. "

But Rosser would not withdraw a word. By the custom of the country andthe time there could be but one outcome to the quarrel. 

"I demand the satisfaction due to a gentleman, " said the stranger, whohad become more calm. "I have not an acquaintance in this region. Perhaps you, sir, " bowing to Sancher, "will be kind enough to representme in this matter. "

Sancher accepted the trust--somewhat reluctantly it must be confessed, for the man's appearance and manner were not at all to his liking. King, who during the colloquy had hardly removed his eyes from the stranger'sface and had not spoken a word, consented with a nod to act for Rosser, and the upshot of it was that, the principals having retired, a meetingwas arranged for the next evening. The nature of the arrangements hasbeen already disclosed. The duel with knives in a dark room was once acommoner feature of Southwestern life than it is likely to be again. Howthin a veneering of "chivalry" covered the essential brutality of thecode under which such encounters were possible we shall see. 

III

In the blaze of a midsummer noonday the old Manton house was hardly trueto its traditions. It was of the earth, earthy. The sunshine caressed itwarmly and affectionately, with evident disregard of its bad reputation. The grass greening all the expanse in its front seemed to grow, notrankly, but with a natural and joyous exuberance, and the weedsblossomed quite like plants. Full of charming lights and shadows andpopulous with pleasant-voiced birds, the neglected shade trees no longerstruggled to run away, but bent reverently beneath their burdens of sunand song. Even in the glassless upper windows was an expression of peaceand contentment, due to the light within. Over the stony fields thevisible heat danced with a lively tremor incompatible with the gravitywhich is an attribute of the supernatural. 

Such was the aspect under which the place presented itself to SheriffAdams and two other men who had come out from Marshall to look at it. One of these men was Mr. King, the sheriff's deputy; the other, whosename was Brewer, was a brother of the late Mrs. Manton. Under abeneficent law of the State relating to property which has been for acertain period abandoned by an owner whose residence cannot beascertained, the sheriff was legal custodian of the Manton farm andappurtenances thereunto belonging. His present visit was in mereperfunctory compliance with some order of a court in which Mr. Brewerhad an action to get possession of the property as heir to his deceasedsister. By a mere coincidence, the visit was made on the day after thenight that Deputy King had unlocked the house for another and verydifferent purpose. His presence now was not of his own choosing: he hadbeen ordered to accompany his superior, and at the moment could think ofnothing more prudent than simulated alacrity in obedience to thecommand. 

Carelessly opening the front door, which to his surprise was not locked, the sheriff was amazed to see, lying on the floor of the passage intowhich it opened, a confused heap of men's apparel. Examination showed itto consist of two hats, and the same number of coats, waistcoats, andscarves all in a remarkably good state of preservation, albeit somewhatdefiled by the dust in which they lay. Mr. Brewer was equallyastonished, but Mr. King's emotion is not of record. With a new andlively interest in his own actions the sheriff now unlatched and pushedopen a door on the right, and the three entered. The room was apparentlyvacant--no; as their eyes became accustomed to the dimmer lightsomething was visible in the farthest angle of the wall. It was a humanfigure--that of a man crouching close in the corner. Something in theattitude made the intruders halt when they had barely passed thethreshold. The figure more and more clearly defined itself. The man wasupon one knee, his back in the angle of the wall, his shoulders elevatedto the level of his ears, his hands before his face, palms outward, thefingers spread and crooked like claws; the white face turned upward onthe retracted neck had an expression of unutterable fright, the mouthhalf open, the eyes incredibly expanded. He was stone dead. Yet with theexception of a bowie-knife, which had evidently fallen from his ownhand, not another object was in the room. 

In thick dust that covered the floor were some confused footprints nearthe door and along the wall through which it opened. Along one of theadjoining walls, too, past the boarded-up windows was the trail made bythe man himself in reaching his corner. Instinctively in approaching thebody the three men followed that trail. The sheriff grasped one of theoutthrown arms; it was as rigid as iron, and the application of a gentleforce rocked the entire body without altering the relation of its parts. Brewer, pale with excitement, gazed intently into the distorted face. "God of mercy!" he suddenly cried, "it is Manton!"

"You are right, " said King, with an evident attempt at calmness: "I knewManton. He then wore a full beard and his hair long, but this is he. "

He might have added: "I recognized him when he challenged Rosser. I toldRosser and Sancher who he was before we played him this horrible trick. When Rosser left this dark room at our heels, forgetting his outerclothing in the excitement, and driving away with us in his shirtsleeves--all through the discreditable proceedings we knew with whom wewere dealing, murderer and coward that he was!"

But nothing of this did Mr. King say. With his better light he wastrying to penetrate the mystery of the man's death. That he had not oncemoved from the corner where he had been stationed; that his posture wasthat of neither attack nor defense; that he had dropped his weapon; thathe had obviously perished of sheer horror of something that he_saw_--these were circumstances which Mr. King's disturbed intelligencecould not rightly comprehend. 

Groping in intellectual darkness for a clew to his maze of doubt, hisgaze, directed mechanically downward in the way of one who pondersmomentous matters, fell upon something which, there, in the light of dayand in the presence of living companions, affected him with terror. Inthe dust of years that lay thick upon the floor--leading from the doorby which they had entered, straight across the room to within a yard ofManton's crouching corpse--were three parallel lines offootprints--light but definite impressions of bare feet, the outer onesthose of small children, the inner a woman's. From the point at whichthey ended they did not return; they pointed all one way. Brewer, whohad observed them at the same moment, was leaning forward in an attitudeof rapt attention, horribly pale. 

"Look at that!" he cried, pointing with both hands at the nearest printof the woman's right foot, where she had apparently stopped and stood. "The middle toe is missing--it was Gertrude!"

Gertrude was the late Mrs. Manton, sister to Mr. Brewer. 

The Shell of Sense

BY OLIVIA HOWARD DUNBAR

 From Harper's Magazine, December, 1908. By permission of Harper and Brothers and Olivia Howard Dunbar. 

It was intolerably unchanged, the dim, dark-toned room. In an agony ofrecognition my glance ran from one to another of the comfortable, familiar things that my earthly life had been passed among. Incrediblydistant from it all as I essentially was. I noted sharply that the verygaps that I myself had left in my bookshelves still stood unfilled; thatthe delicate fingers of the ferns that I had tended were still stretchedfutilely toward the light; that the soft agreeable chuckle of my ownlittle clock, like some elderly woman with whom conversation has becomeautomatic, was undiminished. 

Unchanged--or so it seemed at first. But there were certain trivialdifferences that shortly smote me. The windows were closed too tightly;for I had always kept the house very cool, although I had known thatTheresa preferred warm rooms. And my work-basket was in disorder; it waspreposterous that so small a thing should hurt me so. Then, for this wasmy first experience of the shadow-folded transition, the odd alterationof my emotions bewildered me. For at one moment the place seemed sohumanly familiar, so distinctly my own proper envelope, that for love ofit I could have laid my cheek against the wall; while in the next I wasmiserably conscious of strange new shrillnesses. How could they beendured--and had I ever endured them?--those harsh influences that I nowperceived at the window; light and color so blinding that they obscuredthe form of the wind, tumult so discordant that one could scarcely hearthe roses open in the garden below?

But Theresa did not seem to mind any of these things. Disorder, it istrue, the dear child had never minded. She was sitting all this time atmy desk--at _my_ desk--occupied, I could only too easily surmise how. Inthe light of my own habits of precision it was plain that that sombrecorrespondence should have been attended to before; but I believe that Idid not really reproach Theresa, for I knew that her notes, when she didwrite them, were perhaps less perfunctory than mine. She finished thelast one as I watched her, and added it to the heap of black-borderedenvelopes that lay on the desk. Poor girl! I saw now that they had costher tears. Yet, living beside her day after day, year after year, I hadnever discovered what deep tenderness my sister possessed. Toward eachother it had been our habit to display only a temperate affection, and Iremember having always thought it distinctly fortunate for Theresa, since she was denied my happiness, that she could live so easily andpleasantly without emotions of the devastating sort. . . . And now, for thefirst time, I was really to behold her. . . . Could it be Theresa, afterall, this tangle of subdued turbulences? Let no one suppose that it isan easy thing to bear, the relentlessly lucid understanding that I thenfirst exercised; or that, in its first enfranchisement, the timid visiondoes not yearn for its old screens and mists. 

Suddenly, as Theresa sat there, her head, filled with its tenderthoughts of me, held in her gentle hands, I felt Allan's step on thecarpeted stair outside. Theresa felt it, too, --but how? for it was notaudible. She gave a start, swept the black envelopes out of sight, andpretended to be writing in a little book. Then I forgot to watch her anylonger in my absorption in Allan's coming. It was he, of course, that Iwas awaiting. It was for him that I had made this first lonely, frightened effort to return, to recover. . . . It was not that I hadsupposed he would allow himself to recognize my presence, for I had longbeen sufficiently familiar with his hard and fast denials of theinvisible. He was so reasonable always, so sane--so blindfolded. But Ihad hoped that because of his very rejection of the ether that nowcontained me I could perhaps all the more safely, the more secretly, watch him, linger near him. He was near now, very near, --but why didTheresa, sitting there in the room that had never belonged to her, appropriate for herself his coming? It was so manifestly I who haddrawn him, I whom he had come to seek. 

The door was ajar. He knocked softly at it "Are you there, Theresa?" hecalled. He expected to find her, then, there in my room? I shrank back, fearing, almost, to stay. 

"I shall have finished in a moment, " Theresa told him, and he sat downto wait for her. 

No spirit still unreleased can understand the pang that I felt withAllan sitting almost within my touch. Almost irresistibly the wish besetme to let him for an instant feel my nearness. Then I checked myself, remembering--oh, absurd, piteous human fears!--that my too unguardedcloseness might alarm him. It was not so remote a time that I myself hadknown them, those blind, uncouth timidities. I came, therefore, somewhatnearer--but I did not touch him. I merely leaned toward him and withincredible softness whispered his name. That much I could not haveforborne; the spell of life was still too strong in me. 

But it gave him no comfort, no delight. "Theresa!" he called, in a voicedreadful with alarm--and in that instant the last veil fell, anddesperately, scarce believingly, I beheld how it stood between them, those two. 

She turned to him that gentle look of hers. 

"Forgive me, " came from him hoarsely. "But I had suddenly themost--unaccountable sensation. Can there be too many windows open? Thereis such a--chill--about. "

"There are no windows open, " Theresa assured him. "I took care to shutout the chill. You are not well, Allan!"

"Perhaps not. " He embraced the suggestion. "And yet I feel no illnessapart from this abominable sensation that persists--persists. . . . Theresa, you must tell me: do I fancy it, or do you, too, feel--something--strange here?"

"Oh, there is something very strange here, " she half sobbed. "Therealways will be. "

"Good heavens, child, I didn't mean that!" He rose and stood lookingabout him. "I know, of course, that you have your beliefs, and I respectthem, but you know equally well that I have nothing of the sort!So--don't let us conjure up anything inexplicable. "

I stayed impalpably, imponderably near him. Wretched and bereft though Iwas, I could not have left him while he stood denying me. 

"What I mean, " he went on, in his low, distinct voice, "is a special, analmost ominous sense of cold. Upon my soul, Theresa, "--he paused--"if I_were_ superstitious, if I _were_ a woman, I should probably imagine itto seem--a presence!"

He spoke the last word very faintly, but Theresa shrank from itnevertheless. 

"_Don't_ say that, Allan!" she cried out. "Don't think it, I beg of you!I've tried so hard myself not to think it--and you must help me. Youknow it is only perturbed, uneasy spirits that wander. With her it isquite different. She has always been so happy--she must still be. "

I listened, stunned, to Theresa's sweet dogmatism. From what blinddistances came her confident misapprehensions, how dense, both for herand for Allan, was the separating vapor!

Allan frowned. "Don't take me literally, Theresa, " he explained; and I, who a moment before had almost touched him, now held myself aloof andheard him with a strange untried pity, new born in me. "I'm not speakingof what you call--spirits. It's something much more terrible. " Heallowed his head to sink heavily on his chest. "If I did not positivelyknow that I had never done her any harm, I should suppose myself to besuffering from guilt, from remorse. . . . Theresa, you know better than I, perhaps. Was she content, always? Did she believe in me?"

"Believe in you?--when she knew you to be so good!--when you adoredher!"

"She thought that? She said it? Then what in Heaven's name ailsme?--unless it is all as you believe, Theresa, and she knows now whatshe didn't know then, poor dear, and minds----"

"Minds what? What do you mean, Allan?"

I, who with my perhaps illegitimate advantage saw so clear, knew that hehad not meant to tell her: I did him that justice, even in my firstjealousy. If I had not tortured him so by clinging near him, he wouldnot have told her. But the moment came, and overflowed, and he did tellher--passionate, tumultuous story that it was. During all our lifetogether, Allan's and mine, he had spared me, had kept me wrapped in thewhite cloak of an unblemished loyalty. But it would have been kinder, Inow bitterly thought, if, like many husbands, he had years ago found forthe story he now poured forth some clandestine listener; I should nothave known. But he was faithful and good, and so he waited till I, muteand chained, was there to hear him. So well did I know him, as Ithought, so thoroughly had he once been mine, that I saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, before the words came. And yet, when it came, itlashed me with the whips of an unbearable humiliation. For I, his wife, had not known how greatly he could love. 

And that Theresa, soft little traitor, should, in her still way, havecared too! Where was the iron in her, I moaned within my strickenspirit, where the steadfastness? From the moment he bade her, she turnedher soft little petals up to him--and my last delusion was spent. It wasintolerable; and none the less so that in another moment she had, prompted by some belated thought of me, renounced him. Allan was hers, yet she put him from her; and it was my part to watch them both. 

Then in the anguish of it all I remembered, awkward, untutored spiritthat I was, that I now had the Great Recourse. Whatever human thingswere unbearable, I had no need to bear. I ceased, therefore, to makethe effort that kept me with them. The pitiless poignancy was dulled, the sounds and the light ceased, the lovers faded from me, and again Iwas mercifully drawn into the dim, infinite spaces. 

 * * * * *

There followed a period whose length I cannot measure and during which Iwas able to make no progress in the difficult, dizzying experience ofrelease. "Earth-bound" my jealousy relentlessly kept me. Though my twodear ones had forsworn each other, I could not trust them, for theirsseemed to me an affectation of a more than mortal magnanimity. Without aghostly sentinel to prick them with sharp fears and recollections, whocould believe that they would keep to it? Of the efficacy of my ownvigilance, so long as I might choose to exercise it, I could have nodoubt, for I had by this time come to have a dreadful exultation in thenew power that lived in me. Repeated delicate experiment had taught mehow a touch or a breath, a wish or a whisper, could control Allan'sacts, could keep him from Theresa. I could manifest myself as palely, astransiently, as a thought. I could produce the merest necessary flicker, like the shadow of a just-opened leaf, on his trembling, torturedconsciousness. And these unrealized perceptions of me he interpreted, asI had known that he would, as his soul's inevitable penance. He had cometo believe that he had done evil in silently loving Theresa all theseyears, and it was my vengeance to allow him to believe this, to prodhim ever to believe it afresh. 

I am conscious that this frame of mind was not continuous in me. For Iremember, too, that when Allan and Theresa were safely apart andsufficiently miserable I loved them as dearly as I ever had, more dearlyperhaps. For it was impossible that I should not perceive, in my newemancipation, that they were, each of them, something more and greaterthan the two beings I had once ignorantly pictured them. For years theyhad practiced a selflessness of which I could once scarcely haveconceived, and which even now I could only admire without entering intoits mystery. While I had lived solely for myself, these two divinecreatures had lived exquisitely for me. They had granted me everything, themselves nothing. For my undeserving sake their lives had been aconstant torment of renunciation--a torment they had not sought toalleviate by the exchange of a single glance of understanding. Therewere even marvelous moments when, from the depths of my newly informedheart, I pitied them--poor creatures, who, withheld from the infinitesolaces that I had come to know, were still utterly within that

 Shell of sense So frail, so piteously contrived for pain. 

Within it, yes; yet exercising qualities that so sublimely transcendedit. Yet the shy, hesitating compassion that thus had birth in me wasfar from being able to defeat the earlier, earthlier emotion. The two, Irecognized, were in a sort of conflict; and I, regarding it, assumedthat the conflict would never end; that for years, as Allan and Theresareckoned time, I should be obliged to withhold myself from the greatspaces and linger suffering, grudging, shamed, where they lingered. 

 * * * * *

It can never have been explained, I suppose, what, to devitalizedperception such as mine, the contact of mortal beings with each otherappears to be. Once to have exercised this sense-freed perception is torealize that the gift of prophecy, although the subject of such frequentmarvel, is no longer mysterious. The merest glance of our sensitive anduncloyed vision can detect the strength of the relation between twobeings, and therefore instantly calculate its duration. If you see aheavy weight suspended from a slender string, you can know, without anywizardry, that in a few moments the string will snap; well, such, if youadmit the analogy, is prophecy, is foreknowledge. And it was thus that Isaw it with Theresa and Allan. For it was perfectly visible to me thatthey would very little longer have the strength to preserve, near eachother, the denuded impersonal relation that they, and that I, behindthem, insisted on; and that they would have to separate. It was mysister, perhaps the more sensitive, who first realized this. It had nowbecome possible for me to observe them almost constantly, the effortnecessary to visit them had so greatly diminished; so that I watchedher, poor, anguished girl, prepare to leave him. I saw each reluctantmovement that she made. I saw her eyes, worn from self-searching; Iheard her step grown timid from inexplicable fears; I entered her veryheart and heard its pitiful, wild beating. And still I did notinterfere. 

For at this time I had a wonderful, almost demoniacal sense of disposingof matters to suit my own selfish will. At any moment I could havechecked their miseries, could have restored happiness and peace. Yet itgave me, and I could weep to admit it, a monstrous joy to know thatTheresa thought she was leaving Allan of her own free intention, when itwas I who was contriving, arranging, insisting. . . . And yet shewretchedly felt my presence near her; I am certain of that. 

A few days before the time of her intended departure my sister toldAllan that she must speak with him after dinner. Our beautiful old housebranched out from a circular hall with great arched doors at either end;and it was through the rear doorway that always in summer, after dinner, we passed out into the garden adjoining. As usual, therefore, when thehour came, Theresa led the way. That dreadful daytime brilliance that inmy present state I found so hard to endure was now becoming softer. Adelicate, capricious twilight breeze danced inconsequently throughlanguidly whispering leaves. Lovely pale flowers blossomed like littlemoons in the dusk, and over them the breath of mignonette hung heavily. It was a perfect place--and it had so long been ours, Allan's and mine. It made me restless and a little wicked that those two should be theretogether now. 

For a little they walked about together, speaking of common, dailythings. Then suddenly Theresa burst out:

"I am going away, Allan. I have stayed to do everything that needed tobe done. Now your mother will be here to care for you, and it is timefor me to go. "

He stared at her and stood still. Theresa had been there so long, she sodefinitely, to his mind, belonged there. And she was, as I also hadjealously known, so lovely there, the small, dark, dainty creature, inthe old hall, on the wide staircases, in the garden. . . . Life therewithout Theresa, even the intentionally remote, the perpetuallyrenounced Theresa--he had not dreamed of it, he could not, so suddenly, conceive of it. 

"Sit here, " he said, and drew her down beside him on a bench, "and tellme what it means, why you are going. Is it because of something that Ihave been--have done?"

She hesitated. I wondered if she would dare tell him. She looked out andaway from him, and he waited long for her to speak. 

The pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of theleaves was almost hushed. All about them it was still and shadowy andsweet. It was that wonderful moment when, for lack of a visible horizon, the not yet darkened world seems infinitely greater--a moment whenanything can happen, anything be believed in. To me, watching, listening, hovering, there came a dreadful purpose and a dreadfulcourage. Suppose for one moment, Theresa should not only feel, but _see_me--would she dare to tell him then?

There came a brief space of terrible effort, all my fluttering, uncertain forces strained to the utmost. The instant of my struggle wasendlessly long and the transition seemed to take place outside me--asone sitting in a train, motionless, sees the leagues of earth float by. And then, in a bright, terrible flash I knew I had achieved it--I had_attained visibility_. Shuddering, insubstantial, but luminouslyapparent, I stood there before them. And for the instant that Imaintained the visible state I looked straight into Theresa's soul. 

She gave a cry. And then, thing of silly, cruel impulses that I was, Isaw what I had done. The very thing that I wished to avert I hadprecipitated. For Allan, in his sudden terror and pity, had bent andcaught her in his arms. For the first time they were together; and itwas I who had brought them. 

Then, to his whispered urging to tell the reason of her cry, Theresasaid:

"Frances was here. You did not see her, standing there, under thelilacs, with no smile on her face?"

"My dear, my dear!" was all that Allan said. I had so long now livedinvisibly with them, he knew that she was right. 

"I suppose you know what it means?" she asked him, calmly. 

"Dear Theresa, " Allan said, slowly, "if you and I should go awaysomewhere, could we not evade all this ghostliness? And will you comewith me?"

"Distance would not banish her, " my sister confidently asserted. Andthen she said, softly: "Have you thought what a lonely, awesome thing itmust be to be so newly dead? Pity her, Allan. We who are warm and aliveshould pity her. She loves you still, --that is the meaning of it all, you know--and she wants us to understand that for that reason we mustkeep apart. Oh, it was so plain in her white face as she stood there. And you did not see her?"

"It was your face that I saw, " Allan solemnly told her--oh, howdifferent he had grown from the Allan that I had known!--"and yours isthe only face that I shall ever see. " And again he drew her to him. 

She sprang from him. "You are defying her, Allan!" she cried. "And youmust not. It is her right to keep us apart, if she wishes. It must be asshe insists. I shall go, as I told you. And, Allan, I beg of you, leaveme the courage to do as she demands!"

They stood facing each other in the deep dusk, and the wounds that I haddealt them gaped red and accusing. "We must pity her, " Theresa had said. And as I remembered that extraordinary speech, and saw the agony in herface, and the greater agony in Allan's, there came the great irreparablecleavage between mortality and me. In a swift, merciful flame the lastof my mortal emotions--gross and tenacious they must have been--wasconsumed. My cold grasp of Allan loosened and a new unearthly love ofhim bloomed in my heart. 

I was now, however, in a difficulty with which my experience in thenewer state was scarcely sufficient to deal. How could I make it plainto Allan and Theresa that I wished to bring them together, to heal thewounds that I had made?

Pityingly, remorsefully, I lingered near them all that night and thenext day. And by that time had brought myself to the point of a greatdetermination. In the little time that was left, before Theresa shouldbe gone and Allan bereft and desolate, I saw the one way that lay opento me to convince them of my acquiescence in their destiny. 

In the deepest darkness and silence of the next night I made a greatereffort than it will ever be necessary for me to make again. When theythink of me, Allan and Theresa, I pray now that they will recall what Idid that night, and that my thousand frustrations and selfishnesses mayshrivel and be blown from their indulgent memories. 

Yet the following morning, as she had planned, Theresa appeared atbreakfast dressed for her journey. Above in her room there were thesounds of departure. They spoke little during the brief meal, but whenit was ended Allan said:

"Theresa, there is half an hour before you go. Will you come upstairswith me? I had a dream that I must tell you of. "

"Allan!" She looked at him, frightened, but went with him. "It was ofFrances you dreamed, " she said, quietly, as they entered the librarytogether. 

"Did I say it was a dream? But I was awake--thoroughly awake. I had notbeen sleeping well, and I heard, twice, the striking of the clock. Andas I lay there, looking out at the stars, and thinking--thinking of you, Theresa, --she came to me, stood there before me, in my room. It was nosheeted specter, you understand; it was Frances, literally she. In someinexplicable fashion I seemed to be aware that she wanted to make meknow something, and I waited, watching her face. After a few moments itcame. She did not speak, precisely. That is, I am sure I heard no sound. Yet the words that came from her were definite enough. She said: 'Don'tlet Theresa leave you. Take her and keep her. ' Then she went away. Wasthat a dream?"

"I had not meant to tell you, " Theresa eagerly answered, "but now Imust. It is too wonderful. What time did your clock strike, Allan?"

"One, the last time. "

"Yes; it was then that I awoke. And she had been with me. I had not seenher, but her arm had been about me and her kiss was on my cheek. Oh. Iknew; it was unmistakable. And the sound of her voice was with me. "

"Then she bade you, too----"

"Yes, to stay with you. I am glad we told each other. " She smiledtearfully and began to fasten her wrap. 

"But you are not going--_now!_" Allan cried. "You know that you cannot, now that she has asked you to stay. "

"Then you believe, as I do, that it was she?" Theresa demanded. 

"I can never understand, but I know, " he answered her. "And now you willnot go?"

 * * * * *

I am freed. There will be no further semblance of me in my old home, nosound of my voice, no dimmest echo of my earthly self. They have nofurther need of me, the two that I have brought together. Theirs is thefullest joy that the dwellers in the shell of sense can know. Mine isthe transcendent joy of the unseen spaces. 

The Woman at Seven Brothers

BY WILBUR DANIEL STEELE

 From _Land's End_, by Wilbur Daniel Steele. Copyright, 1908, by Harper and Brothers. By permission of the publishers and Wilbur Daniel Steele. 

I tell you sir, I was innocent. I didn't know any more about the worldat twenty-two than some do at twelve. My uncle and aunt in Duxburybrought me up strict; I studied hard in high school, I worked hard afterhours, and I went to church twice on Sundays, and I can't see it's rightto put me in a place like this, with crazy people. Oh yes, I knowthey're crazy--you can't tell _me. _ As for what they said in court aboutfinding her with her husband, that's the Inspector's lie, sir, becausehe's down on me, and wants to make it look like my fault. 

No, sir, I can't say as I thought she was handsome--not at first. Forone thing, her lips were too thin and white, and her color was bad. I'lltell you a fact, sir; that first day I came off to the Light I wassitting on my cot in the store-room (that's where the assistant keepersleeps at the Seven Brothers), as lonesome as I could be, away from homefor the first time, and the water all around me, and, even though itwas a calm day, pounding enough on the ledge to send a kind of a_woom-woom-woom_ whining up through all that solid rock of the tower. And when old Fedderson poked his head down from the living-room with thesunshine above making a kind of bright frame around his hair andwhiskers, to give me a cheery, "Make yourself to home, son!" I rememberI said to myself: "_He's_ all right. I'll get along with _him_. But hiswife's enough to sour milk. " That was queer, because she was so muchunder him in age--'long about twenty-eight or so, and him nearer fifty. But that's what I said, sir. 

Of course that feeling wore off, same as any feeling will wear offsooner or later in a place like the Seven Brothers. Cooped up in a placelike that you come to know folks so well that you forget what they _do_look like. There was a long time I never noticed her, any more thanyou'd notice the cat. We used to sit of an evening around the table, asif you were Fedderson there, and me here, and her somewhere back there, in the rocker, knitting. Fedderson would be working on hisJacob's-ladder, and I'd be reading. He'd been working on thatJacob's-ladder a year, I guess, and every time the Inspector came offwith the tender he was so astonished to see how good that ladder wasthat the old man would go to work and make it better. That's all helived for. 

If I was reading, as I say, I daren't take my eyes off the book, orFedderson had me. And then he'd begin--what the Inspector said abouthim. How surprised the member of the board had been, that time, to seeeverything so clean about the light. What the Inspector had said aboutFedderson's being stuck here in a second-class light--best keeper on thecoast. And so on and so on, till either he or I had to go aloft and havea look at the wicks. 

He'd been there twenty-three years, all told, and he'd got used to thefeeling that he was kept down unfair--so used to it, I guess, that hefed on it, and told himself how folks ashore would talk when he was deadand gone--best keeper on the coast--kept down unfair. Not that he saidthat to me. No, he was far too loyal and humble and respectful, doinghis duty without complaint, as anybody could see. 

And all that time, night after night, hardly ever a word out of thewoman. As I remember it, she seemed more like a piece of furniture thananything else--not even a very good cook, nor over and above tidy. Oneday, when he and I were trimming the lamp, he passed the remark that his_first_ wife used to dust the lens and take a pride in it. Not that hesaid a word against Anna, though. He never said a word against anyliving mortal; he was too upright. 

I don't know how it came about; or, rather, I _do_ know, but it was sosudden, and so far away from my thoughts, that it shocked me, like theworld turned over. It was at prayers. That night I remember Feddersonwas uncommon long-winded. We'd had a batch of newspapers out by thetender, and at such times the old man always made a long watch of it, getting the world straightened out. For one thing, the United Statesminister to Turkey was dead. Well, from him and his soul, Fedderson goton to Turkey and the Presbyterian college there, and from that toheathen in general. He rambled on and on, like the surf on the ledge, _woom-woom-woom_, never coming to an end. 

You know how you'll be at prayers sometimes. My mind strayed. I countedthe canes in the chair-seat where I was kneeling; I plaited a corner ofthe table-cloth between my fingers for a spell, and by and by my eyeswent wandering up the back of the chair. 

The woman, sir, was looking at me. Her chair was back to mine, close, and both our heads were down in the shadow under the edge of the table, with Fedderson clear over on the other side by the stove. And there wereher two eyes hunting mine between the spindles in the shadow. You won'tbelieve me, sir, but I tell you I felt like jumping to my feet andrunning out of the room--it was so queer. 

I don't know what her husband was praying about after that. His voicedidn't mean anything, no more than the seas on the ledge away downthere. I went to work to count the canes in the seat again, but all myeyes were in the top of my head. It got so I couldn't stand it. We wereat the Lord's prayer, saying it singsong together, when I had to look upagain. And there her two eyes were, between the spindles, hunting mine. Just then all of us were saying, "Forgive us our trespasses--" I thoughtof it afterward. 

When we got up she was turned the other way, but I couldn't help seeingher cheeks were red. It was terrible. I wondered if Fedderson wouldnotice, though I might have known he wouldn't--not him. He was in toomuch of a hurry to get at his Jacob's-ladder, and then he had to tell mefor the tenth time what the Inspector'd said that day about getting himanother light--Kingdom Come, maybe, he said. 

I made some excuse or other and got away. Once in the store-room, I satdown on my cot and stayed there a long time, feeling queerer thananything. I read a chapter in the Bible, I don't know why. After I'd gotmy boots off I sat with them in my hands for as much as an hour, Iguess, staring at the oil-tank and its lopsided shadow on the wall. Itell you, sir, I was shocked. I was only twenty-two remember, and I wasshocked and horrified. 

And when I did turn in, finally, I didn't sleep at all well. Two orthree times I came to, sitting straight up in bed. Once I got up andopened the outer door to have a look. The water was like glass, dim, without a breath of wind, and the moon just going down. Over on theblack shore I made out two lights in a village, like a pair of eyeswatching. Lonely? My, yes! Lonely and nervous. I had a horror of her, sir. The dinghy-boat hung on its davits just there in front of the door, and for a minute I had an awful hankering to climb into it, lower away, and row off, no matter where. It sounds foolish. 

Well, it seemed foolish next morning, with the sun shining andeverything as usual--Fedderson sucking his pen and wagging his head overhis eternal "log, " and his wife down in the rocker with her head in thenewspaper, and her breakfast work still waiting. I guess that jarred itout of me more than anything else--sight of her slouched down there, with her stringy, yellow hair and her dusty apron and the pale back ofher neck, reading the Society Notes. _Society Notes_! Think of it! Forthe first time since I came to Seven Brothers I wanted to laugh. 

I guess I did laugh when I went aloft to clean the lamp and foundeverything so free and breezy, gulls flying high and little whitecapsmaking under a westerly. It was like feeling a big load dropped off yourshoulders. Fedderson came up with his dust-rag and cocked his head atme. 

"What's the matter, Ray?" said he. 

"Nothing, " said I. And then I couldn't help it. "Seems kind of out ofplace for society notes, " said I, "out here at Seven Brothers. "

He was the other side of the lens, and when he looked at me he had athousand eyes, all sober. For a minute I thought he was going ondusting, but then he came out and sat down on a sill. 

"Sometimes, " said he, "I get to thinking it may be a mite dull for herout here. She's pretty young, Ray. Not much more'n a girl, hardly. "

"Not much more'n a _girl!_" It gave me a turn, sir, as though I'd seenmy aunt in short dresses. 

"It's a good home for her, though, " he went on slow. "I've seen a lotworse ashore, Ray. Of course if I could get a shore light----"

"Kingdom Come's a shore light. "

He looked at me out of his deep-set eyes, and then he turned them aroundthe light-room, where he'd been so long. 

"No, " said he, wagging his head. "It ain't for such as me. "

I never saw so humble a man. 

"But look here, " he went on, more cheerful. "As I was telling her justnow, a month from yesterday's our fourth anniversary, and I'm going totake her ashore for the day and give her a holiday--new hat andeverything. A girl wants a mite of excitement now and then, Ray. "

There it was again, that "girl. " It gave me the fidgets, sir. I had todo something about it. It's close quarters for last names in a light, and I'd taken to calling him Uncle Matt soon after I came. Now, when Iwas at table that noon I spoke over to where she was standing by thestove, getting him another help of chowder. 

"I guess I'll have some, too, _Aunt_ Anna, " said I, matter of fact. 

She never said a word nor gave a sign--just stood there kind ofround-shouldered, dipping the chowder. And that night at prayers Ihitched my chair around the table, with its back the other way. 

You get awful lazy in a lighthouse, some ways. No matter how muchtinkering you've got, there's still a lot of time and there's sucha thing as too much reading. The changes in weather get monotonous, too, by and by; the light burns the same on a thick night as itdoes on a fair one. Of course there's the ships, north-bound, south-bound--wind-jammers, freighters, passenger-boats full ofpeople. In the watches at night you can see their lights go by, andwonder what they are, how they're laden, where they'll fetch up, and all. I used to do that almost every evening when it was my firstwatch, sitting out on the walk-around up there with my legs hangingover the edge and my chin propped on the railing--lazy. The Bostonboat was the prettiest to see, with her three tiers of port-holeslit, like a string of pearls wrapped round and round a woman'sneck--well away, too, for the ledge must have made a couple ofhundred fathoms off the Light, like a white dog-tooth of a breaker, even on the darkest night. 

Well, I was lolling there one night, as I say, watching the Boston boatgo by, not thinking of anything special, when I heard the door on theother side of the tower open and footsteps coming around to me. 

By and by I nodded toward the boat and passed the remark that she wasfetching in uncommon close to-night. No answer. I made nothing of that, for oftentimes Fedderson wouldn't answer, and after I'd watched thelights crawling on through the dark a spell, just to make conversation Isaid I guessed there'd be a bit of weather before long. 

"I've noticed, " said I, "when there's weather coming on, and the wind inthe northeast, you can hear the orchestra playing aboard of her justover there. I make it out now. Do you?"

"Yes. Oh--yes--! _I hear it all right!_"

You can imagine I started. It wasn't him, but _her_. And there was something in the way she said that speech, sir--something--well--unnatural. Like a hungry animal snappingat a person's hand. 

I turned and looked at her sidewise. She was standing by the railing, leaning a little outward, the top of her from the waist picked outbright by the lens behind her. I didn't know what in the world to say, and yet I had a feeling I ought not to sit there mum. 

"I wonder, " said I, "what that captain's thinking of, fetching in sohandy to-night. It's no way. I tell you, if 'twasn't for this light, she'd go to work and pile up on the ledge some thick night----"

She turned at that and stared straight into the lens. I didn't like thelook of her face. Somehow, with its edges cut hard all around and itstwo eyes closed down to slits, like a cat's, it made a kind of mask. 

"And then, " I went on, uneasy enough--"and then where'd all their musicbe of a sudden, and their goings-on and their singing----"

"And dancing!" She clipped me off so quick it took my breath. 

"D-d-dancing?" said I. 

"That's dance-music, " said she. She was looking at the boat again. 

"How do you know?" I felt I had to keep on talking. 

Well, sir--she laughed. I looked at her. She had on a shawl of somestuff or other that shined in the light; she had it pulled tight aroundher with her two hands in front at her breast, and I saw her shouldersswaying in tune. 

"How do I _know_?" she cried. Then she laughed again, the same kind of alaugh. It was queer, sir, to see her, and to hear her. She turned, asquick as that, and leaned toward me. "Don't you know how to dance, Ray?"said she. 

"N-no, " I managed, and I was going to say "_Aunt Anna_, " but the thingchoked in my throat. 

I tell you she was looking square at me all the time with her two eyesand moving with the music as if she didn't know it. By heavens, sir, itcame over me of a sudden that she wasn't so bad-looking, after all. Iguess I must have sounded like a fool. 

"You--you see, " said I, "she's cleared the rip there now, and themusic's gone. You--you hear?"

"Yes, " said she, turning back slow. "That's where it stops everynight--night after night--it stops just there--at the rip. "

When she spoke again her voice was different. I never heard the like ofit, thin and taut as a thread. It made me shiver, sir. 

"I hate 'em!" That's what she said. "I hate 'em all. I'd like to see 'emdead. I'd love to see 'em torn apart on the rocks, night after night. Icould bathe my hands in their blood, night after night. "

And do you know, sir, I saw it with my own eyes, her hands moving ineach other above the rail. But it was her voice, though. I didn't knowwhat to do, or what to say, so I poked my head through the railing andlooked down at the water. I don't think I'm a coward, sir, but it waslike a cold--ice-cold--hand, taking hold of my beating heart. 

When I looked up finally, she was gone. By and by I went in and had alook at the lamp, hardly knowing what I was about. Then, seeing by mywatch it was time for the old man to come on duty, I started to gobelow. In the Seven Brothers, you understand, the stair goes down in aspiral through a well against the south wall and first there's the doorto the keeper's room and then you come to another, and that's theliving-room, and then down to the store-room. And at night, if you don'tcarry a lantern, it's as black as the pit. 

Well, down I went, sliding my hand along the rail, and as usual Istopped to give a rap on the keeper's door, in case he was taking a napafter supper. Sometimes he did. 

I stood there, blind as a bat, with my mind still up on the walk-around. There was no answer to my knock. I hadn't expected any. Just from habit, and with my right foot already hanging down for the next step, I reachedout to give the door one more tap for luck. 

Do you know, sir, my hand didn't fetch up on anything. The door had beenthere a second before, and now the door wasn't there. My hand just wenton going through the dark, on and on, and I didn't seem to have sense orpower enough to stop it. There didn't seem any air in the well tobreathe, and my ears were drumming to the surf--that's how scared I was. And then my hand touched the flesh of a face, and something in the darksaid, "Oh!" no louder than a sigh. 

Next thing I knew, sir, I was down in the living-room, warm andyellow-lit, with Fedderson cocking his head at me across the table, where he was at that eternal Jacob's-ladder of his. 

"What's the matter, Ray?" said he. "Lord's sake, Ray!"

"Nothing, " said I. Then I think I told him I was sick. That night Iwrote a letter to A. L. Peters, the grain-dealer in Duxbury, asking for ajob--even though it wouldn't go ashore for a couple of weeks, just thewriting of it made me feel better. 

It's hard to tell you how those two weeks went by. I don't know why, butI felt like hiding in a corner all the time. I had to come to meals, butI didn't look at her, though, not once, unless it was by accident. Fedderson thought I was still ailing and nagged me to death with adviceand so on. One thing I took care not to do, I can tell you, and that wasto knock on his door till I'd made certain he wasn't below in theliving-room--though I was tempted to. 

Yes, sir; that's a queer thing, and I wouldn't tell you if I hadn't setout to give you the truth. Night after night, stopping there on thelanding in that black pit, the air gone out of my lungs and the surfdrumming in my ears and sweat standing cold on my neck--and one handlifting up in the air--God forgive me, sir! Maybe I did wrong not tolook at her more, drooping about her work in her gingham apron, with herhair stringing. 

When the Inspector came off with the tender, that time, I told him Iwas through. That's when he took the dislike to me, I guess, for helooked at me kind of sneering and said, soft as I was, I'd have to putup with it till next relief. And then, said he, there'd be a wholehouse-cleaning at Seven Brothers, because he'd gotten Fedderson theberth at Kingdom Come. And with that he slapped the old man on the back. 

I wish you could have seen Fedderson, sir. He sat down on my cot as ifhis knees had given 'way. Happy? You'd think he'd be happy, with all hisdreams come true. Yes, he was happy, beaming all over--for a minute. Then, sir, he began to shrivel up. It was like seeing a man cut down inhis prime before your eyes. He began to wag his head. 

"No, " said he. "No, no; it's not for such as me. I'm good enough forSeven Brothers, and that's all, Mr. Bayliss. That's all. "

And for all the Inspector could say, that's what he stuck to. He'dfigured himself a martyr so many years, nursed that injustice like amother with her first-born, sir; and now in his old age, so to speak, they weren't to rob him of it. Fedderson was going to wear out his lifein a second-class light, and folks would talk--that was his idea. Iheard him hailing down as the tender was casting off:

"See you to-morrow, Mr. Bayliss. Yep. Coming ashore with the wife for aspree. Anniversary. Yep. "

But he didn't sound much like a spree. They _had_, robbed him, partly, after all. I wondered what _she_ thought about it. I didn't know tillnight. She didn't show up to supper, which Fedderson and I gotourselves--had a headache, be said. It was my early watch. I went andlit up and came back to read a spell. He was finishing off theJacob's-ladder, and thoughtful, like a man that's lost a treasure. Onceor twice I caught him looking about the room on the sly. It waspathetic, sir. 

Going up the second time, I stepped out on the walk-around to have alook at things. She was there on the seaward side, wrapped in that silkything. A fair sea was running across the ledge and it was coming on alittle thick--not too thick. Off to the right the Boston boat wasblowing, _whroom-whroom!_ Creeping up on us, quarter-speed. There wasanother fellow behind her, and a fisherman's conch farther offshore. 

I don't know why, but I stopped beside her and leaned on the rail. Shedidn't appear to notice me, one way or another. We stood and we stood, listening to the whistles, and the longer we stood the more it got on mynerves, her not noticing me. I suppose she'd been too much on my mindlately. I began to be put out. I scraped my feet. I coughed. By and by Isaid out loud:

"Look here, I guess I better get out the fog-horn and give those fellowsa toot. "

"Why?" said she, without moving her head--calm as that. 

"_Why?_" It gave me a turn, sir. For a minute I stared at her. "Why?Because if she don't pick up this light before very many minutes she'llbe too close in to wear--tide'll have her on the rocks--that's why!"

I couldn't see her face, but I could see one of her silk shoulders lifta little, like a shrug. And there I kept on staring at her, a dumb one, sure enough. I know what brought me to was hearing the Boston boat'sthree sharp toots as she picked up the light--mad as anything--and swungher helm a-port. I turned away from her, sweat stringing down my face, and walked around to the door. It was just as well, too, for thefeed-pipe was plugged in the lamp and the wicks were popping. She'd havebeen out in another five minutes, sir. 

When I'd finished, I saw that woman standing in the doorway. Her eyeswere bright. I had a horror of her, sir, a living horror. 

"If only the light had been out, " said she, low and sweet. 

"God forgive you, " said I. "You don't know what you're saying. "

She went down the stair into the well, winding out of sight, and as longas I could see her, her eyes were watching mine. When I went, myself, after a few minutes, she was waiting for me on that first landing, standing still in the dark. She took hold of my hand, though I tried toget it away. 

"Good-by, " said she in my ear. 

"Good-by?" said I. I didn't understand. 

"You heard what he said to-day--about Kingdom Come? Be it so--on his ownhead. I'll never come back here. Once I set foot ashore--I've gotfriends in Brightonboro, Ray. "

I got away from her and started on down. But I stopped. "Brightonboro?"I whispered back. "Why do you tell _me_?" My throat was raw to thewords, like a sore. 

"So you'd know, " said she. 

Well, sir, I saw them off next morning, down that new Jacob's-ladderinto the dinghy-boat, her in a dress of blue velvet and him in his bestcutaway and derby--rowing away, smaller and smaller, the two of them. And then I went back and sat on my cot, leaving the door open and theladder still hanging down the wall, along with the boat-falls. 

I don't know whether it was relief, or what. I suppose I must have beenworked up even more than I'd thought those past weeks, for now it wasall over I was like a rag. I got down on my knees, sir, and prayed toGod for the salvation of my soul, and when I got up and climbed to theliving-room it was half past twelve by the clock. There was rain on thewindows and the sea was running blue-black under the sun. I'd sat thereall that time not knowing there was a squall. 

It was funny; the glass stood high, but those black squalls kept comingand going all afternoon, while I was at work up in the light-room. And Iworked hard, to keep myself busy. First thing I knew it was five, and nosign of the boat yet. It began to get dim and kind of purplish-gray overthe land. The sun was down. I lit up, made everything snug, and got outthe night-glasses to have another look for that boat. He'd said heintended to get back before five. No sign. And then, standing there, itcame over me that of course he wouldn't be coming off--he'd be hunting_her_, poor old fool. It looked like I had to stand two men's watchesthat night. 

Never mind. I felt like myself again, even if I hadn't had any dinner orsupper. Pride came to me that night on the walk-around, watching theboats go by--little boats, big boats, the Boston boat with all herpearls and her dance-music. They couldn't see me; they didn't know who Iwas; but to the last of them, they depended on _me_. They say a man mustbe born again. Well, I was born again. I breathed deep in the wind. 

Dawn broke hard and red as a dying coal. I put out the light and startedto go below. Born again; yes, sir. I felt so good I whistled in thewell, and when I came to the first door on the stair I reached out inthe dark to give it a rap for luck. And then, sir, the hair prickled allover my scalp, when I found my hand just going on and on through theair, the same as it had gone once before, and all of a sudden I wantedto yell, because I thought I was going to touch flesh. It's funny whattheir just forgetting to close their door did to me, isn't it?

Well, I reached for the latch and pulled it to with a bang and ran downas if a ghost was after me. I got up some coffee and bread and bacon forbreakfast. I drank the coffee. But somehow I couldn't eat, all along ofthat open door. The light in the room was blood. I got to thinking. Ithought how she'd talked about those men, women, and children on therocks, and how she'd made to bathe her hands over the rail. I almostjumped out of my chair then; it seemed for a wink she was there besidethe stove watching me with that queer half-smile--really, I seemed tosee her for a flash across the red table-cloth in the red light of dawn. 

"Look here!" said I to myself, sharp enough; and then I gave myself agood laugh and went below. There I took a look out of the door, whichwas still open, with the ladder hanging down. I made sure to see thepoor old fool come pulling around the point before very long now. 

My boots were hurting a little, and, taking them off, I lay down on thecot to rest, and somehow I went to sleep. I had horrible dreams. I sawher again standing in that blood-red kitchen, and she seemed to bewashing her hands, and the surf on the ledge was whining up the tower, louder and louder all the time, and what it whined was, "Night afternight--night after night. " What woke me was cold water in my face. 

The store-room was in gloom. That scared me at first; I thought nighthad come, and remembered the light. But then I saw the gloom was of astorm. The floor was shining wet, and the water in my face was spray, flung up through the open door. When I ran to close it, it almost mademe dizzy to see the gray-and-white breakers marching past. The land wasgone; the sky shut down heavy overhead; there was a piece of wreckage onthe back of a swell, and the Jacob's-ladder was carried clean away. Howthat sea had picked up so quick I can't think. I looked at my watch andit wasn't four in the afternoon yet. 

When I closed the door, sir, it was almost dark in the store-room. I'dnever been in the Light before in a gale of wind. I wondered why I wasshivering so, till I found it was the floor below me shivering, and thewalls and stair. Horrible crunchings and grindings ran away up thetower, and now and then there was a great thud somewhere, like acannon-shot in a cave. I tell you, sir, I was alone, and I was in amortal fright for a minute or so. And yet I had to get myself together. There was the light up there not tended to, and an early dark coming onand a heavy night and all, and I had to go. And I had to pass that door. 

You'll say it's foolish, sir, and maybe it _was_ foolish. Maybe it wasbecause I hadn't eaten. But I began thinking of that door up there theminute I set foot on the stair, and all the way up through that howlingdark well I dreaded to pass it. I told myself I wouldn't stop. I didn'tstop. I felt the landing underfoot and I went on, four steps, five--andthen I couldn't. I turned and went back. I put out my hand and it wenton into nothing. That door, sir, was open again. 

I left it be; I went on up to the light-room and set to work. It wasBedlam there, sir, screeching Bedlam, but I took no notice. I kept myeyes down. I trimmed those seven wicks, sir, as neat as ever they weretrimmed; I polished the brass till it shone, and I dusted the lens. Itwasn't till that was done that I let myself look back to see who it wasstanding there, half out of sight in the well. It was her, sir. 

"Where'd you come from?" I asked. I remember my voice was sharp. 

"Up Jacob's-ladder, " said she, and hers was like the syrup of flowers. 

I shook my head. I was savage, sir. "The ladder's carried away. "

"I cast it off, " said she, with a smile. 

"Then, " said I, "you must have come while I was asleep. " Another thoughtcame on me heavy as a ton of lead. "And where's _he_?" said I. "Where'sthe boat?"

"He's drowned, " said she, as easy as that. "And I let the boat goadrift. You wouldn't hear me when I called. "

"But look here, " said I. "If you came through the store-room, why didn'tyou wake me up? Tell me that!" It sounds foolish enough, me standinglike a lawyer in court, trying to prove she _couldn't_ be there. 

She didn't answer for a moment. I guess she sighed, though I couldn'thear for the gale, and her eyes grew soft, sir, so soft. 

"I couldn't, " said she. "You looked so peaceful--dear one. "

My cheeks and neck went hot, sir, as if a warm iron was laid on them. Ididn't know what to say. I began to stammer, "What do you mean--" butshe was going back down the stair, out of sight. My God sir, and I usednot to think she was good-looking!

I started to follow her. I wanted to know what she meant. Then I said tomyself, "If I don't go--if I wait here--she'll come back. " And I went tothe weather side and stood looking out of the window. Not that there wasmuch to see. It was growing dark, and the Seven Brothers looked like themane of a running horse, a great, vast, white horse running into thewind. The air was a-welter with it. I caught one peep of a fisherman, lying down flat trying to weather the ledge, and I said, "God help themall to-night, " and then I went hot at sound of that "God. "

I was right about her, though. She was back again. I wanted her to speakfirst, before I turned, but she wouldn't. I didn't hear her go out; Ididn't know what she was up to till I saw her coming outside on thewalk-around, drenched wet already. I pounded on the glass for her tocome in and not be a fool; if she heard she gave no sign of it. 

There she stood, and there I stood watching her. Lord, sir--was it justthat I'd never had eyes to see? Or are there women who bloom? Herclothes were shining on her, like a carving, and her hair was let downlike a golden curtain tossing and streaming in the gale, and there shestood with her lips half open, drinking, and her eyes half closed, gazing straight away over the Seven Brothers, and her shoulders swaying, as if in tune with the wind and water and all the ruin. And when Ilooked at her hands over the rail, sir, they were moving in each otheras if they bathed, and then I remembered, sir. 

A cold horror took me. I knew now why she had come back again. Shewasn't a woman--she was a devil. I turned my back on her. I said tomyself: "It's time to light up. You've got to light up"--like that, overand over, out loud. My hand was shivering so I could hardly find amatch; and when I scratched it, it only flared a second and then wentout in the back draught from the open door. She was standing in thedoorway, looking at me. It's queer, sir, but I felt like a child caughtin mischief. 

"I--I--was going to light up, " I managed to say, finally. 

"Why?" said she. No, I can't say it as she did. 

"_Why?_" said I. "_My God!_"

She came nearer, laughing, as if with pity, low, you know. "Your God?And who is your God? What is God? What is anything on a night likethis?"

I drew back from her. All I could say anything about was the light. 

"Why not the dark?" said she. "Dark is softer thanlight--tenderer--dearer than light. From the dark up here, away up herein the wind and storm, we can watch the ships go by, you and I. And youlove me so. You've loved me so long, Ray. "

"I never have!" I struck out at her. "I don't! I don't!"

Her voice was lower than ever, but there was the same laughing pity init. "Oh yes, you have. " And she was near me again. 

"I have?" I yelled. "I'll show you! I'll show you if I have!"

I got another match, sir, and scratched it on the brass. I gave it tothe first wick, the little wick that's inside all the others. It bloomedlike a yellow flower. "I _have_?" I yelled, and gave it to the next. 

Then there was a shadow, and I saw she was leaning beside me, her twoelbows on the brass, her two arms stretched out above the wicks, herbare forearms and wrists and hands. I gave a gasp:

"Take care! You'll burn them! For God's sake----"

She didn't move or speak. The match burned my fingers and went out, andall I could do was stare at those arms of hers, helpless. I'd nevernoticed her arms before. They were rounded and graceful and covered witha soft down, like a breath of gold. Then I heard her speaking close tomy ear. 

"Pretty arms, " she said. "Pretty arms!"

I turned. Her eyes were fixed on mine. They seemed heavy, as if withsleep, and yet between their lids they were two wells, deep and deep, and as if they held all the things I'd ever thought or dreamed in them. I looked away from them, at her lips. Her lips were red as poppies, heavy with redness. They moved, and I heard them speaking:

"Poor boy, you love me so, and you want to kiss me--don't you?"

"No, " said I. But I couldn't turn around. I looked at her hair. I'dalways thought it was stringy hair. Some hair curls naturally with damp, they say, and perhaps that was it, for there were pearls of wet on it, and it was thick and shimmering around her face, making soft shadows bythe temples. There was green in it, queer strands of green like braids. 

"What is it?" said I. 

"Nothing but weed, " said she, with that slow, sleepy smile. 

Somehow or other I felt calmer than I had any time. "Look here, " said I. "I'm going to light this lamp. " I took out a match, scratched it, andtouched the third wick. The flame ran around, bigger than the other twotogether. But still her arms hung there. I bit my lip. "By God, I will!"said I to myself, and I lit the fourth. 

It was fierce, sir, fierce! And yet those arms never trembled. I had tolook around at her. Her eyes were still looking into mine, so deep anddeep, and her red lips were still smiling with that queer, sleepy droop;the only thing was that tears were raining down her cheeks--big, glowinground, jewel tears. It wasn't human, sir. It was like a dream. 

"Pretty arms, " she sighed, and then, as if those words had brokensomething in her heart, there came a great sob bursting from her lips. To hear it drove me mad. I reached to drag her away, but she was tooquick, sir; she cringed from me and slipped out from between my hands. It was like she faded away, sir, and went down in a bundle, nursing herpoor arms and mourning over them with those terrible, broken sobs. 

The sound of them took the manhood out of me--you'd have been the same, sir. I knelt down beside her on the floor and covered my face. 

"Please!" I moaned. "Please! Please!" That's all I could say. I wantedher to forgive me. I reached out a hand, blind, for forgiveness, and Icouldn't find her anywhere. I had hurt her so, and she was afraid ofme, of _me_, sir, who loved her so deep it drove me crazy. 

I could see her down the stair, though it was dim and my eyes werefilled with tears. I stumbled after her, crying, "Please! Please!" Thelittle wicks I'd lit were blowing in the wind from the door and smokingthe glass beside them black. One went out. I pleaded with them, the sameas I would plead with a human being. I said I'd be back in a second. Ipromised. And I went on down the stair, crying like a baby because I'dhurt her, and she was afraid of me--of _me_, sir. 

She had gone into her room. The door was closed against me and I couldhear her sobbing beyond it, broken-hearted. My heart was broken too. Ibeat on the door with my palms. I begged her to forgive me. I told her Iloved her. And all the answer was that sobbing in the dark. 

And then I lifted the latch and went in, groping, pleading. "Dearest--please! Because I love you!"

I heard her speak down near the floor. There wasn't any anger in hervoice; nothing but sadness and despair. 

"No, " said she. "You don't love me, Ray. You never have. "

"I do! I have!"

"No, no, " said she, as if she was tired out. 

"Where are you?" I was groping for her. I thought, and lit a match. Shehad got to the door and was standing there as if ready to fly. I wenttoward her, and she made me stop. She took my breath away. "I hurt yourarms, " said I, in a dream. 

"No, " said she, hardly moving her lips. She held them out to the match'slight for me to look and there was never a scar on them--not even thatsoft, golden down was singed, sir. "You can't hurt my body, " said she, sad as anything. "Only my heart, Ray; my poor heart. "

I tell you again, she took my breath away. I lit another match. "How canyou be so beautiful?" I wondered. 

She answered in riddles--but oh, the sadness of her, sir. 

"Because, " said she, "I've always so wanted to be. "

"How come your eyes so heavy?" said I. 

"Because I've seen so many things I never dreamed of, " said she. 

"How come your hair so thick?"

"It's the seaweed makes it thick, " said she smiling queer, queer. 

"How come seaweed there?"

"Out of the bottom of the sea. "

She talked in riddles, but it was like poetry to hear her, or a song. 

"How come your lips so red?" said I. 

"Because they've wanted so long to be kissed. "

Fire was on me, sir. I reached out to catch her, but she was gone, outof the door and down the stair. I followed, stumbling. I must havetripped on the turn, for I remember going through the air and fetchingup with a crash, and I didn't know anything for a spell--how long Ican't say. When I came to, she was there, somewhere, bending over me, crooning, "My love--my love--" under her breath like, a song. 

But then when I got up, she was not where my arms went; she was down thestair again, just ahead of me. I followed her. I was tottering and dizzyand full of pain. I tried to catch up with her in the dark of thestore-room, but she was too quick for me, sir, always a little too quickfor me. Oh, she was cruel to me, sir. I kept bumping against things, hurting myself still worse, and it was cold and wet and a horrible noiseall the while, sir; and then, sir, I found the door was open, and a seahad parted the hinges. 

I don't know how it all went, sir. I'd tell you if I could, but it's allso blurred--sometimes it seems more like a dream. I couldn't find herany more; I couldn't hear her; I went all over, everywhere. Once, Iremember, I found myself hanging out of that door between the davits, looking down into those big black seas and crying like a baby. It's allriddles and blur. I can't seem to tell you much, sir. It was all--all--Idon't know. 

I was talking to somebody else--not her. It was the Inspector. I hardlyknew it was the Inspector. His face was as gray as a blanket, and hiseyes were bloodshot, and his lips were twisted. His left wrist hungdown, awkward. It was broken coming aboard the Light in that sea. Yes, we were in the living-room. Yes, sir, it was daylight--gray daylight. Itell you, sir, the man looked crazy to me. He was waving his good armtoward the weather windows, and what he was saying, over and over, wasthis:

"_Look what you done, damn you! Look what you done_!"

And what I was saying was this:

"_I've lost her_!"

I didn't pay any attention to him, nor him to me. By and by he did, though. He stopped his talking all of a sudden, and his eyes looked likethe devil's eyes. He put them up close to mine. He grabbed my arm withhis good hand, and I cried, I was so weak. 

"Johnson, " said he, "is that it? By the living God--if you got a womanout here, Johnson!"

"No, " said I. "I've lost her. "

"What do you mean--lost her?"

"It was dark, " said I--and it's funny how my head was clearing up--"andthe door was open--the store-room door--and I was after her--and I guessshe stumbled, maybe--and I lost her. "

"Johnson, " said he, "what do you mean? You sound crazy--downright crazy. Who?"

"Her, " said I. "Fedderson's wife. "

"_Who?_"

"Her, " said I. And with that he gave my arm another jerk. 

"Listen, " said he, like a tiger. "Don't try that on me. It won't do anygood--that kind of lies--not where _you're_ going to. Fedderson and hiswife, too--the both of 'em's drowned deader 'n a door-nail. "

"I know, " said I, nodding my head. I was so calm it made him wild. 

"You're crazy! Crazy as a loon, Johnson!" And he was chewing his lipred. "I know, because it was me that found the old man laying on BackWater Flats yesterday morning--_me!_ And she'd been with him in theboat, too, because he had a piece of her jacket tore off, tangled in hisarm. "

"I know, " said I, nodding again, like that. 

"You know _what_, you _crazy, murdering fool_?" Those were his words tome, sir. 

"I know, " said I, "what I know. "

"And _I_ know, " said he, "what _I_ know. "

And there you are, sir. He's Inspector. I'm--nobody. 

At the Gate

BY MYLA JO CLOSSER

 From the _Century Magazine_. By permission of the Century Company and Myla J. Closser. 

A shaggy Airedale scented his way along the highroad. He had not beenthere before, but he was guided by the trail of his brethren who hadpreceded him. He had gone unwillingly upon this journey, yet with theperfect training of dogs he had accepted it without complaint. The pathhad been lonely, and his heart would have failed him, traveling as hemust without his people, had not these traces of countless dogs beforehim promised companionship of a sort at the end of the road. 

The landscape had appeared arid at first, for the translation fromrecent agony into freedom from pain had been so numbing in its swiftnessthat it was some time before he could fully appreciate the pleasantdog-country through which he was passing. There were woods with leavesupon the ground through which to scurry, long grassy slopes for extendedruns, and lakes into which he might plunge for sticks and bring themback to--But he did not complete his thought, for the boy was not withhim. A little wave of homesickness possessed him. 

It made his mind easier to see far ahead a great gate as high as theheavens, wide enough for all. He understood that only man built suchbarriers and by straining his eyes he fancied he could discern humanspassing through to whatever lay beyond. He broke into a run that hemight the more quickly gain this inclosure made beautiful by men andwomen; but his thoughts outran his pace, and he remembered that he hadleft the family behind, and again this lovely new compound became notperfect, since it would lack the family. 

The scent of the dogs grew very strong now, and coming nearer, hediscovered, to his astonishment that of the myriads of those who hadarrived ahead of him thousands were still gathered on the outside of theportal. They sat in a wide circle spreading out on each side of theentrance, big, little, curly, handsome, mongrel, thoroughbred dogs ofevery age, complexion, and personality. All were apparently waiting forsomething, someone, and at the pad of the Airedale's feet on the hardroad they arose and looked in his direction. 

That the interest passed as soon as they discovered the new-comer to bea dog puzzled him. In his former dwelling-place a four-footed brotherwas greeted with enthusiasm when he was a friend, with suspiciousdiplomacy when a stranger, and with sharp reproof when an enemy; butnever had he been utterly ignored. 

He remembered something that he had read many times on great buildingswith lofty entrances. "Dogs not admitted, " the signs had said, and hefeared this might be the reason for the waiting circle outside the gate. It might be that this noble portal stood as the dividing-line betweenmere dogs and humans. But he had been a member of the family, rompingwith them in the living-room, sitting at meals with them in thedining-room, going upstairs at night with them, and the thought that hewas to be "kept out" would be unendurable. 

He despised the passive dogs. They should be treating a barrier afterthe fashion of their old country, leaping against it, barking, andscratching the nicely painted door. He bounded up the last little hillto set them an example, for he was still full of the rebellion of theworld; but he found no door to leap against. He could see beyond theentrance dear masses of people, yet no dog crossed the threshold. Theycontinued in their patient ring, their gaze upon the winding road. 

He now advanced cautiously to examine the gate. It occurred to him thatit must be fly-time in this region, and he did not wish to make himselfridiculous before all these strangers by trying to bolt through aninvisible mesh like the one that had baffled him when he was a littlechap. Yet there were no screens, and despair entered his soul. Whatbitter punishment these poor beasts must have suffered before theylearned to stay on this side the arch that led to human beings! Whathad they done on earth to merit this? Stolen bones troubled hisconscience, runaway days, sleeping in the best chair until the keyclicked in the lock. These were sins. 

At that moment an English bull-terrier, white, with liver-colored spotsand a jaunty manner, approached him, snuffling in a friendly way. Nosooner had the bull-terrier smelt his collar than he fell to expressinghis joy at meeting him. The Airedale's reserve was quite thawed by thiswelcome, though he did not know just what to make of it. 

"I know you! I know you!" exclaimed the bull-terrier, addinginconsequently, "What's your name?"

"Tam o'Shanter. They call me Tammy, " was the answer, with a pardonablebreak in the voice. 

"I know them, " said the bull-terrier. "Nice folks. "

"Best ever, " said the Airedale, trying to be nonchalant, and scratchinga flea which was not there. "I don't remember you. When did you knowthem?"

"About fourteen tags ago, when they were first married. We keep track oftime here by the license-tags. I had four. "

"This is my first and only one. You were before my time, I guess. " Hefelt young and shy. 

"Come for a walk, and tell me all about them, " was his new friend'sinvitation. 

"Aren't we allowed in there?" asked Tam, looking toward the gate. 

"Sure. You can go in whenever you want to. Some of us do at first, butwe don't stay. "

"Like it better outside?"

"No, no; it isn't that. "

"Then why are all you fellows hanging around here? Any old dog can seeit's better beyond the arch. "

"You see, we're waiting for our folks to come. "

The Airedale grasped it at once, and nodded understandingly. 

"I felt that way when I came along the road. It wouldn't be what it'ssupposed to be without them. It wouldn't be the perfect place. "

"Not to us, " said the bull-terrier. 

"Fine! I've stolen bones, but it must be that I have been forgiven, ifI'm to see them here again. It's the great good place all right. Butlook here, " he added as a new thought struck him, "do they wait for us?"

The older inhabitant coughed in slight embarrassment. 

"The humans couldn't do that very well. It wouldn't be the thing to havethem hang around outside for just a dog--not dignified. "

"Quite right, " agreed Tam. "I'm glad they go straight to their mansions. I'd--I'd hate to have them missing me as I am missing them. " He sighed. "But, then, they wouldn't have to wait so long. "

"Oh, well, they're getting on. Don't be discouraged, " comforted theterrier. "And in the meantime it's like a big hotel in summer--watchingthe new arrivals. See, there is something doing now. "

All the dogs were aroused to excitement by a little figure making itsway uncertainly up the last slope. Half of them started to meet it, crowding about in a loving, eager pack. 

"Look out; don't scare it, " cautioned the older animals, while word waspassed to those farthest from the gate: "Quick! Quick! A baby's come!"

Before they had entirely assembled, however, a gaunt yellow hound pushedthrough the crowd, gave one sniff at the small child, and with a yelp ofjoy crouched at its feet. The baby embraced the hound in recognition, and the two moved toward the gate. Just outside the hound stopped tospeak to an aristocratic St. Bernard who had been friendly:

"Sorry to leave you, old fellow, " he said, "but I'm going in to watchover the kid. You see, I'm all she has up here. "

The bull-terrier looked at the Airedale for appreciation. 

"That's the way we do it, " he said proudly. 

"Yes, but--" the Airedale put his head on one side in perplexity. 

"Yes, but what?" asked the guide. 

"The dogs that don't have any people--the nobodies' dogs?"

"That's the best of all. Oh, everything is thought out here. Crouchdown, --you must be tired, --and watch, " said the bull-terrier. 

Soon they spied another small form making the turn in the road. He worea Boy Scout's uniform, but he was a little fearful, for all that, so newwas this adventure. The dogs rose again and snuffled, but the bettergroomed of the circle held back, and in their place a pack of odds andends of the company ran down to meet him. The Boy Scout was reassured bytheir friendly attitude, and after petting them impartially, he chose anold-fashioned black and tan, and the two passed in. 

Tam looked questioningly. 

"They didn't know each other!" he exclaimed. 

"But they've always wanted to. That's one of the boys who used to begfor a dog, but his father wouldn't let him have one. So all our strayswait for just such little fellows to come along. Every boy gets a dog, and every dog gets a master. "

"I expect the boy's father would like to know that now, " commented theAiredale. "No doubt he thinks quite often, 'I wish I'd let him have adog. '"

The bull-terrier laughed. 

"You're pretty near the earth yet, aren't you?"

Tam admitted it. 

"I've a lot of sympathy with fathers and with boys, having them both inthe family, and a mother as well. "

The bull-terrier leaped up in astonishment. 

"You don't mean to say they keep a boy?"

"Sure; greatest boy on earth. Ten this year. "

"Well, well, this is news! I wish they'd kept a boy when I was there. "

The Airedale looked at his new friend intently. 

"See here, who are you?" he demanded. 

But the other hurried on:

"I used to run away from them just to play with a boy. They'd punish me, and I always wanted to tell them it was their fault for not gettingone. "

"Who are you, anyway?" repeated Tam. "Talking all this interest in me, too. Whose dog _were_ you?"

"You've already guessed. I see it in your quivering snout. I'm the olddog that had to leave them about ten years ago. "

"Their old dog Bully?"

"Yes, I'm Bully. " They nosed each other with deeper affection, thenstrolled about the glades shoulder to shoulder. Bully the more eagerlypressed for news. "Tell me, how are they getting along?"

"Very well indeed; they've paid for the house. "

"I--I suppose you occupy the kennel?"

"No. They said they couldn't stand it to see another dog in your oldplace. "

Bully stopped to howl gently. 

"That touches me. It's generous in you to tell it. To think they missedme!"

For a little while they went on in silence, but as evening fell, andthe light from the golden streets inside of the city gave the only glowto the scene, Bully grew nervous and suggested that they go back. 

"We can't see so well at night, and I like to be pretty close to thepath, especially toward morning. "

Tam assented. 

"And I will point them out. You might not know them just at first. "

"Oh, we know them. Sometimes the babies have so grown up they're ratherhazy in their recollection of how we look. They think we're bigger thanwe are; but you can't fool us dogs. "

"It's understood, " Tam cunningly arranged, "that when he or she arrivesyou'll sort of make them feel at home while I wait for the boy?"

"That's the best plan, " assented Bully, kindly. "And if by any chancethe little fellow should come first, --there's been a lot of them thissummer--of course you'll introduce me?"

"I shall be proud to do it. "

And so with muzzles sunk between their paws, and with their eyesstraining down the pilgrims' road, they wait outside the gate. 

Ligeia

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

 And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mystery of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will. --_Joseph Glanvill. _

I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, Ifirst became acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years have sinceelapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, Icannot _now_ bring these points to mind, because, in truth, thecharacter of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid castof beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her lowmusical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily andstealthily progressive, that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet Ibelieve that I met her first and most frequently in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family--I have surely heard herspeak. That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia!Ligeia! Buried in studies of a nature more than all else adapted todeaden impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet wordalone--by Ligeia--that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image ofher who is no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes uponme that I have _never known_ the paternal name of her who was my friendand my bethrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and finallythe wife of my bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia?or was it a test of my strength of affection, that I should institute noinquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice of my own--awildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion?I but indistinctly recall the fact itself--what wonder that I haveutterly forgotten the circumstances which originated or attended it?And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled _Romance_--if evershe, the wan misty-winged _Ashtophet_ of idolatrous Egypt, presided, asthey tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided overmine. 

There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not. Itis the _person_ of Ligeia. In stature she was tall, somewhatslender, and, in her latter days, even emaciated. I would in vainattempt to portray the majesty, the quiet ease of her demeanor, or theincomprehensible lightness and elasticity of her footfall. She cameand departed as a shadow. I was never made aware of her entrance intomy closed study, save by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as sheplaced her marble hand upon my shoulder. In beauty of face no maidenever equaled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream--an airy andspirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the phantasies whichhovered about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet herfeatures were not of that regular mold which we have been falsely taughtto worship in the classical labors of the heathen. "There is no exquisitebeauty, " says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and_genera_ of beauty, "without some _strangeness_ in the proportion. "Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia were not of a classicregularity--although I perceived that her loveliness was indeed"exquisite, " and felt that there was much of "strangeness" pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity and to trace home myown perception of "the strange. " I examined the contour of the lofty andpale forehead--it was faultless--how cold indeed that word when appliedto a majesty so divine!--the skin rivaling the purest ivory, thecommanding extent and repose, the gentle prominence of the regions abovethe temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the luxuriant, andnaturally-curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homericepithet, "hyacinthine!" I looked at the delicate outlines of thenose--and nowhere but in the graceful medallions of the Hebrews had Ibeheld a similar perfection. There were the same luxurious smoothness ofsurface, the same scarcely perceptible tendency to the aquiline, thesame harmoniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regardedthe sweet mouth. Here was indeed the triumph of all things heavenly--themagnificent turn of the short upper lip--the soft, voluptuous slumber ofthe under--the dimples which sported, and the color which spoke--theteeth glancing back, with a brilliancy almost startling, every ray ofthe holy light which fell upon them in her serene and placid yet mostexultingly radiant of all smiles. I scrutinized the formation of thechin--and, here, too, I found the gentleness of breadth, the softnessand the majesty, the fullness and the spirituality, of the Greek--thecontour which the god Apollo revealed but in a dream, to Cleomenes, theson of the Athenian. And then I peered into the large eyes of Ligeia. 

For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique. It might have been, too, that in these eyes of my beloved lay the secret to which LordVerulam alludes. They were, I must believe, far larger than the ordinaryeyes of our own race. They were even fuller than the fullest of thegazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley of Nourjahad. Yet it was only atintervals--in moments of intense excitement--that this peculiaritybecame more than slightly noticeable in Ligeia. And at such moments washer beauty--in my heated fancy thus it appeared perhaps--the beauty ofbeings either above or apart from the earth--the beauty of the fabulousHouri of the Turk. The hue of the orbs was the most brilliant of black, and, far over them, hung jetty lashes of great length. The brows, slightly irregular in outline, had the same tint. The "strangeness, "however, which I found in the eyes was of a nature distinct from theformation, or the color, or the brilliancy of the features, and must, after all, be referred to the _expression_. Ah, word of no meaning!behind whose vast latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance of somuch of the spiritual. The expression of the eyes of Ligeia! How forlong hours have I pondered upon it! How have I, through the whole of amidsummer night, struggled to fathom it! What was it--that somethingmore profound than the well of Democritus--which lay far within thepupils of my beloved? What _was_ it? I was possessed with a passion todiscover. Those eyes! those large, those shining, those divine orbs!they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I to them devoutest ofastrologers. 

There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of thescience of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the fact--never, Ibelieve, noticed in the schools--than in our endeavors to recall tomemory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves _upon the veryverge_ of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. Andthus how frequently, in my intense scrutiny of Ligeia's eyes, have Ifelt approaching the full knowledge of their expression--felt itapproaching--yet not quite be mine--and so at length entirely depart!And (strange, oh, strangest mystery of all!) I found, in the commonestobjects of the universe, a circle of analogies to that expression. Imean to say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia's beauty passedinto my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from manyexistences in the material world, a sentiment such as I felt alwaysaround, within me, by her large and luminous orbs. Yet not the morecould I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view it. Irecognized it, let me repeat, sometimes in the survey of a rapidlygrowing vine--in the contemplation of a moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of running water. I have felt it in the ocean--in the fallingof a meteor. I have felt it in the glances of unusually aged people. Andthere are one or two stars in heaven (one especially, a star of thesixth magnitude, double and changeable, to be found near the large starin Lyra) in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made aware of thefeeling. I have been filled with it by certain sounds from stringedinstruments, and not unfrequently by passages from books. Amonginnumerable other instances, I well remember something in a volume ofJoseph Glanvill, which (perhaps merely from its quaintness--who shallsay?) never failed to inspire me with the sentiment: "And the willtherein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things bynature of its intentness. Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor untodeath utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will. "

Length of years and subsequent reflection have enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connection between this passage in the Englishmoralist and a portion of the character of Ligeia. An _intensity_ inthought, action, or speech was possibly, in her, a result, or at leastan index, of that gigantic volition which, during our long intercourse, failed to give other and more immediate evidence of its existence. Ofall the women whom I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, theever-placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey to the tumultuousvultures of stern passion. And of such passion I could form no estimate, save by the miraculous expansion of those eyes which at once sodelighted and appalled me, --by the almost magical melody, modulation, distinctness, and placidity of her very low voice, --and by the fierceenergy (rendered doubly effective by contrast with her manner ofutterance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered. 

I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it was immense--such as I havenever known in woman. In the classical tongues was she deeplyproficient, and as far as my own acquaintance extended in regard to themodern dialects of Europe, I have never known her at fault. Indeed uponany theme of the most admired because simply the most abstruse of theboasted erudition of the Academy, have I _ever_ found Ligeia at fault?How singularly--how thrillingly, this one point in the nature of my wifehas forced itself, at this late period only, upon my attention! I saidher knowledge was such as I have never known in woman--but wherebreathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, _all_ the wideareas of moral, physical, and mathematical science? I saw not then whatI now clearly perceive that the acquisitions of Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding; yet I was sufficiently aware of her infinite supremacyto resign myself, with a child-like confidence, to her guidance throughthe chaotic world of metaphysical investigation at which I was mostbusily occupied during the earlier years of our marriage. With how vasta triumph--with how vivid a delight--with how much of all that isethereal in hope did I _feel_, as she bent over me in studies but littlesought--but less known, --that delicious vista by slow degrees expandingbefore me, down whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, I might atlength pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too divinely precious not tobe forbidden. 

How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after someyears, I beheld my well-grounded expectations take wings to themselvesand fly away! Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted. Herpresence, her readings alone, rendered vividly luminous the manymysteries of the transcendentalism in which we were immersed. Wantingthe radiant luster of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew dullerthan Saturnian lead. And now those eyes shone less and less frequentlyupon the pages over which I pored. Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazedwith a too--too glorious effulgence; the pale fingers became of thetransparent waxen hue of the grave; and the blue veins upon the loftyforehead swelled and sank impetuously with the tides of the most gentleemotion. I saw that she must die--and I struggled desperately in spiritwith the grim Azrael. And the struggles of the passionate wife were, tomy astonishment, even more energetic than my own. There had been much inher stern nature to impress me with the belief that, to her, death wouldhave come without its terrors; but not so. Words are impotent to conveyany just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestledwith the Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. I wouldhave soothed--I would have reasoned; but in the intensity of her wilddesire for life--for life--_but_ for life--solace and reason were alikethe uttermost of folly. Yet not until the last instance, amid the mostconvulsive writhings of her fierce spirit, was shaken the externalplacidity of her demeanor. Her voice grew more gentle--grew morelow--yet I would not wish to dwell upon the wild meaning of the quietlyuttered words. My brain reeled as I hearkened, entranced, to a melodymore than mortal--to assumptions and aspirations which mortality hadnever before known. 

That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I might have beeneasily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have reigned noordinary passion. But in death only was I fully impressed with thestrength of her affection. For long hours, detaining my hand, would shepour out before me the overflowing of a heart whose more than passionatedevotion amounted to idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed bysuch confessions?--how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removalof my beloved in the hour of my making them? But upon this subject Icannot bear to dilate. Let me say only, that in Ligeia's more thanwomanly abandonment to a love, alas! all unmerited, all unworthilybestowed, I at length, recognized the principle of her longing, with sowildly earnest a desire, for the life which was now fleeing so rapidlyaway. It is this wild longing--it is this eager vehemence of desire forlife--_but_ for life--that I have no power to portray--no utterancecapable of expressing. 

At high noon of the night in which she departed, beckoning me, peremptorily, to her side, she bade me repeat certain verses composed byherself not many days before. I obeyed her. They were these:--

 Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. 

 Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly; Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their condor wings Invisible Wo!

 That motley drama!--oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot; And much of Madness, and more of Sin And Horror, the soul of the plot!

 But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. 

 Out--out are the lights--out all: And over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm-- And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man, " And its hero, the conqueror Worm. 

"O God!" half shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her feet and extending herarms aloft with a spasmodic movement, as I made an end of theselines--"O God! O Divine Father!--shall these things be undeviatinglyso?--shall this conqueror be not once conquered? Are we not part andparcel in Thee? Who--who knoweth the mysteries of the will with itsvigor? Man doth not yield him to the angels, _nor unto death utterly_, save only through the weakness of his feeble will. "

And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she suffered her white arms tofall, and returned solemnly to her bed of death. And as she breathed herlast sighs, there came mingled with them a low murmur from her lips. Ibent to them my ear, and distinguished, again, the concluding words ofthe passage in Glanvill: "_Man doth not yield him to the angels, norunto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will. _"

She died: and I, crushed into the very dust with sorrow, could no longerendure the lonely desolation of my dwelling in the dim and decayingcity by the Rhine. I had no lack of what the world calls wealth. Ligeiahad brought me far more, very far more, than ordinarily falls to the lotof mortals. After a few months, therefore, of weary and aimlesswandering, I purchased and put in some repair, an abbey, which I shallnot name, in one of the wildest and least frequented portions of fairEngland. The gloomy and dreary grandeur of the building, the almostsavage aspect of the domain, the many melancholy and time-honoredmemories connected with both, had much in unison with the feelings ofutter abandonment which had driven me into that remote and unsocialregion of the country. Yet although the external abbey, with its verdantdecay hanging about it, suffered but little alteration, I gave way, witha child-like perversity, and perchance with a faint hope of alleviatingmy sorrows, to a display of more than regal magnificence within. Forsuch follies, even in childhood, I had imbibed a taste, and now theycame back to me as if in the dotage of grief. Alas, I feel how much evenof incipient madness might have been discovered in the gorgeous andfantastic draperies, in the solemn carvings of Egypt, in the wildcornices and furniture, in the Bedlam patterns of the carpets of tuftedgold! I had become a bounden slave in the trammels of opium, and mylabors and my orders had taken a coloring from my dreams. But theseabsurdities I must not pause to detail. Let me speak only of that onechamber, ever accursed, whither, in a moment of mental alienation, I ledfrom the altar as my bride--as the successor of the unforgottenLigeia--the fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion, ofTremaine. 

There is no individual portion of the architecture and decoration ofthat bridal chamber which is not visibly before me. Where were the soulsof the haughty family of the bride, when, through thirst of gold, theypermitted to pass the threshold of an apartment _so_ bedecked, a maidenand a daughter so beloved? I have said, that I minutely remember thedetails of the chamber--yet I am sadly forgetful on topics of deepmoment; and here there was no system, no keeping, in the fantasticdisplay to take hold upon the memory. The room lay in a high turret ofthe castellated abbey, was pentagonal in shape, and of capacious size. Occupying the whole southern face of the pentagonal was the solewindow--an immense sheet of unbroken glass from Venice--a single pane, and tinted of a leaden hue, so that the rays of either the sun or moonpassing through it, fell with a ghastly luster on the objects within. Over the upper portion of this huge window extended the trellis-work ofan aged vine, which clambered up the massy walls of the turret. Theceiling, of gloomy-looking oak, was excessively lofty, vaulted, andelaborately fretted with the wildest and most grotesque specimens of asemi-Gothic, semi-Druidical device. From out the most central recess ofthis melancholy vaulting, depended, by a single chain of gold with longlinks, a huge censer of the same metal, Saracenic in pattern, and withmany perforations so contrived that there writhed in and out of them, asif endued with a serpent vitality, a continual succession ofparti-colored fires. 

Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of Eastern figure, were invarious stations about; and there was the couch, too--the bridalcouch--of an Indian model, and low, and sculptured of solid ebony, witha pall-like canopy above. In each of the angles of the chamber stood onend a gigantic sarcophagus of black granite, from the tombs of the kingsover against Luxor, with their aged lids full of immemorial sculpture. But in the draping of the apartment lay, alas! the chief phantasy ofall. The lofty walls, gigantic in height--even unproportionably so--werehung from summit to foot, in vast folds, with a heavy andmassive-looking tapestry--tapestry of a material which was found alikeas a carpet on the floor, as a covering for the ottomans and the ebonybed, as a canopy for the bed, and as the gorgeous volutes of thecurtains which partially shaded the window. The material was the richestcloth of gold. It was spotted all over, at irregular intervals, witharabesque figures, about a foot in diameter, and wrought upon the clothin patterns of the most jetty black. But these figures partook of thetrue character of the arabesque only when regarded from a single pointof view. By a contrivance now common, and indeed traceable to a veryremote period of antiquity, they were made changeable in aspect. To oneentering the room, they bore the appearance of simple monstrosities; butupon a farther advance, this appearance gradually departed; and, step bystep, as the visitor moved his station in the chamber, he saw himselfsurrounded by an endless succession of the ghastly forms which belong tothe superstition of the Norman, or arise in the guilty slumbers of themonk. The phantasmagoric effect was vastly heightened by the artificialintroduction of a strong continual current of wind behind thedraperies--giving a hideous and uneasy animation to the whole. 

In halls such as these--in a bridal chamber such as this--I passed, withthe Lady of Tremaine, the unhallowed hours of the first month of ourmarriage--passed them with but little disquietude. That my wife dreadedthe fierce moodiness of my temper--that she shunned me, and loved me butlittle--I could not help perceiving; but it gave me rather pleasure thanotherwise. I loathed her with a hatred belonging more to demon than toman. My memory flew back (oh, with what intensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the beloved, the august, the beautiful, the entombed. I reveled inrecollections of her purity, of her wisdom, of her lofty--her etherealnature, of her passionate, her idolatrous love. Now, then, did my spiritfully and freely burn with more than all the fires of her own. In theexcitement of my opium dreams (for I was habitually fettered in theshackles of the drug), I would call aloud upon her name, during thesilence of the night, or among the sheltered recesses of the glens byday, as if, through the wild eagerness, the solemn passion, theconsuming ardor of my longing for the departed, I could restore her tothe pathways she had abandoned--ah, _could_ it be forever?--upon theearth. 

About the commencement of the second month of the marriage, the LadyRowena was attacked with sudden illness, from which her recovery wasslow. The fever which consumed her rendered her nights uneasy; and inher perturbed state of half-slumber, she spoke of sounds, and ofmotions, in and about the chamber of the turret, which I concluded hadno origin save in the distemper of her fancy, or perhaps in thephantasmagoric influences of the chamber itself. She became at lengthconvalescent--finally, well. Yet but a second more violent disorderagain threw her upon a bed of suffering; and from this attack her frame, at all times feeble, never altogether recovered. Her illnesses were, after this epoch, of alarming character, and of more alarmingrecurrence, defying alike the knowledge and the great exertions of herphysicians. With the increase of the chronic disease, which had thus, apparently, taken too sure hold upon her constitution to be eradicatedby human means, I could not fail to observe a similar increase in thenervous irritation of her temperament, and in her excitability bytrivial causes of fear. She spoke again, and now more frequently andpertinaciously, of the sounds--of the slight sounds--and of the unusualmotions among the tapestries, to which she had formerly alluded. 

One night, near the closing in of September, she pressed thisdistressing subject with more than usual emphasis upon my attention. Shehad just awakened from an unquiet slumber, and I had been watching, withfeelings half of anxiety, half of vague terror, the workings of heremaciated countenance. I sat by the side of her ebony bed, upon one ofthe ottomans of India. She partly arose, and spoke, in an earnest lowwhisper, of sounds which she _then_ heard, but which I could nothear--of motions which she _then_ saw, but which I could not perceive. The wind was rushing hurriedly behind the tapestries, and I wished toshow her (what, let me confess it, I could not _all_ believe) that thosealmost inarticulate breathings, and those very gentle variations of thefigures upon the wall, were but the natural effects of that customaryrushing of the wind. But a deadly pallor, overspreading her face, hadproved to me that my exertions to reassure her would be fruitless. Sheappeared to be fainting, and no attendants were within call. Iremembered where was deposited a decanter of light wine which had beenordered by her physicians, and hastened across the chamber to procureit. But, as I stepped beneath the light of the censer, twocircumstances of a startling nature attracted my attention. I had feltthat some palpable although invisible object had passed lightly by myperson; and I saw that there lay upon the golden carpet, in the verymiddle of the rich luster thrown from the censer, a shadow--a faint, indefinite shadow of angelic aspect--such as might be fancied for theshadow of a shade. But I was wild with the excitement of an immoderatedose of opium, and heeded these things but little, nor spoke of them toRowena. Having found the wine, I recrossed the chamber, and poured out agobletful, which I held to the lips of the fainting lady. She had nowpartially recovered, however, and took the vessel herself, while I sankupon an ottoman near me, with my eyes fastened upon her person. It wasthen that I became distinctly aware of a gentle footfall upon thecarpet, and near the couch; and in a second thereafter, as Rowena was inthe act of raising the wine to her lips, I saw, or may have dreamed thatI saw, fall within the goblet, as if from some invisible spring in theatmosphere of the room, three or four large drops of a brilliant andruby colored fluid. If this I saw--not so Rowena. She swallowed the wineunhesitatingly, and I forebore to speak to her of a circumstance whichmust, after all, I considered, have been but the suggestion of a vividimagination, rendered morbidly active by the terror of the lady, by theopium, and by the hour. 

Yet I cannot conceal [Transcriber's note: The original reads "coneal". ]it from my own perception that, immediately subsequent to the fall ofthe ruby drops, a rapid change for the worse took place in the disorderof my wife; so that, on the third subsequent night, the hands of hermenials prepared her for the tomb, and on the fourth, I sat alone, withher shrouded body, in that fantastic chamber which had received her asmy bride. Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted, shadow-like, beforeme. I gazed with unquiet eye upon the sarcophagi in the angles of theroom, upon the varying figures of the drapery, and upon the writhing ofthe parti-colored fires in the censer overhead. My eyes then fell, as Icalled to mind the circumstances of a former night, to the spot beneaththe glare of the censer where I had seen the faint traces of the shadow. It was there, however, no longer; and breathing with greater freedom, Iturned my glances to the pallid and rigid figure upon the bed. Thenrushed upon me a thousand memories of Ligeia--and then came back upon myheart, with the turbulent violence of a flood, the whole of thatunutterable woe with which I had regarded _her_ thus enshrouded. Thenight waned; and still, with a bosom full of bitter thoughts of the oneonly and supremely beloved, I remained gazing upon the body of Rowena. 

It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or later, for I hadtaken no note of time, when a sob, low, gentle, but very distinct, startled me from my revery. I _felt_ that it came from the bed ofebony--the bed of death. I listened in an agony of superstitiousterror--but there was no repetition of the sound. I strained my visionto detect any motion in the corpse--but there was not the slightestperceptible. Yet I could not have been deceived. I _had_ heard thenoise, however faint, and my soul was awakened within me. I resolutelyand perseveringly kept my attention riveted upon the body. Many minuteselapsed before any circumstance occurred tending to throw light upon themystery. At length it became evident that a slight, a very feeble, andbarely noticeable tinge of color had flushed up within the cheeks, andalong the sunken small veins of the eyelids. Through a species ofunutterable horror and awe, for which the language of mortality has nosufficiently energetic expression, I felt my heart cease to beat, mylimbs grow rigid where I sat. Yet a sense of duty finally operated torestore my self-possession. I could no longer doubt that we had beenprecipitate in our preparations--that Rowena still lived. It wasnecessary that some immediate exertion be made; yet the turret wasaltogether apart from the portion of the abbey tenanted by theservants--there were none within call--I had no means of summoning themto my aid without leaving the room for many minutes--and this I couldnot venture to do. I therefore struggled alone in my endeavors to callback the spirit still hovering. In a short period it was certain, however, that a relapse had taken place; the color disappeared from botheyelid and cheek, leaving a wanness even more than that of marble; thelips became doubly shriveled and pinched up in the ghastly expression ofdeath; a repulsive clamminess and coldness overspread rapidly thesurface of the body; and all the usual rigorous stiffness immediatelysupervened. I fell back with a shudder upon the couch from which I hadbeen so startlingly aroused, and again gave myself up to passionatewaking visions of Ligeia. 

An hour thus elapsed, when (could it be possible?) I was a second timeaware of some vague sound issuing from the region of the bed. Ilistened--in extremity of horror. The sound came again--it was a sigh. Rushing to the corpse, I saw--distinctly saw--a tremor upon the lips. Ina minute afterward they relaxed, disclosing a bright line of the pearlyteeth. Amazement now struggled in my bosom with the profound awe whichhad hitherto reigned there alone. I felt that my vision grew dim, thatmy reason wandered; and it was only by a violent effort that I at lengthsucceeded in nerving myself to the task which duty thus once more hadpointed out. There was now a partial glow upon the forehead and upon thecheek and throat; a perceptible warmth pervaded the whole frame; therewas even a slight pulsation at the heart. The lady _lived_; and withredoubled ardor I betook myself to the task of restoration. I chafed andbathed the temples and the hands and used every exertion whichexperience, and no little medical reading, could suggest. But in vain. Suddenly, the color fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed theexpression of the dead, and, in an instant afterward, the whole bodytook upon itself the icy chilliness, the livid hue, the intenserigidity, the sunken outline, and all the loathsome peculiarities ofthat which has been, for many days, a tenant of the tomb. 

And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia--and again (what marvel that Ishudder while I write?), _again_ there reached my ears a low sob fromthe region of the ebony bed. But why shall I minutely detail theunspeakable horrors of that night? Why shall I pause to relate how, timeafter time, until near the period of the gray dawn, this hideous dramaof revivification was repeated; how each terrific relapse was only intoa sterner and apparently more irredeemable death; how each agony worethe aspect of a struggle with some invisible foe; and how each strugglewas succeeded by I know not what of wild change in the personalappearance of the corpse? Let me hurry to a conclusion. 

The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who hadbeen dead once again stirred--and now more vigorously than hitherto, although arousing from a dissolution more appalling in its utterhopelessness than any. I had long ceased to struggle or to move, andremained sitting rigidly upon the ottoman, a helpless prey to a whirlof violent emotions, of which extreme awe was perhaps the leastterrible, the least consuming. The corpse, I repeat, stirred, and nowmore vigorously than before. The hues of life flushed up with unwontedenergy into the countenance--the limbs relaxed--and, save that theeyelids were yet pressed heavily together, and that the bandages anddraperies of the grave still imparted their charnel character to thefigure, I might have dreamed that Rowena had indeed shaken off, utterly, the fetters of Death. But if this idea was not, even then, altogetheradopted, I could at least doubt no longer, when, arising from the bed, tottering, with feeble steps, with closed eyes, and with the manner ofone bewildered in a dream, the thing that was enshrouded advanced boldlyand palpably into the middle of the apartment. 

I trembled not--I stirred not--for a crowd of unutterable fanciesconnected with the air, the stature, the demeanor, of the figure, rushing hurriedly through my brain, had paralyzed--had chilled me intostone. I stirred not--but gazed upon the apparition. There was a maddisorder in my thoughts--a tumult unappeasable. Could it, indeed, be the_living_ Rowena who confronted me? Could it, indeed, be Rowena _atall_--the fair-haired, the blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine?Why, _why_ should I doubt it? The bandage lay heavily about themouth--but then might it not be the mouth of the breathing Lady ofTremaine? And the cheeks--there were the roses as in her noon oflife--yes, these might indeed be the fair cheeks of the living Lady ofTremaine. And the chin, with its dimples, as in health, might it not behers?--but _had she then grown taller since her malady?_ Whatinexpressible madness seized me with that thought? One bound, and I hadreached her feet! Shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head, unloosened, the ghastly cerements which had confined it, and therestreamed forth into the rushing atmosphere of the chamber huge masses oflong and disheveled hair; _it was blacker than the raven wings ofmidnight. _ And now slowly opened _the eyes_ of the figure which stoodbefore me. "Here then, at least, " I shrieked aloud, "can I never--can Inever be mistaken--these are the full, and the black, and the wildeyes--of my lost love--of the Lady--of the LADY LIGEIA. "

The Haunted Orchard

BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

 From _Harper's Magazine_, January, 1912. By permission of Harper and Brothers and Richard Le Gallienne. 

Spring was once more in the world. As she sang to herself in the farawaywoodlands her voice reached even the ears of the city, weary with thelong winter. Daffodils flowered at the entrances to the Subway, furniture removing vans blocked the side streets, children clusteredlike blossoms on the doorsteps, the open cars were running, and the cryof the "cash clo'" man was once more heard in the land. 

Yes, it was the spring, and the city dreamed wistfully of lilacs and thedewy piping of birds in gnarled old apple-trees, of dogwood lighting upwith sudden silver the thickening woods, of water-plants unfolding theirglossy scrolls in pools of morning freshness. 

On Sunday mornings, the outbound trains were thronged with eagerpilgrims, hastening out of the city, to behold once more the ancientmarvel of the spring; and, on Sunday evenings, the railway termini wereaflower with banners of blossom from rifled woodland and orchard carriedin the hands of the returning pilgrims, whose eyes still shone with thespring magic, in whose ears still sang the fairy music. 

And as I beheld these signs of the vernal equinox I knew that I, too, must follow the music, forsake awhile the beautiful siren we call thecity, and in the green silences meet once more my sweetheart Solitude. 

As the train drew out of the Grand Central, I hummed to myself, "I've a neater, sweeter maiden, in a greener, cleaner land"

and so I said good-by to the city, and went forth with beating heart tomeet the spring. 

I had been told of an almost forgotten corner on the south coast ofConnecticut, where the spring and I could live in an inviolateloneliness--a place uninhabited save by birds and blossoms, woods andthick grass, and an occasional silent farmer, and pervaded by the breathand shimmer of the Sound. 

Nor had rumor lied, for when the train set me down at my destination Istepped out into the most wonderful green hush, a leafy Sabbath silencethrough which the very train, as it went farther on its way, seemed tosteal as noiselessly as possible for fear of breaking the spell. 

After a winter in the town, to be dropped thus suddenly into the intensequiet of the country-side makes an almost ghostly impression upon one, as of an enchanted silence, a silence that listens and watches butnever speaks, finger on lip. There is a spectral quality abouteverything upon which the eye falls: the woods, like great green clouds, the wayside flowers, the still farm-houses half lost in orchardbloom--all seem to exist in a dream. Everything is so still, everythingso supernaturally green. Nothing moves or talks, except the gentlesusurrus of the spring wind swaying the young buds high up in the quietsky, or a bird now and again, or a little brook singing softly to itselfamong the crowding rushes. 

Though, from the houses one notes here and there, there are evidentlyhuman inhabitants of this green silence, none are to be seen. I haveoften wondered where the countryfolk hide themselves, as I have walkedhour after hour, past farm and croft and lonely door-yards, and nevercaught sight of a human face. If you should want to ask the way, afarmer is as shy as a squirrel, and if you knock at a farm-house door, all is as silent as a rabbit-warren. 

As I walked along in the enchanted stillness, I came at length to aquaint old farm-house--"old Colonial" in its architecture--embowered inwhite lilacs, and surrounded by an orchard of ancient apple-trees whichcast a rich shade on the deep spring grass. The orchard had theimpressiveness of those old religious groves, dedicated to the strangeworship of sylvan gods, gods to be found now only in Horace or Catullus, and in the hearts of young poets to whom the beautiful antique Latin isstill dear. 

The old house seemed already the abode of Solitude. As I lifted thelatch of the white gate and walked across the forgotten grass, and up onto the veranda already festooned with wistaria, and looked into thewindow, I saw Solitude sitting by an old piano, on which no composerlater than Bach had ever been played. 

In other words, the house was empty; and going round to the back, whereold barns and stables leaned together as if falling asleep, I found abroken pane, and so climbed in and walked through the echoing rooms. Thehouse was very lonely. Evidently no one had lived in it for a long time. Yet it was all ready for some occupant, for whom it seemed to bewaiting. Quaint old four-poster bedsteads stood in three rooms--dimitycurtains and spotless linen--old oak chests and mahogany presses; and, opening drawers in Chippendale sideboards, I came upon beautiful frailold silver and exquisite china that set me thinking of a beautifulgrandmother of mine, made out of old lace and laughing wrinkles andmischievous old blue eyes. 

There was one little room that particularly interested me, a tinybedroom all white, and at the window the red roses were already in bud. But what caught my eye with peculiar sympathy was a small bookcase, inwhich were some twenty or thirty volumes, wearing the same forgottenexpression--forgotten and yet cared for--which lay like a kind ofmemorial charm upon everything in the old house. Yes, everything seemedforgotten and yet everything, curiously--even religiously--remembered. Itook out book after book from the shelves, once or twice flowers fellout from the pages--and I caught sight of a delicate handwriting hereand there and frail markings. It was evidently the little intimatelibrary of a young girl. What surprised me most was to find that quitehalf the books were in French--French poets and French romancers: acharming, very rare edition of Ronsard, a beautifully printed edition ofAlfred de Musset, and a copy of Théophile Gautier's _Mademoiselle deMaupin_. How did these exotic books come to be there alone in a desertedNew England farm-house?

This question was to be answered later in a strange way. Meanwhile I hadfallen in love with the sad, old, silent place, and as I closed thewhite gate and was once more on the road, I looked about for someone whocould tell me whether or not this house of ghosts might be rented forthe summer by a comparatively living man. 

I was referred to a fine old New England farm-house shining whitethrough the trees a quarter of a mile away. There I met an ancientcouple, a typical New England farmer and his wife; the old man, lean, chin-bearded, with keen gray eyes flickering occasionally with a shrewdhumor, the old lady with a kindly old face of the withered-apple typeand ruddy. They were evidently prosperous people, but their minds--forsome reason I could not at the moment divine--seemed to be dividedbetween their New England desire to drive a hard bargain and theirdisinclination to let the house at all. 

Over and over again they spoke of the loneliness of the place. Theyfeared I would find it very lonely. No one had lived in it for a longtime, and so on. It seemed to me that afterwards I understood theircurious hesitation, but at the moment only regarded it as a part of thecircuitous New England method of bargaining. At all events, the rent Ioffered finally overcame their disinclination, whatever its cause, andso I came into possession--for four months--of that silent old house, with the white lilacs, and the drowsy barns, and the old piano, and thestrange orchard; and, as the summer came on, and the year changed itsname from May to June, I used to lie under the apple-trees in theafternoons, dreamily reading some old book, and through half-sleepyeyelids watching the silken shimmer of the Sound. 

I had lived in the old house for about a month, when one afternoon astrange thing happened to me. I remember the date well. It was theafternoon of Tuesday, June 13th. I was reading, or rather dipping hereand there, in Burton's _Anatomy of Melancholy_. As I read, I rememberthat a little unripe apple, with a petal or two of blossom stillclinging to it, fell upon the old yellow page. Then I suppose I musthave fallen into a dream, though it seemed to me that both my eyes andmy ears were wide open, for I suddenly became aware of a beautifulyoung voice singing very softly somewhere among the leaves. The singingwas very frail, almost imperceptible, as though it came out of the air. It came and went fitfully, like the elusive fragrance of sweetbrier--asthough a girl was walking to and fro, dreamily humming to herself in thestill afternoon. Yet there was no one to be seen. The orchard had neverseemed more lonely. And another fact that struck me as strange was thatthe words that floated to me out of the aerial music were French, halfsad, half gay snatches of some long-dead singer of old France, I lookedabout for the origin of the sweet sounds, but in vain. Could it be thebirds that were singing in French in this strange orchard? Presently thevoice seemed to come quite close to me, so near that it might have beenthe voice of a dryad singing to me out of the tree against which I wasleaning. And this time I distinctly caught the words of the sad littlesong:

 _"Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le coeur gai; Tu as le coeur à rire, Moi, je l'ai-t-à pleurer. "_

But, though the voice was at my shoulder, I could see no one, and thenthe singing stopped with what sounded like a sob; and a moment or twolater I seemed to hear a sound of sobbing far down the orchard. Thenthere followed silence, and I was left to ponder on the strangeoccurrence. Naturally, I decided that it was just a day-dream betweensleeping and waking over the pages of an old book; yet when next day andthe day after the invisible singer was in the orchard again, I could notbe satisfied with such mere matter-of-fact explanation. 

 _"A la claire fontaine, "_

went the voice to and fro through the thick orchard boughs, _"M'en allant promener, J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle Que je m'y suis baigné, Lui y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oubliai. "_

It was certainly uncanny to hear that voice going to and fro theorchard, there somewhere amid the bright sun-dazzled boughs--yet not ahuman creature to be seen--not another house even within half a mile. The most materialistic mind could hardly but conclude that here wassomething "not dreamed of in our philosophy. " It seemed to me that theonly reasonable explanation was the entirely irrational one--that myorchard was haunted: haunted by some beautiful young spirit, with somesorrow of lost joy that would not let her sleep quietly in her grave. 

And next day I had a curious confirmation of my theory. Once more I waslying under my favorite apple-tree, half reading and half watching theSound, lulled into a dream by the whir of insects and the spices calledup from the earth by the hot sun. As I bent over the page, I suddenlyhad the startling impression that someone was leaning over my shoulderand reading with me, and that a girl's long hair was falling over medown on to the page. The book was the Ronsard I had found in the littlebedroom. I turned, but again there was nothing there. Yet this time Iknew that I had not been dreaming, and I cried out:

"Poor child! tell me of your grief--that I may help your sorrowing heartto rest. "

But, of course, there was no answer; yet that night I dreamed a strangedream. I thought I was in the orchard again in the afternoon and onceagain heard the strange singing--but this time, as I looked up, thesinger was no longer invisible. Coming toward me was a young girl withwonderful blue eyes filled with tears and gold hair that fell to herwaist. She wore a straight, white robe that might have been a shroud ora bridal dress. She appeared not to see me, though she came directly tothe tree where I was sitting. And there she knelt and buried her face inthe grass and sobbed as if her heart would break. Her long hair fellover her like a mantle, and in my dream I stroked it pityingly andmurmured words of comfort for a sorrow I did not understand. . . . Then Iwoke suddenly as one does from dreams. The moon was shining brightlyinto the room. Rising from my bed, I looked out into the orchard. It wasalmost as bright as day. I could plainly see the tree of which I hadbeen dreaming, and then a fantastic notion possessed me. Slipping on myclothes, I went out into one of the old barns and found a spade. Then Iwent to the tree where I had seen the girl weeping in my dream and dugdown at its foot. 

I had dug little more than a foot when my spade struck upon some hardsubstance, and in a few more moments I had uncovered and exhumed a smallbox, which, on examination, proved to be one of those prettyold-fashioned Chippendale work-boxes used by our grandmothers to keeptheir thimbles and needles in, their reels of cotton and skeins of silk. After smoothing down the little grave in which I had found it, I carriedthe box into the house, and under the lamplight examined its contents. 

Then at once I understood why that sad young spirit went to and fro theorchard singing those little French songs--for the treasure-trove I hadfound under the apple-tree, the buried treasure of an unquiet, sufferingsoul, proved to be a number of love-letters written mostly in French ina very picturesque hand--letters, too, written but some five or sixyears before. Perhaps I should not have read them--yet I read them withsuch reverence for the beautiful, impassioned love that animated them, and literally made them "smell sweet and blossom in the dust, " that Ifelt I had the sanction of the dead to make myself the confidant oftheir story. Among the letters were little songs, two of which I hadheard the strange young voice singing in the orchard, and, of course, there were many withered flowers and such like remembrances of bygonerapture. 

Not that night could I make out all the story, though it was notdifficult to define its essential tragedy, and later on a gossip in theneighborhood and a headstone in the churchyard told me the rest. Theunquiet young soul that had sung so wistfully to and fro the orchard wasmy landlord's daughter. She was the only child of her parents, abeautiful, willful girl, exotically unlike those from whom she wassprung and among whom she lived with a disdainful air of exile. She was, as a child, a little creature of fairy fancies, and as she grew up itwas plain to her father and mother that she had come from another worldthan theirs. To them she seemed like a child in an old fairy-talestrangely found on his hearth by some shepherd as he returns from thefields at evening--a little fairy girl swaddled in fine linen, anddowered with a mysterious bag of gold. 

Soon she developed delicate spiritual needs to which her simple parentswere strangers. From long truancies in the woods she would come homeladen with mysterious flowers, and soon she came to ask for books andpictures and music, of which the poor souls that had given her birth hadnever heard. Finally she had her way, and went to study at a certainfashionable college; and there the brief romance of her life began. There she met a romantic young Frenchman who had read Ronsard to her andwritten her those picturesque letters I had found in the old mahoganywork-box. And after a while the young Frenchman had gone back to France, and the letters had ceased. Month by month went by, and at length oneday, as she sat wistful at the window, looking out at the foolish sunlitroad, a message came. He was dead. That headstone in the villagechurchyard tells the rest. She was very young to die--scarcely nineteenyears; and the dead who have died young, with all their hopes and dreamsstill like unfolded buds within their hearts, do not rest so quietly inthe grave as those who have gone through the long day from morning untilevening and are only too glad to sleep. 

 * * * * *

Next day I took the little box to a quiet corner of the orchard, andmade a little pyre of fragrant boughs--for so I interpreted the wish ofthat young, unquiet spirit--and the beautiful words are now safe, takenup again into the aerial spaces from which they came. 

But since then the birds sing no more little French songs in my oldorchard. 

The Bowmen

BY ARTHUR MACHEN

 From _The Bowmen_, by Arthur Machen. Published in England by Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co. , Ltd. , and in America by G. P. Putnam's Sons. By permission of the publishers and Arthur Machen. 

It was during the Retreat of the Eighty Thousand, and the authority ofthe Censorship is sufficient excuse for not being more explicit. But itwas on the most awful day of that awful time, on the day when ruin anddisaster came so near that their shadow fell over London far away; and, without any certain news, the hearts of men failed within them and grewfaint; as if the agony of the army in the battlefield had entered intotheir souls. 

On this dreadful day, then, when three hundred thousand men in arms withall their artillery swelled like a flood against the little Englishcompany, there was one point above all other points in our battle linethat was for a time in awful danger, not merely of defeat, but of utterannihilation. With the permission of the Censorship and of the militaryexpert, this corner may, perhaps, be described as a salient, and if thisangle were crushed and broken, then the English force as a whole wouldbe shattered, the Allied left would be turned, and Sedan wouldinevitably follow. 

All the morning the German guns had thundered and shrieked against thiscorner, and against the thousand or so of men who held it. The men jokedat the shells, and found funny names for them, and had bets about them, and greeted them with scraps of music-hall songs. But the shells came onand burst, and tore good Englishmen limb from limb, and tore brotherfrom brother, and as the heat of the day increased so did the fury ofthat terrific cannonade. There was no help, it seemed. The Englishartillery was good, but there was not nearly enough of it; it was beingsteadily battered into scrap iron. 

There comes a moment in a storm at sea when people say to one another, "It is at its worst; it can blow no harder, " and then there is a blastten times more fierce than any before it. So it was in these Britishtrenches. 

There were no stouter hearts in the whole world than the hearts of thesemen; but even they were appalled as this seven-times-heated hell of theGerman cannonade fell upon them and overwhelmed them and destroyed them. And at this very moment they saw from their trenches that a tremendoushost was moving against their lines. Five hundred of the thousandremained, and as far as they could see the German infantry was pressingon against them, column upon column, a gray world of men, ten thousandof them, as it appeared afterwards. 

There was no hope at all. They shook hands, some of them. One manimprovised a new version of the battle-song, "Good-by, good-by toTipperary, " ending with "And we shan't get there. " And they all went onfiring steadily. The officer pointed out that such an opportunity forhigh-class fancy shooting might never occur again; the Tipperaryhumorist asked, "What price Sidney Street?" And the few machine guns didtheir best. But everybody knew it was of no use. The dead gray bodieslay in companies and battalions, as others came on and on and on, andthey swarmed and stirred, and advanced from beyond and beyond. 

"World without end. Amen, " said one of the British soldiers with someirrelevance as he took aim and fired. And then he remembered--he says hecannot think why or wherefore--a queer vegetarian restaurant in Londonwhere he had once or twice eaten eccentric dishes of cutlets made oflentils and nuts that pretended to be steak. On all the plates in thisrestaurant there was printed a figure of St. George in blue, with themotto, "_Adsit Anglis Sanctus Georgius_"--"May St. George be a presenthelp to the English. " This soldier happened to know Latin and otheruseless things, and now, as he fired at his man in the gray advancingmass--three hundred yards away--he uttered the pious vegetarian motto. He went on firing to the end, and at last Bill on his right had to clouthim cheerfully over the head to make him stop, pointing out as he did sothat the King's ammunition cost money and was not lightly to be wastedin drilling funny patterns into dead Germans. 

For as the Latin scholar uttered his invocation he felt somethingbetween a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. The roarof the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur; instead of it, he says, he heard a great voice and a shout louder than a thunder-pealcrying, "Array, array, array!"

His heart grew hot as a burning coal, it grew cold as ice within him, asit seemed to him that a tumult of voices answered to his summons. Heheard, or seemed to hear, thousands shouting: "St. George! St. George!"

"Ha! Messire, ha! sweet Saint, grant us good deliverance!"

"St. George for merry England!"

"Harow! Harow! Monseigneur St. George, succor us!"

"Ha! St. George! Ha! St. George! a long bow and a strong bow. "

"Heaven's Knight, aid us!"

And as the soldier heard these voices he saw before him, beyond thetrench, a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. They were likemen who drew the bow, and with another shout, their cloud of arrows flewsinging and tingling through the air towards the German hosts. 

The other men in the trench were firing all the while. They had no hope;but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at Bisley. 

Suddenly one of them lifted up his voice in the plainest English. 

"Gawd help us!" he bellowed to the man next to him, "but we're bloomingmarvels! Look at those gray . . . Gentlemen, look at them! D'ye see them?They're not going down in dozens nor in 'undreds; it's thousands, it is. Look! look! there's a regiment gone while I'm talking to ye. "

"Shut it!" the other soldier bellowed, taking aim, "what are ye gassingabout?"

But he gulped with astonishment even as he spoke, for, indeed, the graymen were falling by the thousands. The English could hear the gutturalscream of the German officers, the crackle of their revolvers as theyshot the reluctant; and still line after line crashed to the earth. 

All the while the Latin-bred soldier heard the cry:

"Harow! Harow! Monseigneur, dear Saint, quick to our aid! St. Georgehelp us!"

"High Chevalier, defend us!"

The singing arrows fled so swift and thick that they darkened the air, the heathen horde melted from before them. 

"More machine guns!" Bill yelled to Tom. 

"Don't hear them, " Tom yelled back. 

"But, thank God, anyway; they've got it in the neck. "

In fact, there were ten thousand dead German soldiers left before thatsalient of the English army, and consequently there was no Sedan. InGermany, a country ruled by scientific principles, the Great GeneralStaff decided that the contemptible English must have employed shellscontaining an unknown gas of a poisonous nature, as no wounds werediscernible on the bodies of the dead German soldiers. But the man whoknew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak knew alsothat St. George had brought his Agincourt Bowmen to help the English. 

A Ghost

BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT

 Translated for this volume by M. Charles Sommer. 

We were speaking of sequestration, alluding to a recent lawsuit. It wasat the close of a friendly evening in a very old mansion in the Rue deGrenelle, and each of the guests had a story to tell, which he assuredus was true. 

Then the old Marquis de la Tour-Samuel, eighty-two years of age, roseand came forward to lean on the mantelpiece. He told the following storyin his slightly quavering voice. 

"I, also, have witnessed a strange thing--so strange that it has beenthe nightmare of my life. It happened fifty-six years ago, and yet thereis not a month when I do not see it again in my dreams. From that day Ihave borne a mark, a stamp of fear, --do you understand?

"Yes, for ten minutes I was a prey to terror, in such a way that eversince a constant dread has remained in my soul. Unexpected sounds chillme to the heart; objects which I can ill distinguish in the eveningshadows make me long to flee. I am afraid at night. 

"No! I would not have owned such a thing before reaching my presentage. But now I may tell everything. One may fear imaginary dangers ateighty-two years old. But before actual danger I have never turned back, _mesdames_. 

"That affair so upset my mind, filled me with such a deep, mysteriousunrest that I never could tell it. I kept it in that inmost part, thatcorner where we conceal our sad, our shameful secrets, all theweaknesses of our life which cannot be confessed. 

"I will tell you that strange happening just as it took place, with noattempt to explain it. Unless I went mad for one short hour it must beexplainable, though. Yet I was not mad, and I will prove it to you. Imagine what you will. Here are the simple facts:

"It was in 1827, in July. I was quartered with my regiment in Rouen. 

"One day, as I was strolling on the quay, I came across a man I believedI recognized, though I could not place him with certainty. Iinstinctively went more slowly, ready to pause. The stranger saw myimpulse, looked at me, and fell into my arms. 

"It was a friend of my younger days, of whom I had been very fond. Heseemed to have become half a century older in the five years since I hadseen him. His hair was white, and he stooped in his walk, as if he wereexhausted. He understood my amazement and told me the story of his life. 

"A terrible event had broken him down. He had fallen madly in love witha young girl and married her in a kind of dreamlike ecstasy. After ayear of unalloyed bliss and unexhausted passion, she had died suddenlyof heart disease, no doubt killed by love itself. 

"He had left the country on the very day of her funeral, and had come tolive in his hotel at Rouen. He remained there, solitary and desperate, grief slowly mining him, so wretched that he constantly thought ofsuicide. 

"'As I thus came across you again, ' he said, 'I shall ask a great favorof you. I want you to go to my château and get some papers I urgentlyneed. They are in the writing-desk of my room, of _our_ room. I cannotsend a servant or a lawyer, as the errand must be kept private. I wantabsolute silence. 

"'I shall give you the key of the room, which I locked carefully myselfbefore leaving, and the key to the writing-desk. I shall also give you anote for the gardener, who will let you in. 

"'Come to breakfast with me to-morrow, and we'll talk the matter over. '

"I promised to render him that slight service. It would mean but apleasant excursion for me, his home not being more than twenty-fivemiles from Rouen. I could go there in an hour on horseback. 

"At ten o'clock the next day I was with him. We breakfasted alonetogether, yet he did not utter more than twenty words. He asked me toexcuse him. The thought that I was going to visit the room where hishappiness lay shattered, upset him, he said. Indeed, he seemedperturbed, worried, as if some mysterious struggle were taking place inhis soul. 

"At last he explained exactly what I was to do. It was very simple. Iwas to take two packages of letters and some papers, locked in the firstdrawer at the right of the desk of which I had the key. He added:

"'I need not ask you not to glance at them. '

"I was almost hurt by his words, and told him so, rather sharply. Hestammered:

"'Forgive me. I suffer so much!'

"And tears came to his eyes. 

"I left about one o'clock to accomplish my errand. 

"The day was radiant, and I rushed through the meadows, listening to thesong of the larks, and the rhythmical beat of my sword on myriding-boots. 

"Then I entered the forest, and I set my horse to walking. Branches ofthe trees softly caressed my face, and now and then I would catch a leafbetween my teeth and bite it with avidity, full of the joy of life, suchas fills you without reason, with a tumultuous happiness almostindefinable, a kind of magical strength. 

"As I neared the house I took out the letter for the gardener, and notedwith surprise that it was sealed. I was so amazed and so annoyed that Ialmost turned back without fulfilling my mission. Then I thought that Ishould thus display over-sensitiveness and bad taste. My friend mighthave sealed it unconsciously, worried as he was. 

"The manor looked as though it had been deserted the last twenty years. The gate, wide-open and rotten, held, one wondered how. Grass filled thepaths; you could not tell the flower-beds from the lawn. 

"At the noise I made kicking a shutter, an old man came out from aside-door and was apparently amazed to see me there. I dismounted frommy horse and gave him the letter. He read it once or twice, turned itover, looked at me with suspicion, and asked:

"'Well, what do you want?'

"I answered sharply:

"'You must know it as you have read your master's orders. I want to getin the house. '

"He appeared overwhelmed. He said:

"'So--you are going in--in his room?'

"I was getting impatient. 

"'_Parbleu!_ Do you intend to question me, by chance?'

"He stammered:

"'No--monsieur--only--it has not been opened since--since the death. Ifyou will wait five minutes, I will go in to see whether----'

"I interrupted angrily:

"'See here, are you joking? You can't go in that room, as I have thekey!'

"He no longer knew what to say. 

"'Then, monsieur, I will show you the way. '

"'Show me the stairs and leave me alone. I can find it without yourhelp. '

"'But--still--monsieur----'

"Then I lost my temper. 

"'Now be quiet! Else you'll be sorry!'

"I roughly pushed him aside and went into the house. 

"I first went through the kitchen, then crossed two small rooms occupiedby the man and his wife. From there I stepped into a large hall. I wentup the stairs, and I recognized the door my friend had described to me. 

"I opened it with ease and went in. 

"The room was so dark that at first I could not distinguish anything. Ipaused, arrested by that moldy and stale odor peculiar to deserted andcondemned rooms, of dead rooms. Then gradually my eyes grew accustomedto the gloom, and I saw rather clearly a great room in disorder, a bedwithout sheets having still its mattresses and pillows, one of whichbore the deep print of an elbow or a head, as if someone had just beenresting on it. 

"The chairs seemed all in confusion. I noticed that a door, probablythat of a closet, had remained ajar. 

"I first went to the window and opened it to get some light, but thehinges of the outside shutters were so rusted that I could not loosenthem. 

"I even tried to break them with my sword, but did not succeed. As thosefruitless attempts irritated me, and as my eyes were by now adjusted tothe dim light, I gave up hope of getting more light and went toward thewriting-desk. 

"I sat down in an arm-chair, folded back the top, and opened the drawer. It was full to the edge. I needed but three packages, which I knew howto distinguish, and I started looking for them. 

"I was straining my eyes to decipher the inscriptions, when I thought Iheard, or rather felt a rustle behind me. I took no notice, thinking adraft had lifted some curtain. But a minute later, another movement, almost indistinct, sent a disagreeable little shiver over my skin. Itwas so ridiculous to be moved thus even so slightly, that I would notturn round, being ashamed. I had just discovered the second package Ineeded, and was on the point of reaching for the third, when a great andsorrowful sigh, close to my shoulder, made me give a mad leap two yardsaway. In my spring I had turned round, my hand on the hilt of my sword, and surely had I not felt that, I should have fled like a coward. 

"A tall woman, dressed in white, was facing me, standing behind thechair in which I had sat a second before. 

"Such a shudder ran through me that I almost fell back! Oh, no one whohas not felt them can understand those gruesome and ridiculous terrors!The soul melts; your heart seems to stop; your whole body becomes limpas a sponge, and your innermost parts seem collapsing. 

"I do not believe in ghosts; and yet I broke down before the hideousfear of the dead; and I suffered, oh, I suffered more in a few minutes, in the irresistible anguish of supernatural dread, than I have sufferedin all the rest of my life!

"If she had not spoken, I might have died. But she did speak; she spokein a soft and plaintive voice which set my nerves vibrating. I could notsay that I regained my self-control. No, I was past knowing what I did;but the kind of pride I have in me, as well as a military pride, helpedme to maintain, almost in spite of myself, an honorable countenance. Iwas making a pose, a pose for myself, and for her, for her, whatever shewas, woman, or phantom. I realized this later, for at the time of theapparition, I could think of nothing. I was afraid. 

"She said:

"'Oh, you can be of great help to me, monsieur!'

"I tried to answer, but I was unable to utter one word. A vague soundcame from my throat. 

"She continued:

"'Will you? You can save me, cure me. I suffer terribly. I alwayssuffer. I suffer, oh, I suffer!'

"And she sat down gently in my chair. She looked at me. 

"'Will you?'

"I nodded my head, being still paralyzed. 

"Then she handed me a woman's comb of tortoise-shell, and murmured:

"'Comb my hair! Oh, comb my hair! That will cure me. Look at myhead--how I suffer! And my hair--how it hurts!'

"Her loose hair, very long, very black, it seemed to me, hung over theback of the chair, touching the floor. 

"Why did I do it? Why did I, shivering, accept that comb, and why did Itake between my hands her long hair, which left on my skin a ghastlyimpression of cold, as if I had handled serpents? I do not know. 

"That feeling still clings about my fingers, and I shiver when I recallit. 

"I combed her, I handled, I know not how, that hair of ice. I bound andunbound it; I plaited it as one plaits a horse's mane. She sighed, benther head, seemed happy. 

"Suddenly she said, 'Thank you!' tore the comb from my hands, and fledthrough the door which I had noticed was half opened. 

"Left alone, I had for a few seconds the hazy feeling one feels inwaking up from a nightmare. Then I recovered myself. I ran to the windowand broke the shutters by my furious assault. 

"A stream of light poured in. I rushed to the door through which thatbeing had gone. I found it locked and immovable. 

"Then a fever of flight seized on me, a panic, the true panic of battle. I quickly grasped the three packages of letters from the open desk; Icrossed the room running, I took the steps of the stairway four at atime. I found myself outside, I don't know how, and seeing my horseclose by, I mounted in one leap and left at a full gallop. 

"I didn't stop till I reached Rouen and drew up in front of my house. Having thrown the reins to my orderly, I flew to my room and lockedmyself in to think. 

"Then for an hour I asked myself whether I had not been the victim of anhallucination. Certainly I must have had one of those nervous shocks, one of those brain disorders such as give rise to miracles, to which thesupernatural owes its strength. 

"And I had almost concluded that it was a vision, an illusion of mysenses, when I came near to the window. My eyes by chance looked down. My tunic was covered with hairs, long woman's hairs which had entangledthemselves around the buttons!

"I took them off one by one and threw them out of the window withtrembling fingers. 

"I then called my orderly. I felt too perturbed, too moved, to go andsee my friend on that day. Besides, I needed to think over what I shouldtell him. 

"I had his letters delivered to him. He gave a receipt to the soldier. He inquired after me and was told that I was not well. I had had asunstroke, or something. He seemed distressed. 

"I went to see him the next day, early in the morning, bent on tellinghim the truth. He had gone out the evening before and had not comeback. 

"I returned the same day, but he had not been seen. I waited a week. Hedid not come back. I notified the police. They searched for himeverywhere, but no one could find any trace of his passing or of hisretreat. 

"A careful search was made in the deserted manor. No suspicious clue wasdiscovered. 

"There was no sign that a woman had been concealed there. 

"The inquest gave no result, and so the search went no further. 

"And in fifty-six years I have learned nothing more. I never found outthe truth. "