{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_57402/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_57402","id":"gutenberg_57402","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57402","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Scotland -- Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD\n\nJOHN BUCHAN\n\n\n\n\nBY JOHN BUCHAN\n\n\nTHE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD\nPRESTER JOHN\nSALUTE TO ADVENTURERS\nTHE BATTLE OF THE SOMME\nGREENMANTLE\nTHE POWER-HOUSE\nTHE THIRTY-NINE STEPS\n\n\nNEW YORK\n\nGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY\n\n\n\n\nTHE WATCHER BY\nTHE THRESHOLD\n\nBY\n\nJOHN BUCHAN\n\n_Author of \"Greenmantle,\"\n\"Salute to Adventurers,\"\netc._\n\n[Illustration: Logo]\n\nNEW YORK\nGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY\n\n\n_Copyright, 1918,\nBy George H. Doran Company_\n\n_Printed in the United States of America_\n\n\nTO\n\nSTAIR AGNEW GILLON\n\n\nMY DEAR STAIR,\n\n_We have travelled so many roads together, highland and lowland,\npleasant and dreary, that I ask you to accept this book of travellers'\ntales. For Scotland is a wide place to travel in for those who believe\nthat it is not bounded strictly by kirk and market-place, and who have\nan ear for old songs and lost romances. It is of the back-world of\nScotland that I write, the land behind the mist and over the seven bens,\na place hard of access for the foot-passenger but easy for the maker of\nstories. Meantime, to you, who have chosen the better part, I wish many\nbright days by hill and loch in the summers to come._\n\n_R. M. S. Briton, at sea_\n\n_J. B._\n\n\n\"Among idle men there be some who tarry in the outer courts, speeding\nthe days joyfully with dance and song. But the other sort dwell near the\nportals of the House, and are ever anxious and ill at ease that they may\nsee something of the Shadows which come and go. Wherefore night and day\nthey are found watching by the threshold, in fearfulness and joy, not\nwithout tears.\" Extract from the writings of Donisarius of Padua, circa\n1310.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nCHAPTER                             PAGE\n   I NO-MAN'S LAND                    13\n\n  II THE FAR ISLANDS                 100\n\n III THE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD    137\n\n  IV THE OUTGOING OF THE TIDE        204\n\n   V THE RIME OF TRUE THOMAS         238\n\n  VI BASILISSA                       255\n\n VII DIVUS JOHNSTON                  286\n\nVIII THE KING OF YPRES               301\n\n\n\n\nTHE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nNO-MAN'S-LAND\n\n\nI: THE SHIELING OF FARAWA\n\nIt was with a light heart and a pleasing consciousness of holiday that I\nset out from the inn at Allermuir to tramp my fifteen miles into the\nunknown. I walked slowly, for I carried my equipment on my back--my\nbasket, fly-books and rods, my plaid of Grant tartan (for I boast myself\na distant kinsman of that house), and my great staff, which had tried\nere then the front of the steeper Alps. A small valise with books and\nsome changes of linen clothing had been sent on ahead in the shepherd's\nown hands. It was yet early April, and before me lay four weeks of\nfreedom--twenty-eight blessed days in which to take fish and smoke the\npipe of idleness. The Lent term had pulled me down, a week of modest\nenjoyment thereafter in town had finished the work; and I drank in the\nsharp moorish air like a thirsty man who has been forwandered among\ndeserts.\n\nI am a man of varied tastes and a score of interests. As an\nundergraduate I had been filled with the old mania for the complete\nlife. I distinguished myself in the Schools, rowed in my college eight,\nand reached the distinction of practising for three weeks in the Trials.\nI had dabbled in a score of learned activities, and when the time came\nthat I won the inevitable St. Chad's fellowship on my chaotic\nacquirements, and I found myself compelled to select if I would pursue a\nscholar's life, I had some toil in finding my vocation. In the end I\nresolved that the ancient life of the North, of the Celts and the\nNorthmen and the unknown Pictish tribes, held for me the chief\nfascination. I had acquired a smattering of Gaelic, having been brought\nup as a boy in Lochaber, and now I set myself to increase my store of\nlanguages. I mastered Erse and Icelandic, and my first book--a monograph\non the probable Celtic elements in the Eddic songs--brought me the\npraise of scholars and the deputy-professor's chair of Northern\nAntiquities. So much for Oxford. My vacations had been spent mainly in\nthe North--in Ireland, Scotland, and the Isles, in Scandinavia and\nIceland, once even in the far limits of Finland. I was a keen sportsman\nof a sort, an old-experienced fisher, a fair shot with gun and rifle,\nand in my hillcraft I might well stand comparison with most men. April\nhas ever seemed to me the finest season of the year even in our cold\nnorthern altitudes, and the memory of many bright Aprils had brought me\nup from the South on the night before to Allerfoot, whence a dogcart had\ntaken me up Glen Aller to the inn at Allermuir; and now the same desire\nhad set me on the heather with my face to the cold brown hills.\n\nYou are to picture a sort of plateau, benty and rock-strewn, running\nridge-wise above a chain of little peaty lochs and a vast tract of\ninexorable bog. In a mile the ridge ceased in a shoulder of hill, and\nover this lay the head of another glen, with the same doleful\naccompaniment of sunless lochs, mosses, and a shining and resolute\nwater. East and west and north, in every direction save the south, rose\nwalls of gashed and serrated hills. It was a grey day with blinks of\nsun, and when a ray chanced to fall on one of the great dark faces,\nlines of light and colour sprang into being which told of mica and\ngranite. I was in high spirits, as on the eve of holiday; I had\nbreakfasted excellently on eggs and salmon-steaks; I had no cares to\nspeak of, and my prospects were not uninviting. But in spite of myself\nthe landscape began to take me in thrall and crush me. The silent\nvanished peoples of the hills seemed to be stirring; dark primeval faces\nseemed to stare at me from behind boulders and jags of rock. The place\nwas so still, so free from the cheerful clamour of nesting birds, that\nit seemed a _temenos_ sacred to some old-world god. At my feet the lochs\nlapped ceaselessly; but the waters were so dark that one could not see\nbottom a foot from the edge. On my right the links of green told of\nsnake-like mires waiting to crush the unwary wanderer. It seemed to me\nfor the moment a land of death, where the tongues of the dead cried\naloud for recognition.\n\nMy whole morning's walk was full of such fancies. I lit a pipe to cheer\nme, but the things would not be got rid of. I thought of the Gaels who\nhad held those fastnesses; I thought of the Britons before them, who\nyielded to their advent. They were all strong peoples in their day, and\nnow they had gone the way of the earth. They had left their mark on the\nlevels of the glens and on the more habitable uplands, both in names and\nin actual forts, and graves where men might still dig curios. But the\nhills--that black stony amphitheatre before me--it seemed strange that\nthe hills bore no traces of them. And then with some uneasiness I\nreflected on that older and stranger race who were said to have held the\nhill-tops. The Picts, the Picti--what in the name of goodness were they?\nThey had troubled me in all my studies, a sort of blank wall to put an\nend to speculation. We knew nothing of them save certain strange names\nwhich men called Pictish, the names of those hills in front of me--the\nMuneraw, the Yirnie, the Calmarton. They were the _corpus vile_ for\nlearned experiment; but Heaven alone knew what dark abyss of savagery\nonce yawned in the midst of this desert.\n\nAnd then I remembered the crazy theories of a pupil of mine at St\nChad's, the son of a small landowner on the Aller, a young gentleman who\nhad spent his substance too freely at Oxford, and was now dreeing his\nweird in the Backwoods. He had been no scholar but a certain imagination\nmarked all his doings, and of a Sunday night he would come and talk to\nme of the North. The Picts were his special subject, and his ideas were\nmad. \"Listen to me,\" he would say, when I had mixed him toddy and given\nhim one of my cigars; \"I believe there are traces--ay, and more than\ntraces--of an old culture lurking in those hills and waiting to be\ndiscovered. We never hear of the Picts being driven from the hills. The\nBritons drove them from the lowlands, the Gaels from Ireland did the\nsame for the Britons; but the hills were left unmolested. We hear of no\none going near them except outlaws and tinklers. And in that very place\nyou have the strangest mythology. Take the story of the Brownie. What is\nthat but the story of a little swart man of uncommon strength and\ncleverness, who does good and ill indiscriminately, and then disappears?\nThere are many scholars, as you yourself confess, who think that the\norigin of the Brownie was in some mad belief in the old race of the\nPicts, which still survived somewhere in the hills. And do we not hear\nof the Brownie in authentic records right down to the year 1756? After\nthat, when people grew more incredulous, it is natural that the belief\nshould have begun to die out; but I do not see why stray traces should\nnot have survived till late.\"\n\n\"Do you not see what that means?\" I had said in mock gravity. \"Those\nsame hills are, if anything, less known now than they were a hundred\nyears ago. Why should not your Picts or Brownies be living to this day?\"\n\n\"Why not, indeed?\" he had rejoined, in all seriousness.\n\nI laughed, and he went to his rooms and returned with a large\nleather-bound book. It was lettered, in the rococo style of a young\nman's taste, 'Glimpses of the Unknown,' and some of the said glimpses he\nproceeded to impart to me. It was not pleasant reading; indeed, I had\nrarely heard anything so well fitted to shatter sensitive nerves. The\nearly part consisted of folk-tales and folk-sayings, some of them wholly\nobscure, some of them with a glint of meaning, but all of them with some\nhint of a mystery in the hills. I heard the Brownie story in countless\nversions. Now the thing was a friendly little man, who wore grey\nbreeches and lived on brose; now he was a twisted being, the sight of\nwhich made the ewes miscarry in the lambing-time. But the second part\nwas the stranger, for it was made up of actual tales, most of them with\ndate and place appended. It was a most Bedlamite catalogue of horrors,\nwhich, if true, made the wholesome moors a place instinct with tragedy.\nSome told of children carried away from villages, even from towns, on\nthe verge of the uplands. In almost every case they were girls, and the\nstrange fact was their utter disappearance. Two little girls would be\ncoming home from school, would be seen last by a neighbour just where\nthe road crossed a patch of heath or entered a wood and then--no human\neye ever saw them again. Children's cries had startled outlying\nshepherds in the night, and when they had rushed to the door they could\nhear nothing but the night wind. The instances of such disappearances\nwere not very common--perhaps once in twenty years--but they were\nconfined to this one tract of country, and came in a sort of fixed\nprogression from the middle of last century, when the record began. But\nthis was only one side of the history. The latter part was all devoted\nto a chronicle of crimes which had gone unpunished, seeing that no hand\nhad ever been traced. The list was fuller in last century;[1] in the\nearlier years of the present it had dwindled; then came a revival about\nthe 'Fifties; and now again in our own time it had sunk low. At the\nlittle cottage of Auchterbrean, on the roadside in Glen Aller, a\nlabourer's wife had been found pierced to the heart. It was thought to\nbe a case of a woman's jealousy, and her neighbour was accused,\nconvicted, and hanged. The woman, to be sure, denied the charge with her\nlast breath; but circumstantial evidence seemed sufficiently strong\nagainst her. Yet some people in the glen believed her guiltless. In\nparticular, the carrier who had found the dead woman declared that the\nway in which her neighbour received the news was a sufficient proof of\ninnocence; and the doctor who was first summoned professed himself\nunable to tell with what instrument the wound had been given. But this\nwas all before the days of expert evidence, so the woman had been hanged\nwithout scruple. Then there had been another story of peculiar horror,\ntelling of the death of an old man at some little lonely shieling called\nCarrickfey. But at this point I had risen in protest, and made to drive\nthe young idiot from my room.\n\n\"It was my grandfather who collected most of them,\" he said. \"He had\ntheories,[2] but people called him mad, so he was wise enough to hold\nhis tongue. My father declares the whole thing mania; but I rescued the\nbook, had it bound, and added to the collection. It is a queer hobby;\nbut, as I say, I have theories, and there are more things in heaven and\nearth----\"\n\nBut at this he heard a friend's voice in the Quad., and dived out,\nleaving the banal quotation unfinished.\n\nStrange though it may seem, this madness kept coming back to me as I\ncrossed the last few miles of moor. I was now on a rough tableland, the\nwatershed between two lochs, and beyond and above me rose the stony\nbacks of the hills. The burns fell down in a chaos of granite boulders,\nand huge slabs of grey stone lay flat and tumbled in the heather. The\nfull waters looked prosperously for my fishing, and I began to forget\nall fancies in anticipation of sport.\n\nThen suddenly in a hollow of land I came on a ruined cottage. It had\nbeen a very small place, but the walls were still half-erect, and the\nlittle moorland garden was outlined on the turf. A lonely apple tree,\ntwisted and gnarled with winds, stood in the midst.\n\nFrom higher up on the hill I heard a loud roar, and I knew my excellent\nfriend the shepherd of Farawa, who had come thus far to meet me. He\ngreeted me with the boisterous embarrassment which was his way of\nprefacing hospitality. A grave reserved man at other times, on such\noccasions he thought it proper to relapse into hilarity. I fell into\nstep with him, and we set off for his dwelling. But first I had the\ncuriosity to look back to the tumble-down cottage and ask him its name.\n\nA queer look came into his eyes. \"They ca' the place Carrickfey,\" he\nsaid. \"Naebody has daured to bide there this twenty year sin'--but I see\nye ken the story.\" And, as if glad to leave the subject, he hastened to\ndiscourse on fishing.\n\n\nII: TELLS OF AN EVENING'S TALK\n\nThe shepherd was a masterful man; tall, save for the stoop which belongs\nto all moorland folk, and active as a wild goat. He was not a new\nimportation, nor did he belong to the place; for his people had lived in\nthe remote Borders, and he had come as a boy to this shieling of Farawa.\nHe was unmarried, but an elderly sister lived with him and cooked his\nmeals. He was reputed to be extraordinarily skilful in his trade; I know\nfor a fact that he was in his way a keen sportsman; and his few\nneighbours gave him credit for a sincere piety. Doubtless this last\nreport was due in part to his silence, for after his first greeting he\nwas wont to relapse into a singular taciturnity. As we strode across the\nheather he gave me a short outline of his year's lambing. \"Five pair o'\ntwins yestreen, twae this morn; that makes thirty-five yowes that hae\nlambed since the Sabbath. I'll dae weel if God's willin'.\" Then, as I\nlooked towards the hilltops whence the thin mist of morn was trailing,\nhe followed my gaze. \"See,\" he said with uplifted crook--\"see that\nsicht. Is that no what is written of in the Bible when it says, 'The\nmountains do smoke.'\" And with this piece of exegesis he finished his\ntalk, and in a little we were at the cottage.\n\nIt was a small enough dwelling in truth, and yet large for a moorland\nhouse, for it had a garret below the thatch, which was given up to my\nsole enjoyment. Below was the wide kitchen with box-beds, and next to it\nthe inevitable second room, also with its cupboard sleeping-places. The\ninterior was very clean, and yet I remember to have been struck with the\nfaint musty smell which is inseparable from moorland dwellings. The\nkitchen pleased me best, for there the great rafters were black with\npeat-reek, and the uncovered stone floor, on which the fire gleamed\ndully, gave an air of primeval simplicity. But the walls spoiled all,\nfor tawdry things of to-day had penetrated even there. Some grocers'\nalmanacs--years old--hung in places of honour, and an extraordinary\nlithograph of the Royal Family in its youth. And this, mind you, between\ncrooks and fishing-rods and old guns, and horns of sheep and deer.\n\nThe life for the first day or two was regular and placid. I was up\nearly, breakfasted on porridge (a dish which I detest), and then off to\nthe lochs and streams. At first my sport prospered mightily. With a\ndrake-wing I killed a salmon of seventeen pounds, and the next day had a\nfine basket of trout from a hill-burn. Then for no earthly reason the\nweather changed. A bitter wind came out of the northeast, bringing\nshowers of snow and stinging hail, and lashing the waters into storm. It\nwas now farewell to fly-fishing. For a day or two I tried trolling with\nthe minnow on the lochs, but it was poor sport, for I had no boat, and\nthe edges were soft and mossy. Then in disgust I gave up the attempt,\nwent back to the cottage, lit my biggest pipe, and sat down with a book\nto await the turn of the weather.\n\nThe shepherd was out from morning till night at his work, and when he\ncame in at last, dog-tired, his face would be set and hard, and his eyes\nheavy with sleep. The strangeness of the man grew upon me. He had a\nshrewd brain beneath his thatch of hair, for I had tried him once or\ntwice, and found him abundantly intelligent. He had some smattering of\nan education, like all Scottish peasants, and, as I have said, he was\ndeeply religious. I set him down as a fine type of his class, sober,\nserious, keenly critical, free from the bondage of superstition. But I\nrarely saw him, and our talk was chiefly in monosyllables--short\ninterjected accounts of the number of lambs dead or alive on the hill.\nThen he would produce a pencil and note-book, and be immersed in some\ncalculation; and finally he would be revealed sleeping heavily in his\nchair, till his sister wakened him, and he stumbled off to bed.\n\nSo much for the ordinary course of life; but one day--the second I think\nof the bad weather--the extraordinary happened. The storm had passed in\nthe afternoon into a resolute and blinding snow, and the shepherd,\nfinding it hopeless on the hill, came home about three o'clock. I could\nmake out from his way of entering that he was in a great temper. He\nkicked his feet savagely against the door-post. Then he swore at his\ndogs, a thing I had never heard him do before. \"Hell!\" he cried, \"can ye\nno keep out o' my road, ye britts?\" Then he came sullenly into the\nkitchen, thawed his numbed hands at the fire, and sat down to his meal.\n\nI made some aimless remark about the weather.\n\n\"Death to man and beast,\" he grunted. \"I hae got the sheep doun frae the\nhill, but the lambs will never thole this. We maun pray that it will no\nlast.\"\n\nHis sister came in with some dish. \"Margit,\" he cried, \"three lambs\naway this morning, and three deid wi' the hole in the throat.\"\n\nThe woman's face visibly paled. \"Guid help us, Adam; that hasna happened\nthis three year.\"\n\n\"It has happened noo,\" he said, surlily. \"But, by God! if it happens\nagain I'll gang mysel' to the Scarts o' the Muneraw.\"\n\n\"O Adam!\" the woman cried shrilly, \"haud your tongue. Ye kenna wha hears\nye.\" And with a frightened glance at me she left the room.\n\nI asked no questions, but waited till the shepherd's anger should cool.\nBut the cloud did not pass so lightly. When he had finished his dinner\nhe pulled his chair to the fire and sat staring moodily. He made some\nsort of apology to me for his conduct. \"I'm sore troubled, sir; but I'm\nvexed ye should see me like this. Maybe things will be better the morn.\"\nAnd then, lighting his short black pipe, he resigned himself to his\nmeditations.\n\nBut he could not keep quiet. Some nervous unrest seemed to have\npossessed the man. He got up with a start and went to the window, where\nthe snow was drifting unsteadily past. As he stared out into the storm I\nheard him mutter to himself, \"Three away, God help me, and three wi'\nthe hole in the throat.\"\n\nThen he turned round to me abruptly. I was jotting down notes for an\narticle I contemplated in the 'Revue Celtique,' so my thoughts were far\naway from the present. The man recalled me by demanding fiercely, \"Do ye\nbelieve in God?\"\n\nI gave him some sort of answer in the affirmative.\n\n\"Then do ye believe in the Devil?\" he asked.\n\nThe reply must have been less satisfactory, for he came forward and\nflung himself violently into the chair before me.\n\n\"What do ye ken about it?\" he cried. \"You that bides in a southern toun,\nwhat can ye ken o' the God that works in thae hills and the Devil--ay,\nthe manifold devils--that He suffers to bide here? I tell ye, man, that\nif ye had seen what I have seen ye wad be on your knees at this moment\npraying to God to pardon your unbelief. There are devils at the back o'\nevery stane and hidin' in every cleuch, and it's by the grace o' God\nalone that a man is alive upon the earth.\" His voice had risen high and\nshrill, and then suddenly he cast a frightened glance towards the window\nand was silent.\n\nI began to think that the man's wits were unhinged, and the thought did\nnot give me satisfaction. I had no relish for the prospect of being left\nalone in this moorland dwelling with the cheerful company of a maniac.\nBut his next movements reassured me. He was clearly only dead-tired, for\nhe fell sound asleep in his chair, and by the time his sister brought\ntea and wakened him, he seemed to have got the better of his excitement.\n\nWhen the window was shuttered and the lamp lit, I sat myself again to\nthe completion of my notes. The shepherd had got out his Bible, and was\nsolemnly reading with one great finger travelling down the lines. He was\nsmoking, and whenever some text came home to him with power he would\nmake pretence to underline it with the end of the stem. Soon I had\nfinished the work I desired, and, my mind being full of my pet hobby, I\nfell into an inquisitive mood, and began to question the solemn man\nopposite on the antiquities of the place.\n\nHe stared stupidly at me when I asked him concerning monuments or\nancient weapons.\n\n\"I kenna,\" said he. \"There's a heap o' queer things in the hills.\"\n\n\"This place should be a centre for such relics. You know that the name\nof the hill behind the house, as far as I can make it out, means the\n'Place of the Little Men.' It is a good Gaelic word, though there is\nsome doubt about its exact interpretation. But clearly the Gaelic\npeoples did not speak of themselves when they gave the name; they must\nhave referred to some older and stranger population.\"\n\nThe shepherd looked at me dully, as not understanding.\n\n\"It is partly this fact--besides the fishing, of course--which interests\nme in this countryside,\" said I, gaily.\n\nAgain he cast the same queer frightened glance towards the window. \"If\nye'll tak the advice of an aulder man,\" he said, slowly, \"ye'll let well\nalane and no meddle wi' uncanny things.\"\n\nI laughed pleasantly, for at last I had found out my hard-headed host in\na piece of childishness. \"Why, I thought that you of all men would be\nfree from superstition.\"\n\n\"What do ye call supersteetion?\" he asked.\n\n\"A belief in old wives' tales,\" said I, \"a trust in the crude\nsupernatural and the patently impossible.\"\n\nHe looked at me beneath his shaggy brows. \"How do ye ken what is\nimpossible? Mind ye, sir, ye're no in the toun just now, but in the\nthick of the wild hills.\"\n\n\"But, hang it all, man,\" I cried, \"you don't mean to say that you\nbelieve in that sort of thing? I am prepared for many things up here,\nbut not for the Brownie,--though, to be sure, if one could meet him in\nthe flesh, it would be rather pleasant than otherwise, for he was a\ncompanionable sort of fellow.\"\n\n\"When a thing pits the fear o' death on a man he aye speaks well of it.\"\n\nIt was true--the Eumenides and the Good Folk over again; and I awoke\nwith interest to the fact that the conversation was getting into strange\nchannels.\n\nThe shepherd moved uneasily in his chair. \"I am a man that fears God,\nand has nae time for daft stories; but I havena traivelled the hills for\ntwenty years wi' my een shut. If I say that I could tell ye stories o'\nfaces seen in the mist, and queer things that have knocked against me in\nthe snaw, wad ye believe me? I wager ye wadna. Ye wad say I had been\ndrunk, and yet I am a God-fearing temperate man.\"\n\nHe rose and went to a cupboard, unlocked it, and brought out something\nin his hand, which he held out to me. I took it with some curiosity,\nand found that it was a flint arrow-head.\n\nClearly a flint arrow-head, and yet like none that I had ever seen in\nany collection. For one thing it was larger, and the barb less clumsily\nthick. More, the chipping was new, or comparatively so; this thing had\nnot stood the wear of fifteen hundred years among the stones of the\nhillside. Now there are, I regret to say, institutions which manufacture\nprimitive relics; but it is not hard for a practised eye to see the\ndifference. The chipping has either a regularity and a balance which is\nunknown in the real thing, or the rudeness has been overdone, and the\nresult is an implement incapable of harming a mortal creature. But this\nwas the real thing if it ever existed; and yet--I was prepared to swear\non my reputation that it was not half a century old.\n\n\"Where did you get this?\" I asked with some nervousness.\n\n\"I hae a story about that,\" said the shepherd. \"Outside the door there\nye can see a muckle flat stane aside the buchts. One simmer nicht I was\nsitting there smoking till the dark, and I wager there was naething on\nthe stane then. But that same nicht I awoke wi' a queer thocht, as if\nthere were folk moving around the hoose--folk that didna mak' muckle\nnoise. I mind o' lookin' out o' the windy, and I could hae sworn I saw\nsomething black movin' amang the heather and intil the buchts. Now I had\nmaybe threescore o' lambs there that nicht, for I had to tak' them many\nmiles off in the early morning. Weel, when I gets up about four o'clock\nand gangs out, as I am passing the muckle stane I finds this bit errow.\n'That's come here in the nicht,' says I, and I wunnered a wee and put it\nin my pouch. But when I came to my faulds what did I see? Five o' my\nbest hoggs were away, and three mair were lying deid wi' a hole in their\nthroat.\"\n\n\"Who in the world----?\" I began.\n\n\"Dinna ask,\" said he. \"If I aince sterted to speir about thae maitters,\nI wadna keep my reason.\"\n\n\"Then that was what happened on the hill this morning?\"\n\n\"Even sae, and it has happened mair than aince sin' that time. It's the\nmost uncanny slaughter, for sheep-stealing I can understand, but no this\npricking o' the puir beasts' wizands. I kenna how they dae't either, for\nit's no wi' a knife or any common tool.\"\n\n\"Have you never tried to follow the thieves?\"\n\n\"Have I no?\" he asked, grimly. \"If it had been common sheep-stealers I\nwad hae had them by the heels, though I had followed them a hundred\nmiles. But this is no common. I've tracked them, and it's ill they are\nto track; but I never got beyond ae place, and that was the Scarts o'\nthe Muneraw that ye've heard me speak o'.\"\n\n\"But who in Heaven's name are the people? Tinklers or poachers or what?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, drily. \"Even so. Tinklers and poachers whae wark wi'\nstane errows and kill sheep by a hole in their throat. Lord, I kenna\nwhat they are, unless the Muckle Deil himsel'.\"\n\nThe conversation had passed beyond my comprehension. In this prosaic\nhard-headed man I had come on the dead-rock of superstition and blind\nfear.\n\n\"That is only the story of the Brownie over again, and he is an exploded\nmyth,\" I said, laughing.\n\n\"Are ye the man that exploded it?\" said the shepherd, rudely. \"I trow\nno, neither you nor ony ither. My bonny man, if ye lived a twal-month in\nthae hills, ye wad sing safter about exploded myths, as ye call them.\"\n\n\"I tell you what I would do,\" said I. \"If I lost sheep as you lose\nthem, I would go up the Scarts of the Muneraw and never rest till I had\nsettled the question once and for all.\" I spoke hotly, for I was vexed\nby the man's childish fear.\n\n\"I daresay ye wad,\" he said, slowly. \"But then I am no you, and maybe I\nken mair o' what is in the Scarts o' the Muneraw. Maybe I ken that\nwhilk, if ye kenned it, wad send ye back to the South Country wi' your\nhert in your mouth. But, as I say, I am no sae brave as you, for I saw\nsomething in the first year o' my herding here which put the terror o'\nGod on me, and makes me a fearfu' man to this day. Ye ken the story o'\nthe gudeman o' Carrickfey?\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"Weel, I was the man that fand him. I had seen the deid afore and I've\nseen them since. But never have I seen aucht like the look in that man's\neen. What he saw at his death I may see the morn, so I walk before the\nLord in fear.\"\n\nThen he rose and stretched himself. \"It's bedding-time, for I maun be up\nat three,\" and with a short good night he left the room.\n\n\nIII: THE SCARTS OF THE MUNERAW\n\nThe next morning was fine, for the snow had been intermittent, and had\nsoon melted except in the high corries. True, it was deceptive weather,\nfor the wind had gone to the rainy south-west, and the masses of cloud\non that horizon boded ill for the afternoon. But some days' inaction had\nmade me keen for a chance of sport, so I rose with the shepherd and set\nout for the day.\n\nHe asked me where I proposed to begin.\n\nI told him the tarn called the Loch o' the Threshes, which lies over the\nback of the Muneraw on another watershed. It is on the ground of the\nRhynns Forest, and I had fished it of old from the Forest House. I knew\nthe merits of the trout, and I knew its virtues in a south-west wind, so\nI had resolved to go thus far afield.\n\nThe shepherd heard the name in silence. \"Your best road will be ower\nthat rig, and syne on to the water o' Caulds. Keep abune the moss till\nye come to the place they ca' the Nick o' the Threshes. That will take\nye to the very loch-side, but it's a lang road and a sair.\"\n\nThe morning was breaking over the bleak hills. Little clouds drifted\nathwart the corries, and wisps of haze fluttered from the peaks. A great\nrosy flush lay over one side of the glen, which caught the edge of the\nsluggish bog-pools and turned them to fire. Never before had I seen the\nmountain-land so clear, for far back into the east and west I saw\nmountain-tops set as close as flowers in a border, black crags seamed\nwith silver lines which I knew for mighty waterfalls, and below at my\nfeet the lower slopes fresh with the dewy green of spring. A name stuck\nin my memory from the last night's talk.\n\n\"Where are the Scarts of the Muneraw?\" I asked.\n\nThe shepherd pointed to the great hill which bears the name, and which\nlies, a huge mass, above the watershed.\n\n\"D'ye see yon corrie at the east that runs straucht up the side? It\nlooks a bit scart, but it's sae deep that it's aye derk at the bottom\no't. Weel, at the tap o' the rig it meets anither corrie that runs doun\nthe ither side, and that one they ca' the Scarts. There is a sort o'\nburn in it that flows intil the Dule and sae intil the Aller, and,\nindeed, if ye were gaun there it wad be from Aller Glen that your best\nroad wad lie. But it's an ill bit, and ye'll be sair guidit if ye\ntry't.\"\n\nThere he left me and went across the glen, while I struck upwards over\nthe ridge. At the top I halted and looked down on the wide glen of the\nCaulds, which there is little better than a bog, but lower down grows\ninto a green pastoral valley. The great Muneraw still dominated the\nlandscape, and the black scaur on its side seemed blacker than before.\nThe place fascinated me, for in that fresh morning air the shepherd's\nfears seemed monstrous. \"Some day,\" said I to myself, \"I will go and\nexplore the whole of that mighty hill.\" Then I descended and struggled\nover the moss, found the Nick, and in two hours' time was on the loch's\nedge.\n\nI have little in the way of good to report of the fishing. For perhaps\none hour the trout took well; after that they sulked steadily for the\nday. The promise, too, of fine weather had been deceptive. By midday the\nrain was falling in that soft soaking fashion which gives no hope of\nclearing. The mist was down to the edge of the water, and I cast my\nflies into a blind sea of white. It was hopeless work, and yet from a\nsort of ill-temper I stuck to it long after my better judgment had\nwarned me of its folly. At last, about three in the afternoon, I struck\nmy camp, and prepared myself for a long and toilsome retreat.\n\nAnd long and toilsome it was beyond anything I had ever encountered. Had\nI had a vestige of sense I would have followed the burn from the loch\ndown to the Forest House. The place was shut up, but the keeper would\ngladly have given me shelter for the night. But foolish pride was too\nstrong in me. I had found my road in mist before, and could do it again.\n\nBefore I got to the top of the hill I had repented my decision; when I\ngot there I repented it more. For below me was a dizzy chaos of grey;\nthere was no landmark visible; and before me I knew was the bog through\nwhich the Caulds Water twined. I had crossed it with some trouble in the\nmorning, but then I had light to pick my steps. Now I could only stumble\non, and in five minutes I might be in a bog-hole, and in five more in a\nbetter world.\n\nBut there was no help to be got from hesitation, so with a rueful\ncourage I set off. The place was if possible worse than I had feared.\nWading up to the knees with nothing before you but a blank wall of mist\nand the cheerful consciousness that your next step may be your\nlast--such was my state for one weary mile. The stream itself was high,\nand rose to my armpits, and once and again I only saved myself by a\nviolent leap backwards from a pitiless green slough. But at last it was\npast, and I was once more on the solid ground of the hillside.\n\nNow, in the thick weather I had crossed the glen much lower down than in\nthe morning, and the result was that the hill on which I stood was one\nof the giants which, with the Muneraw for centre, guard the watershed.\nHad I taken the proper way, the Nick o' the Threshes would have led me\nto the Caulds, and then once over the bog a little ridge was all that\nstood between me and the glen of Farawa. But instead I had come a wild\ncross-country road, and was now, though I did not know it, nearly as far\nfrom my destination as at the start.\n\nWell for me that I did not know, for I was wet and dispirited, and had I\nnot fancied myself all but home, I should scarcely have had the energy\nto make this last ascent. But soon I found it was not the little ridge I\nhad expected. I looked at my watch and saw that it was five o'clock.\nWhen, after the weariest climb, I lay on a piece of level ground which\nseemed the top, I was not surprised to find that it was now seven. The\ndarkening must be at hand, and sure enough the mist seemed to be\ndeepening into a greyish black. I began to grow desperate. Here was I on\nthe summit of some infernal mountain, without any certainty where my\nroad lay. I was lost with a vengeance, and at the thought I began to be\nacutely afraid.\n\nI took what seemed to me the way I had come, and began to descend\nsteeply. Then something made me halt, and the next instant I was lying\non my face trying painfully to retrace my steps. For I had found myself\nslipping, and before I could stop, my feet were dangling over a\nprecipice with Heaven alone knows how many yards of sheer mist between\nme and the bottom. Then I tried keeping the ridge, and took that to the\nright, which I thought would bring me nearer home. It was no good trying\nto think out a direction, for in the fog my brain was running round, and\nI seemed to stand on a pin-point of space where the laws of the compass\nhad ceased to hold.\n\nIt was the roughest sort of walking, now stepping warily over acres of\nloose stones, now crawling down the face of some battered rock, and now\nwading in the long dripping heather. The soft rain had begun to fall\nagain, which completed my discomfort. I was now seriously tired, and,\nlike all men who in their day have bent too much over books, I began to\nfeel it in my back. My spine ached, and my breath came in short broken\npants. It was a pitiable state of affairs for an honest man who had\nnever encountered much grave discomfort. To ease myself I was compelled\nto leave my basket behind me, trusting to return and find it, if I\nshould ever reach safety and discover on what pathless hill I had been\nstrayed. My rod I used as a staff, but it was of little use, for my\nfingers were getting too numb to hold it.\n\nSuddenly from the blankness I heard a sound as of human speech. At first\nI thought it mere craziness--the cry of a weasel or a hill-bird\ndistorted by my ears. But again it came, thick and faint, as through\nacres of mist, and yet clearly the sound of \"articulate-speaking men.\"\nIn a moment I lost my despair and cried out in answer. This was some\nforwandered traveller like myself, and between us we could surely find\nsome road to safety. So I yelled back at the pitch of my voice and\nwaited intently.\n\nBut the sound ceased, and there was utter silence again. Still I waited,\nand then from some place much nearer came the same soft mumbling speech.\nI could make nothing of it. Heard in that drear place it made the nerves\ntense and the heart timorous. It was the strangest jumble of vowels and\nconsonants I had ever met.\n\nA dozen solutions flashed through my brain. It was some maniac talking\nJabberwock to himself. It was some belated traveller whose wits had\ngiven out in fear. Perhaps it was only some shepherd who was amusing\nhimself thus, and whiling the way with nonsense. Once again I cried out\nand waited.\n\nThen suddenly in the hollow trough of mist before me, where things could\nstill be half discerned, there appeared a figure. It was little and\nsquat and dark; naked, apparently, but so rough with hair that it wore\nthe appearance of a skin-covered being. It crossed my line of vision,\nnot staying for a moment, but in its face and eyes there seemed to lurk\nan elder world of mystery and barbarism, a troll-like life which was too\nhorrible for words.\n\nThe shepherd's fear came back on me like a thunderclap. For one awful\ninstant my legs failed me, and I had almost fallen. The next I had\nturned and ran shrieking up the hill.\n\nIf he who may read this narrative has never felt the force of an\novermastering terror, then let him thank his Maker and pray that he\nnever may. I am no weak child, but a strong grown man, accredited in\ngeneral with sound sense and little suspected of hysterics. And yet I\nwent up that brae-face with my heart fluttering like a bird and my\nthroat aching with fear. I screamed in short dry gasps; involuntarily,\nfor my mind was beyond any purpose. I felt that beast-like clutch at my\nthroat; those red eyes seemed to be staring at me from the mist; I heard\never behind and before and on all sides the patter of those inhuman\nfeet.\n\nBefore I knew I was down, slipping over a rock and falling some dozen\nfeet into a soft marshy hollow. I was conscious of lying still for a\nsecond and whimpering like a child. But as I lay there I awoke to the\nsilence of the place. There was no sound of pursuit; perhaps they had\nlost my track and given up. My courage began to return, and from this it\nwas an easy step to hope. Perhaps after all it had been merely an\nillusion, for folk do not see clearly in the mist, and I was already\ndone with weariness.\n\nBut even as I lay in the green moss and began to hope, the faces of my\npursuers grew up through the mist. I stumbled madly to my feet; but I\nwas hemmed in, the rock behind and my enemies before. With a cry I\nrushed forward, and struck wildly with my rod at the first dark body.\nIt was as if I had struck an animal, and the next second the thing was\nwrenched from my grasp. But still they came no nearer. I stood trembling\nthere in the centre of those malignant devils, my brain a mere\nweathercock and my heart crushed shapeless with horror. At last the end\ncame, for with the vigour of madness I flung myself on the nearest, and\nwe rolled on the ground. Then the monstrous things seemed to close over\nme, and with a choking cry I passed into unconsciousness.\n\n\nIV. THE DARKNESS THAT IS UNDER THE EARTH\n\nThere is an unconsciousness that is not wholly dead, where a man feels\nnumbly and the body lives without the brain. I was beyond speech or\nthought, and yet I felt the upward or downward motion as the way lay in\nhill or glen, and I most assuredly knew when the open air was changed\nfor the close underground. I could feel dimly that lights were flared in\nmy face, and that I was laid in some bed on the earth. Then with the\nstopping of movement the real sleep of weakness seized me, and for long\nI knew nothing of this mad world.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nMorning came over the moors with birdsong and the glory of fine\nweather. The streams were still rolling in spate, but the hill-pastures\nwere alight with dawn, and the little seams of snow were glistening like\nwhite fire. A ray from the sunrise cleft its path somehow into the\nabyss, and danced on the wall above my couch. It caught my eye as I\nwakened, and for long I lay crazily wondering what it meant. My head was\nsplitting with pain, and in my heart was the same fluttering nameless\nfear. I did not wake to full consciousness; not till the twinkle of sun\nfrom the clean bright out-of-doors caught my senses did I realise that I\nlay in a great dark place with a glow of dull firelight in the middle.\n\nIn time things rose and moved around me, a few ragged shapes of men,\nwithout clothing, shambling with their huge feet and looking towards me\nwith curved beast-like glances. I tried to marshal my thoughts, and\nslowly, bit by bit, I built up the present. There was no question to my\nmind of dreaming; the past hours had scored reality upon my brain. Yet I\ncannot say that fear was my chief feeling. The first crazy terror had\nsubsided, and now I felt mainly a sickened disgust with just a tinge of\ncuriosity. I found that my knife, watch, flask, and money had gone, but\nthey had left me a map of the countryside. It seemed strange to look at\nthe calico, with the name of a London printer stamped on the back, and\nlines of railway and highroad running through every shire. Decent and\ncomfortable civilisation! And here was I a prisoner in this den of\nnameless folk, and in the midst of a life which history knew not.\n\nCourage is a virtue which grows with reflection and the absence of the\nimmediate peril. I thought myself into some sort of resolution, and lo!\nwhen the Folk approached me and bound my feet I was back at once in the\nmost miserable terror. They tied me, all but my hands, with some strong\ncord, and carried me to the centre, where the fire was glowing. Their\nsoft touch was the acutest torture to my nerves, but I stifled my cries\nlest some one should lay his hand on my mouth. Had that happened, I am\nconvinced my reason would have failed me.\n\nSo there I lay in the shine of the fire, with the circle of unknown\nthings around me. There seemed but three or four, but I took no note of\nnumber. They talked huskily among themselves in a tongue which sounded\nall gutturals. Slowly my fear became less an emotion than a habit, and I\nhad room for the smallest shade of curiosity. I strained my ear to catch\na word, but it was a mere chaos of sound. The thing ran and thundered\nin my brain as I stared dumbly into the vacant air. Then I thought that\nunless I spoke I should certainly go crazy, for my head was beginning to\nswim at the strange cooing noise.\n\nI spoke a word or two in my best Gaelic, and they closed round me\ninquiringly. Then I was sorry I had spoken, for my words had brought\nthem nearer, and I shrank at the thought. But as the faint echoes of my\nspeech hummed in the rock-chamber, I was struck by a curious kinship of\nsound. Mine was sharper, more distinct, and staccato; theirs was\nblurred, formless, but still with a certain root-resemblance.\n\nThen from the back there came an older being, who seemed to have heard\nmy words. He was like some foul grey badger, his red eyes sightless, and\nhis hands trembling on a stump of bog-oak. The others made way for him\nwith such deference as they were capable of, and the thing squatted down\nby me and spoke.\n\nTo my amazement his words were familiar. It was some manner of speech\nakin to the Gaelic, but broadened, lengthened, coarsened. I remembered\nan old book-tongue, commonly supposed posed to be an impure dialect once\nused in Brittany, which I had met in the course of my researches. The\nwords recalled it, and as far as I could remember the thing, I asked him\nwho he was and where the place might be.\n\nHe answered me in the same speech--still more broadened, lengthened,\ncoarsened. I lay back with sheer amazement. I had found the key to this\nunearthly life.\n\nFor a little an insatiable curiosity, the ardour of the scholar,\nprevailed. I forgot the horror of the place, and thought only of the\nfact that here before me was the greatest find that scholarship had ever\nmade. I was precipitated into the heart of the past. Here must be the\nfountainhead of all legends, the chrysalis of all beliefs. I actually\ngrew lighthearted. This strange folk around me were now no more\nshapeless things of terror, but objects of research and experiment. I\nalmost came to think them not unfriendly.\n\nFor an hour I enjoyed the highest of earthly pleasures. In that strange\nconversation I heard--in fragments and suggestions--the history of the\ncraziest survival the world has ever seen. I heard of the struggles with\ninvaders, preserved as it were in a sort of shapeless poetry. There were\nbitter words against the Gaelic oppressor, bitterer words against the\nSaxon stranger, and for a moment ancient hatreds flared into life. Then\nthere came the tale of the hill-refuge, the morbid hideous existence\npreserved for centuries amid a changing world. I heard fragments of old\nreligions, primeval names of god and goddess, half-understood by the\nFolk, but to me the key to a hundred puzzles. Tales which survive to us\nin broken disjointed riddles were intact here in living form. I lay on\nmy elbow and questioned feverishly. At any moment they might become\nmorose and refuse to speak. Clearly it was my duty to make the most of a\nbrief good fortune.\n\nAnd then the tale they told me grew more hideous. I heard of the\ncircumstances of the life itself and their daily shifts for existence.\nIt was a murderous chronicle--a history of lust and rapine and\nunmentionable deeds in the darkness. One thing they had early\nrecognised--that the race could not be maintained within itself; so that\nghoulish carrying away of little girls from the lowlands began, which I\nhad heard of but never credited. Shut up in those dismal holes, the\ngirls soon died, and when the new race had grown up the plunder had been\nrepeated. Then there were bestial murders in lonely cottages, done for\nGod knows what purpose. Sometimes the occupant had seen more than was\nsafe, sometimes the deed was the mere exuberance of a lust of slaying.\nAs they gabbled their tales my heart's blood froze, and I lay back in\nthe agonies of fear. If they had used the others thus, what way of\nescape was open for myself? I had been brought to this place, and not\nmurdered on the spot. Clearly there was torture before death in store\nfor me, and I confess I quailed at the thought.\n\nBut none molested me. The elders continued to jabber out their stories,\nwhile I lay tense and deaf. Then to my amazement food was brought and\nplaced beside me--almost with respect. Clearly my murder was not a thing\nof the immediate future. The meal was some form of mutton--perhaps the\nshepherd's lost ewes--and a little smoking was all the cooking it had\ngot. I strove to eat, but the tasteless morsels choked me. Then they set\ndrink before me in a curious cup, which I seized on eagerly, for my\nmouth was dry with thirst. The vessel was of gold, rudely formed, but of\nthe pure metal, and a coarse design in circles ran round the middle.\nThis surprised me enough, but a greater wonder awaited me. The liquor\nwas not water, as I had guessed, but a sort of sweet ale, a miracle of\nflavour. The taste was curious, but somehow familiar; it was like no\nwine I had ever drunk, and yet I had known that flavour all my life. I\nsniffed at the brim, and there rose a faint fragrance of thyme and\nheather honey and the sweet things of the moorland. I almost dropped it\nin my surprise; for here in this rude place I had stumbled upon that\nlost delicacy of the North, the heather ale.\n\nFor a second I was entranced with my discovery, and then the wonder of\nthe cup claimed my attention. Was it a mere relic of pillage, or had\nthis folk some hidden mine of the precious metal? Gold had once been\ncommon in these hills. There were the traces of mines on Cairnsmore:\nshepherds had found it in the gravel of the Gled Water; and the name of\na house at the head of the Clachlands meant the \"Home of Gold.\"\n\nOnce more I began my questions, and they answered them willingly. There\nand then I heard that secret for which many had died in old time, the\nsecret of the heather ale. They told of the gold in the hills, of\ncorries where the sand gleamed and abysses where the rocks were veined.\nAll this they told me, freely, without a scruple. And then, like a\nclap, came the awful thought that this, too, spelled death. These were\nsecrets which this race aforetime had guarded with their lives; they\ntold them generously to me because there was no fear of betrayal. I\nshould go no more out from this place.\n\nThe thought put me into a new sweat of terror--not at death, mind you,\nbut at the unknown horrors which might precede the final suffering. I\nlay silent, and after binding my hands they began to leave me and go off\nto other parts of the cave. I dozed in the horrible half-swoon of fear,\nconscious only of my shaking limbs, and the great dull glow of the fire\nin the centre. Then I became calmer. After all, they had treated me with\ntolerable kindness: I had spoken their language, which few of their\nvictims could have done for many a century; it might be that I had found\nfavour in their eyes. For a little I comforted myself with this\ndelusion, till I caught sight of a wooden box in a corner. It was of\nmodern make, one such as grocers use to pack provisions in. It had some\naddress nailed on it, and an aimless curiosity compelled me to creep\nthither and read it. A torn and weather-stained scrap of paper, with the\nnails at the corner rusty with age; but something of the address might\nstill be made out. Amid the stains my feverish eyes read, \"To Mr M----,\nCarrickfey, by Allerfoot Station.\"\n\nThe ruined cottage in the hollow of the waste with the single gnarled\napple-tree was before me in a twinkling. I remembered the shepherd's\nshrinking from the place and the name, and his wild eyes when he told me\nof the thing that had happened there. I seemed to see the old man in his\nmoorland cottage, thinking no evil; the sudden entry of the nameless\nthings; and then the eyes glazed in unspeakable terror. I felt my lips\ndry and burning. Above me was the vault of rock; in the distance I saw\nthe fire-glow and the shadows of shapes moving around it. My fright was\ntoo great for inaction, so I crept from the couch, and silently,\nstealthily, with tottering steps and bursting heart, I began to\nreconnoitre.\n\nBut I was still bound, my arms tightly, my legs more loosely, but yet\nfirm enough to hinder flight. I could not get my hands at my leg-straps,\nstill less could I undo the manacles. I rolled on the floor, seeking\nsome sharp edge of rock, but all had been worn smooth by the use of\ncenturies. Then suddenly an idea came upon me like an inspiration. The\nsounds from the fire seemed to have ceased, and I could hear them\nrepeated from another and more distant part of the cave. The Folk had\nleft their orgy round the blaze, and at the end of the long tunnel I saw\nits glow fall unimpeded upon the floor. Once there, I might burn off my\nfetters and be free to turn my thoughts to escape.\n\nI crawled a little way with much labour. Then suddenly I came abreast an\nopening in the wall, through which a path went. It was a long straight\nrock-cutting, and at the end I saw a gleam of pale light. It must be the\nopen air; the way of escape was prepared for me; and with a prayer I\nmade what speed I could towards the fire.\n\nI rolled on the verge, but the fuel was peat, and the warm ashes would\nnot burn the cords. In desperation I went farther, and my clothes began\nto singe, while my face ached beyond endurance. But yet I got no nearer\nmy object. The strips of hide warped and cracked, but did not burn. Then\nin a last effort I thrust my wrists bodily into the glow and held them\nthere. In an instant I drew them out with a groan of pain, scarred and\nsore, but to my joy with the band snapped in one place. Weak as I was,\nit was now easy to free myself, and then came the untying of my legs.\nMy hands trembled, my eyes were dazed with hurry, and I was longer over\nthe job than need have been. But at length I had loosed my cramped knees\nand stood on my feet, a free man once more.\n\nI kicked off my boots, and fled noiselessly down the passage to the\ntunnel mouth. Apparently it was close on evening, for the white light\nhad faded to a pale yellow. But it was daylight, and that was all I\nsought, and I ran for it as eagerly as ever runner ran to a goal. I came\nout on a rock-shelf, beneath which a moraine of boulders fell away in a\nchasm to a dark loch. It was all but night, but I could see the gnarled\nand fortressed rocks rise in ramparts above, and below the unknown\nscrees and cliffs which make the side of the Muneraw a place only for\nfoxes and the fowls of the air.\n\nThe first taste of liberty is an intoxication, and assuredly I was mad\nwhen I leaped down among the boulders. Happily at the top of the gully\nthe stones were large and stable, else the noise would certainly have\ndiscovered me. Down I went, slipping, praying, my charred wrists aching,\nand my stockinged feet wet with blood. Soon I was in the jaws of the\ncleft, and a pale star rose before me. I have always been timid in the\nface of great rocks, and now, had not an awful terror been dogging my\nfootsteps, no power on earth could have driven me to that descent. Soon\nI left the boulders behind, and came to long spouts of little stones,\nwhich moved with me till the hillside seemed sinking under my feet.\nSometimes I was face downwards, once and again I must have fallen for\nyards. Had there been a cliff at the foot, I should have gone over it\nwithout resistance; but by the providence of God the spout ended in a\nlong curve into the heather of the bog.\n\nWhen I found my feet once more on soft boggy earth, my strength was\nrenewed within me. A great hope of escape sprang up in my heart. For a\nsecond I looked back. There was a great line of shingle with the cliffs\nbeyond, and above all the unknown blackness of the cleft. There lay my\nterror, and I set off running across the bog for dear life. My mind was\nclear enough to know my road. If I held round the loch in front I should\ncome to a burn which fed the Farawa stream, on whose banks stood the\nshepherd's cottage. The loch could not be far; once at the Farawa I\nwould have the light of the shieling clear before me.\n\nSuddenly I heard behind me, as if coming from the hillside, the patter\nof feet. It was the sound which white hares make in the wintertime on a\nnoiseless frosty day as they patter over the snow. I have heard the same\nsoft noise from a herd of deer when they changed their pastures. Strange\nthat so kindly a sound should put the very fear of death in my heart. I\nran madly, blindly, yet thinking shrewdly. The loch was before me.\nSomewhere I had read or heard, I do not know where, that the brutish\naboriginal races of the North could not swim. I myself swam powerfully;\ncould I but cross the loch I should save two miles of a desperate\ncountry.\n\nThere was no time to lose, for the patter was coming nearer, and I was\nalmost at the loch's edge. I tore off my coat and rushed in. The bottom\nwas mossy, and I had to struggle far before I found any depth. Something\nplashed in the water before me, and then something else a little behind.\nThe thought that I was a mark for unknown missiles made me crazy with\nfright, and I struck fiercely out for the other shore. A gleam of\nmoonlight was on the water at the burn's exit, and thither I guided\nmyself. I found the thing difficult enough in itself, for my hands\nached, and I was numb from my bonds. But my fancy raised a thousand\nphantoms to vex me. Swimming in that black bog water, pursued by those\nnameless things, I seemed to be in a world of horror far removed from\nthe kindly world of men. My strength seemed inexhaustible from my\nterror. Monsters at the bottom of the water seemed to bite at my feet,\nand the pain of my wrists made me believe that the loch was boiling hot,\nand that I was in some hellish place of torment.\n\nI came out on a spit of gravel above the burn mouth, and set off down\nthe ravine of the burn. It was a strait place, strewn with rocks; but\nnow and then the hill turf came in stretches, and eased my wounded feet.\nSoon the fall became more abrupt, and I was slipping down a hillside,\nwith the water on my left making great cascades in the granite. And then\nI was out in the wider vale where the Farawa water flowed among links of\nmoss.\n\nFar in front, a speck in the blue darkness, shone the light of the\ncottage. I panted forward, my breath coming in gasps and my back shot\nwith fiery pains. Happily the land was easier for the feet as long as I\nkept on the skirts of the bog. My ears were sharp as a wild beast's with\nfear, as I listened for the noise of pursuit. Nothing came but the\nrustle of the gentlest hill-wind and the chatter of the falling streams.\n\nThen suddenly the light began to waver and move athwart the window. I\nknew what it meant. In a minute or two the household at the cottage\nwould retire to rest, and the lamp would be put out. True, I might find\nthe place in the dark, for there was a moon of sorts and the road was\nnot desperate. But somehow in that hour the lamplight gave a promise of\nsafety which I clung to despairingly.\n\nAnd then the last straw was added to my misery. Behind me came the pad\nof feet, the pat-patter, soft, eerie, incredibly swift. I choked with\nfear, and flung myself forward in a last effort. I give my word it was\nsheer mechanical shrinking that drove me on. God knows I would have lain\ndown to die in the heather, had the things behind me been a common\nterror of life.\n\nI ran as man never ran before, leaping hags, scrambling through green\nwell-heads, straining towards the fast-dying light. A quarter of a mile\nand the patter sounded nearer. Soon I was not two hundred yards off, and\nthe noise seemed almost at my elbow. The light went out, and the black\nmass of the cottage loomed in the dark.\n\nThen, before I knew, I was at the door, battering it wearily and yelling\nfor help. I heard steps within and a hand on the bolt. Then something\nshot past me with lightning force and buried itself in the wood. The\ndreadful hands were almost at my throat, when the door was opened and I\nstumbled in, hearing with a gulp of joy the key turn and the bar fall\nbehind me.\n\n\nV: THE TROUBLES OF A CONSCIENCE\n\nMy body and senses slept, for I was utterly tired, but my brain all the\nnight was on fire with horrid fancies. Again I was in that accursed\ncave; I was torturing my hands in the fire; I was slipping barefoot\namong jagged boulders; and then with bursting heart I was toiling the\nlast mile with the cottage light--now grown to a great fire in the\nheavens--blazing before me.\n\nIt was broad daylight when I awoke, and I thanked God for the\ncomfortable rays of the sun. I had been laid in a box-bed off the inner\nroom, and my first sight was the shepherd sitting with folded arms in a\nchair regarding me solemnly. I rose and began to dress, feeling my legs\nand arms still tremble with weariness. The shepherd's sister bound up my\nscarred wrists and put an ointment on my burns; and, limping like an old\nman, I went into the kitchen.\n\nI could eat little breakfast, for my throat seemed dry and narrow; but\nthey gave me some brandy-and-milk, which put strength into my body. All\nthe time the brother and sister sat in silence, regarding me with covert\nglances.\n\n\"Ye have been delivered from the jaws o' the Pit,\" said the man at\nlength. \"See that,\" and he held out to me a thin shaft of flint. \"I fand\nthat in the door this morning.\"\n\nI took it, let it drop, and stared vacantly at the window. My nerves had\nbeen too much tried to be roused by any new terror. Out of doors it was\nfair weather, flying gleams of April sunlight and the soft colours of\nspring. I felt dazed, isolated, cut off from my easy past and pleasing\nfuture, a companion of horrors and the sport of nameless things. Then\nsuddenly my eye fell on my books heaped on a table, and the old distant\ncivilisation seemed for the moment inexpressibly dear.\n\n\"I must go--at once. And you must come too. You cannot stay here. I tell\nyou it is death. If you knew what I know you would be crying out with\nfear. How far is it to Allermuir? Eight, fifteen miles; and then ten\ndown Glen Aller to Allerfoot, and then the railway. We must go together\nwhile it is daylight, and perhaps we may be untouched. But quick, there\nis not a moment to lose.\" And I was on my shaky feet, and bustling among\nmy possessions.\n\n\"I'll gang wi' ye to the station,\" said the shepherd, \"for ye're clearly\nno fit to look after yourself. My sister will bide and keep the house.\nIf naething has touched us this ten year, naething will touch us the\nday.\"\n\n\"But you cannot stay. You are mad,\" I began; but he cut me short with\nthe words, \"I trust in God.\"\n\n\"In any case let your sister come with us. I dare not think of a woman\nalone in this place.\"\n\n\"I'll bide,\" said she. \"I'm no feared as lang as I'm indoors and there's\nsteeks on the windies.\"\n\nSo I packed my few belongings as best I could, tumbled my books into a\nhaversack, and, gripping the shepherd's arm nervously, crossed the\nthreshold. The glen was full of sunlight. There lay the long shining\nlinks of the Farawa burn, the rough hills tumbled beyond, and far over\nall the scarred and distant forehead of the Muneraw. I had always\nlooked on moorland country as the freshest on earth--clean, wholesome,\nand homely. But now the fresh uplands seemed like a horrible pit. When I\nlooked to the hills my breath choked in my throat, and the feel of soft\nheather below my feet set my heart trembling.\n\nIt was a slow journey to the inn at Allermuir. For one thing, no power\non earth would draw me within sight of the shieling of Carrickfey, so we\nhad to cross a shoulder of hill and make our way down a difficult glen,\nand then over a treacherous moss. The lochs were now gleaming like\nfretted silver; but to me, in my dreadful knowledge, they seemed more\neerie than on that grey day when I came. At last my eyes were cheered by\nthe sight of a meadow and a fence; then we were on a little byroad; and\nsoon the fir-woods and corn-lands of Allercleuch were plain before us.\n\nThe shepherd came no farther, but with brief good-bye turned his solemn\nface hillwards. I hired a trap and a man to drive, and down the ten\nmiles of Glen Aller I struggled to keep my thoughts from the past. I\nthought of the kindly South Country, of Oxford, of anything comfortable\nand civilised. My driver pointed out the objects of interest as in duty\nbound, but his words fell on unheeding ears. At last he said something\nwhich roused me indeed to interest--the interest of the man who hears\nthe word he fears most in the world. On the left side of the river there\nsuddenly sprang into view a long gloomy cleft in the hills, with a vista\nof dark mountains behind, down which a stream of considerable size\npoured its waters.\n\n\"That is the Water o' Dule,\" said the man in a reverent voice. \"A graund\nwater to fish, but dangerous to life, for it's a' linns. Awa' at the\nheid they say there's a terrible wild place called the Scarts o'\nMuneraw,--that's a shouther o' the muckle hill itsel' that ye see,--but\nI've never been there, and I never kent ony man that had either.\"\n\nAt the station, which is a mile from the village of Allerfoot, I found I\nhad some hours to wait on my train for the south. I dared not trust\nmyself for one moment alone, so I hung about the goods-shed, talked\nvacantly to the porters, and when one went to the village for tea I\naccompanied him, and to his wonder entertained him at the inn. When I\nreturned I found on the platform a stray bagman who was that evening\ngoing to London. If there is one class of men in the world which I\nheartily detest it is this; but such was my state that I hailed him as a\nbrother, and besought his company. I paid the difference for a\nfirst-class fare, and had him in the carriage with me. He must have\nthought me an amiable maniac, for I talked in fits and starts, and when\nhe fell asleep I would wake him up and beseech him to speak to me. At\nwayside stations I would pull down the blinds in case of recognition,\nfor to my unquiet mind the world seemed full of spies sent by that\nterrible Folk of the Hills. When the train crossed a stretch of moor I\nwould lie down on the seat in case of shafts fired from the heather. And\nthen at last with utter weariness I fell asleep, and woke screaming\nabout midnight to find myself well down in the cheerful English\nmidlands, and red blast-furnaces blinking by the railwayside.\n\nIn the morning I breakfasted in my rooms at St Chad's with a dawning\nsense of safety. I was in a different and calmer world. The lawn-like\nquadrangles, the great trees, the cawing of rooks, and the homely\ntwitter of sparrows--all seemed decent and settled and pleasing. Indoors\nthe oak-panelled walls, the shelves of books, the pictures, the faint\nfragrance of tobacco, were very different from the gimcrack adornments\nand the accursed smell of peat and heather in that deplorable cottage.\nIt was still vacation-time, so most of my friends were down; but I spent\nthe day hunting out the few cheerful pedants to whom term and vacation\nwere the same. It delighted me to hear again their precise talk, to hear\nthem make a boast of their work, and narrate the childish little\naccidents of their life. I yearned for the childish once more; I craved\nfor women's drawing-rooms, and women's chatter, and everything which\nmakes life an elegant game. God knows I had had enough of the other\nthing for a lifetime!\n\nThat night I shut myself in my rooms, barred my windows, drew my\ncurtains, and made a great destruction. All books or pictures which\nrecalled to me the moorlands were ruthlessly doomed. Novels, poems,\ntreatises I flung into an old box, for sale to the second-hand\nbookseller. Some prints and water-colour sketches I tore to pieces with\nmy own hands. I ransacked my fishing-book, and condemned all tackle for\nmoorland waters to the flames. I wrote a letter to my solicitors,\nbidding them go no further in the purchase of a place in Lorn I had long\nbeen thinking of. Then, and not till then, did I feel the bondage of the\npast a little loosed from my shoulders. I made myself a night-cap of\nrum-punch instead of my usual whisky-toddy, that all associations with\nthat dismal land might be forgotten, and to complete the renunciation I\nreturned to cigars and flung my pipe into a drawer.\n\nBut when I woke in the morning I found that it is hard to get rid of\nmemories. My feet were still sore and wounded, and when I felt my arms\ncramped and reflected on the causes, there was that black memory always\nnear to vex me.\n\nIn a little term began, and my duties--as deputy-professor of Northern\nAntiquities--were once more clamorous. I can well believe that my\nhearers found my lectures strange, for instead of dealing with my\nfavourite subjects and matters, which I might modestly say I had made my\nown, I confined myself to recondite and distant themes, treating even\nthese cursorily and dully. For the truth is, my heart was no more in my\nsubject. I hated--or I thought that I hated--all things Northern with\nthe virulence of utter fear. My reading was confined to science of the\nmost recent kind, to abstruse philosophy, and to foreign classics.\nAnything which savoured of romance or mystery was abhorrent; I pined\nfor sharp outlines and the tangibility of a high civilisation.\n\nAll the term I threw myself into the most frivolous life of the place.\nMy Harrow schooldays seemed to have come back to me. I had once been a\nfair cricketer, so I played again for my college, and made decent\nscores. I coached an indifferent crew on the river. I fell into the\nslang of the place, which I had hitherto detested. My former friends\nlooked on me askance, as if some freakish changeling had possessed me.\nFormerly I had been ready for pedantic discussion, I had been absorbed\nin my work, men had spoken of me as a rising scholar. Now I fled the\nvery mention of things I had once delighted in. The Professor of\nNorthern Antiquities, a scholar of European reputation, meeting me once\nin the Parks, embarked on an account of certain novel rings recently\nfound in Scotland, and to his horror found that, when he had got well\nunder weigh, I had slipped off unnoticed. I heard afterwards that the\ngood old man was found by a friend walking disconsolately with bowed\nhead in the middle of the High Street. Being rescued from among the\nhorses' feet, he could only murmur, \"I am thinking of Graves, poor man!\nAnd a year ago he was as sane as I am!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nBut a man may not long deceive himself. I kept up the illusion valiantly\nfor the term; but I felt instinctively that the fresh schoolboy life,\nwhich seemed to me the extreme opposite to the ghoulish North, and as\nsuch the most desirable of things, was eternally cut off from me. No\ncunning affectation could ever dispel my real nature or efface the\nmemory of a week. I realised miserably that sooner or latter I must\nfight it out with my conscience. I began to call myself a coward. The\nchief thoughts of my mind began to centre themselves more and more round\nthat unknown life waiting to be explored among the wilds.\n\nOne day I met a friend--an official in the British Museum--who was full\nof some new theory about primitive habitations. To me it seemed\ninconceivably absurd; but he was strong in his confidence, and without\nflaw in his evidence. The man irritated me, and I burned to prove him\nwrong, but I could think of no argument which was final against his.\nThen it flashed upon me that my own experience held the disproof; and\nwithout more words I left him, hot, angry with myself, and tantalised\nby the unattainable.\n\nI might relate my _bona-fide_ experience, but would men believe me? I\nmust bring proofs, I must complete my researches, so as to make them\nincapable of disbelief. And there in those deserts was waiting the key.\nThere lay the greatest discovery of the century--nay, of the millennium.\nThere, too, lay the road to wealth such as I had never dreamed of. Could\nI succeed, I should be famous for ever. I would revolutionise history\nand anthropology; I would systematise folk-lore; I would show the world\nof men the pit whence they were digged and the rock whence they were\nhewn.\n\nAnd then began a game of battledore between myself and my conscience.\n\n\"You are a coward,\" said my conscience.\n\n\"I am sufficiently brave,\" I would answer. \"I have seen things and yet\nlived. The terror is more than mortal, and I cannot face it.\"\n\n\"You are a coward,\" said my conscience.\n\n\"I am not bound to go there again. It would be purely for my own\naggrandisement if I went, and not for any matter of duty.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless you are a coward,\" said my conscience.\n\n\"In any case the matter can wait.\"\n\n\"You are a coward.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nThen came one awful midsummer night, when I lay sleepless and fought the\nthing out with myself. I knew that the strife was hopeless, that I\nshould have no peace in this world again unless I made the attempt. The\ndawn was breaking when I came to the final resolution; and when I rose\nand looked at my face in a mirror, lo! it was white and lined and drawn\nlike a man of sixty.\n\n\nVI: SUMMER ON THE MOORS\n\nThe next morning I packed a bag with some changes of clothing and a\ncollection of notebooks, and went up to town. The first thing I did was\nto pay a visit to my solicitors. \"I am about to travel,\" said I, \"and I\nwish to have all things settled in case any accident should happen to\nme.\" So I arranged for the disposal of my property in case of death, and\nadded a codicil which puzzled the lawyers. If I did not return within\nsix months, communications were to be entered into with the shepherd at\nthe shieling of Farawa--post-town Allerfoot. If he could produce any\npapers, they were to be put into the hands of certain friends,\npublished, and the cost charged to my estate. From my solicitors I went\nto a gunmaker's in Regent Street and bought an ordinary six-chambered\nrevolver, feeling much as a man must feel who proposed to cross the\nAtlantic in a skiff and purchased a small life-belt as a precaution.\n\nI took the night express to the North, and, for a marvel, I slept. When\nI awoke about four we were on the verge of Westmoreland, and stony hills\nblocked the horizon. At first I hailed the mountain-land gladly; sleep\nfor the moment had caused forgetfulness of my terrors. But soon a turn\nof the line brought me in full view of a heathery moor, running far to a\nconfusion of distant peaks. I remembered my mission and my fate, and if\never condemned criminal felt a more bitter regret I pity his case. Why\nshould I alone among the millions of this happy isle be singled out as\nthe repository of a ghastly secret, and be cursed by a conscience which\nwould not let it rest?\n\nI came to Allerfoot early in the forenoon, and got a trap to drive me up\nthe valley. It was a lowering grey day, hot and yet sunless. A sort of\nheat-haze cloaked the hills, and every now and then a smurr of rain\nwould meet us on the road, and in a minute be over. I felt wretchedly\ndispirited; and when at last the white-washed kirk of Allermuir came\ninto sight and the broken-backed bridge of Aller, man's eyes seemed to\nhave looked on no drearier scene since time began.\n\nI ate what meal I could get, for, fears or no, I was voraciously hungry.\nThen I asked the landlord to find me some man who would show me the road\nto Farawa. I demanded company, not for protection--for what could two\nmen do against such brutish strength?--but to keep my mind from its own\nthoughts.\n\nThe man looked at me anxiously.\n\n\"Are ye acquaint wi' the folks, then?\" he asked.\n\nI said I was, that I had often stayed in the cottage.\n\n\"Ye ken that they've a name for being queer. The man never comes here\nforbye once or twice a-year, and he has few dealings wi' other herds.\nHe's got an ill name, too, for losing sheep. I dinna like the country\nava. Up by yon Muneraw--no that I've ever been there, but I've seen it\nafar off--is enough to put a man daft for the rest o' his days. What's\ntaking ye thereaways? It's no the time for the fishing?\"\n\nI told him that I was a botanist going to explore certain hill-crevices\nfor rare ferns. He shook his head, and then after some delay found me an\nostler who would accompany me to the cottage.\n\nThe man was a shock-headed, long-limbed fellow, with fierce red hair and\na humorous eye. He talked sociably about his life, answered my hasty\nquestions with deftness, and beguiled me for the moment out of myself. I\npassed the melancholy lochs, and came in sight of the great stony hills\nwithout the trepidation I had expected. Here at my side was one who\nfound some humour even in those uplands. But one thing I noted which\nbrought back the old uneasiness. He took the road which led us farthest\nfrom Carrickfey, and when to try him I proposed the other, he vetoed it\nwith emphasis.\n\nAfter this his good spirit departed, and he grew distrustful.\n\n\"What mak's ye a freend o' the herd at Farawa?\" he demanded a dozen\ntimes.\n\nFinally, I asked him if he knew the man, and had seen him lately.\n\n\"I dinna ken him, and I hadna seen him for years till a fortnicht syne,\nwhen a' Allermuir saw him. He cam doun one afternoon to the\npublic-hoose, and begood to drink. He had aye been kenned for a\nterrible godly kind o' a man, so ye may believe folk wondered at this.\nBut when he had stuck to the drink for twae days, and filled himsel'\nblind-fou half-a-dozen o' times, he took a fit o' repentance, and raved\nand blethered about siccan a life as he led in the muirs. There was some\nsaid he was speakin' serious, but maist thocht it was juist daftness.\"\n\n\"And what did he speak about?\" I asked sharply.\n\n\"I canna verra weel tell ye. It was about some kind o' bogle that lived\nin the Muneraw--that's the shouthers o't ye see yonder--and it seems\nthat the bogle killed his sheep and frichted himsel'. He was aye\nbletherin', too, about something or somebody ca'd Grave; but oh! the man\nwasna wise.\" And my companion shook a contemptuous head.\n\nAnd then below us in the valley we saw the shieling, with a thin shaft\nof smoke rising into the rainy grey weather. The man left me, sturdily\nrefusing any fee. \"I wantit my legs stretched as weel as you. A walk in\nthe hills is neither here nor there to a stoot man. When will ye be\nback, sir?\"\n\nThe question was well-timed. \"To-morrow fortnight,\" I said, \"and I want\nsomebody from Allermuir to come out here in the morning and carry some\nbaggage. Will you see to that?\"\n\nHe said \"Ay,\" and went off, while I scrambled down the hill to the\ncottage. Nervousness possessed me, and though it was broad daylight and\nthe whole place lay plain before me, I ran pell-mell, and did not stop\ntill I reached the door.\n\nThe place was utterly empty. Unmade beds, unwashed dishes, a hearth\nstrewn with the ashes of peat, and dust thick on everything, proclaimed\nthe absence of inmates. I began to be horribly frightened. Had the\nshepherd and his sister, also, disappeared? Was I left alone in this\nbleak place, with a dozen lonely miles between me and human dwellings? I\ncould not return alone; better this horrible place than the unknown\nperils of the out-of-doors. Hastily I barricaded the door, and to the\nbest of my power shuttered the windows; and then with dreary forebodings\nI sat down to wait on fortune.\n\nIn a little I heard a long swinging step outside and the sound of dogs.\nJoyfully I opened the latch, and there was the shepherd's grim face\nwaiting stolidly on what might appear.\n\nAt the sight of me he stepped back. \"What in the Lord's name are ye\ndaein' here?\" he asked. \"Didna ye get enough afor?\"\n\n\"Come in,\" I said, sharply. \"I want to talk.\"\n\nIn he came with those blessed dogs,--what a comfort it was to look on\ntheir great honest faces! He sat down on the untidy bed and waited.\n\n\"I came because I could not stay away. I saw too much to give me any\npeace elsewhere. I must go back, even though I risk my life for it. The\ncause of scholarship demands it as well as the cause of humanity.\"\n\n\"Is that a' the news ye hae?\" he said. \"Weel, I've mair to tell ye.\nThree weeks syne my sister Margit was lost, and I've never seen her\nmair.\"\n\nMy jaw fell, and I could only stare at him.\n\n\"I cam hame from the hill at nightfa' and she was gone. I lookit for her\nup hill and doun, but I couldna find her. Syne I think I went daft. I\nwent to the Scarts and huntit them up and doun, but no sign could I see.\nThe Folk can bide quiet enough when they want. Syne I went to Allermuir\nand drank mysel' blind,--me, that's a God-fearing man and a saved soul;\nbut the Lord help me, I didna ken what I was at. That's my news, and day\nand night I wander thae hills, seekin' for what I canna find.\"\n\n\"But, man, are you mad?\" I cried. \"Surely there are neighbours to help\nyou. There is a law in the land, and you had only to find the nearest\npolice-office and compel them to assist you.\"\n\n\"What guid can man dae?\" he asked. \"An army o' sodgers couldna find that\nhidy-hole. Forby, when I went into Allermuir wi' my story the folk\nthocht me daft. It was that set me drinking, for--the Lord forgive\nme!--I wasna my ain maister. I threepit till I was hairse, but the\nbodies just lauch'd.\" And he lay back on the bed like a man mortally\ntired.\n\nGrim though the tidings were, I can only say that my chief feeling was\nof comfort. Pity for the new tragedy had swallowed up my fear. I had now\na purpose, and a purpose, too, not of curiosity but of mercy.\n\n\"I go to-morrow morning to the Muneraw. But first I want to give you\nsomething to do.\" And I drew roughly a chart of the place on the back of\na letter. \"Go into Allermuir to-morrow, and give this paper to the\nlandlord at the inn. The letter will tell him what to do. He is to raise\nat once all the men he can get, and come to the place on the chart\nmarked with a cross. Tell him life depends on his hurry.\"\n\nThe shepherd nodded. \"D'ye ken the Folk are watching for you? They let\nme pass without trouble, for they've nae use for me, but I see fine\nthey're seeking you. Ye'll no gang half a mile the morn afore they grip\nye.\"\n\n\"So much the better,\" I said. \"That will take me quicker to the place I\nwant to be at.\"\n\n\"And I'm to gang to Allermuir the morn,\" he repeated, with the air of a\nchild conning a lesson. \"But what if they'll no believe me?\"\n\n\"They'll believe the letter.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" he said, and relapsed into a doze.\n\nI set myself to put that house in order, to rouse the fire, and prepare\nsome food. It was dismal work; and meantime outside the night darkened,\nand a great wind rose, which howled round the walls and lashed the rain\non the windows.\n\n\nVII: IN TUAS MANUS, DOMINE!\n\nI had not gone twenty yards from the cottage door ere I knew I was\nwatched. I had left the shepherd still dozing, in the half-conscious\nstate of a dazed and broken man. All night the wind had wakened me at\nintervals, and now in the half-light of morn the weather seemed more\nvicious than ever. The wind cut my ears, the whole firmament was full of\nthe rendings and thunders of the storm. Rain fell in blinding sheets,\nthe heath was a marsh, and it was the most I could do to struggle\nagainst the hurricane which stopped my breath. And all the while I knew\nI was not alone in the desert.\n\nAll men know--in imagination or in experience--the sensation of being\nspied on. The nerves tingle, the skin grows hot and prickly, and there\nis a queer sinking of the heart. Intensify this common feeling a\nhundredfold, and you get a tenth part of what I suffered. I am telling a\nplain tale, and record bare physical facts. My lips stood out from my\nteeth as I heard, or felt, a rustle in the heather, a scraping among\nstones. Some subtle magnetic link seemed established between my body and\nthe mysterious world around. I became sick--acutely sick--with the\nceaseless apprehension.\n\nMy fright became so complete that when I turned a corner of rock, or\nstepped in deep heather, I seemed to feel a body rub against mine. This\ncontinued all the way up the Farawa water, and then up its feeder to the\nlittle lonely loch. It kept me from looking forward; but it likewise\nkept me in such a sweat of fright that I was ready to faint. Then the\nmotion came upon me to test this fancy of mine. If I was tracked thus\nclosely, clearly the trackers would bar my way if I turned back. So I\nwheeled round and walked a dozen paces down the glen.\n\nNothing stopped me. I was about to turn again, when something made me\ntake six more paces. At the fourth something rustled in the heather, and\nmy neck was gripped as in a vice. I had already made up my mind on what\nI would do. I would be perfectly still, I would conquer my fear, and let\nthem do as they pleased with me so long as they took me to their\ndwelling. But at the touch of the hands my resolutions fled. I struggled\nand screamed. Then something was clapped on my mouth, speech and\nstrength went from me, and once more I was back in the maudlin childhood\nof terror.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nIn the cave it was always a dusky twilight. I seemed to be lying in the\nsame place, with the same dull glare of firelight far off, and the same\nclose stupefying smell. One of the creatures was standing silently at my\nside, and I asked him some trivial question. He turned and shambled down\nthe passage, leaving me alone.\n\nThen he returned with another, and they talked their guttural talk to\nme. I scarcely listened till I remembered that in a sense I was here of\nmy own accord, and on a definite mission. The purport of their speech\nseemed to be that, now I had returned, I must beware of a second flight.\nOnce I had been spared; a second time I should be killed without mercy.\n\nI assented gladly. The Folk then, had some use for me. I felt my errand\nprospering.\n\nThen the old creature which I had seen before crept out of some corner\nand squatted beside me. He put a claw on my shoulder, a horrible,\ncorrugated, skeleton thing, hairy to the finger-tips and nailless. He\ngrinned, too, with toothless gums, and his hideous old voice was like a\nfile on sandstone.\n\nI asked questions, but he would only grin and jabber, looking now and\nthen furtively over his shoulder towards the fire.\n\nI coaxed and humoured him, till he launched into a narrative of which I\ncould make nothing. It seemed a mere string of names, with certain words\nrepeated at fixed intervals. Then it flashed on me that this might be a\nreligious incantation. I had discovered remnants of a ritual and a\nmythology among them. It was possible that these were sacred days, and\nthat I had stumbled upon some rude celebration.\n\nI caught a word or two and repeated them. He looked at me curiously.\nThen I asked him some leading question, and he replied with clearness.\nMy guess was right. The midsummer week was the holy season of the year,\nwhen sacrifices were offered to the gods.\n\nThe notion of sacrifices disquieted me, and I would fain have asked\nfurther. But the creature would speak no more. He hobbled off, and left\nme alone in the rock-chamber to listen to a strange sound which hung\nceaselessly about me. It must be the storm without, like a park of\nartillery rattling among the crags. A storm of storms surely, for the\nplace echoed and hummed, and to my unquiet eye the very rock of the roof\nseemed to shake!\n\nApparently my existence was forgotten, for I lay long before any one\nreturned. Then it was merely one who brought food, the same strange meal\nas before, and left hastily. When I had eaten I rose and stretched\nmyself. My hands and knees still quivered nervously; but I was strong\nand perfectly well in body. The empty, desolate, tomb-like place was\neerie enough to scare any one; but its emptiness was comfort when I\nthought of its inmates. Then I wandered down the passage towards the\nfire which was burning in loneliness. Where had the Folk gone? I\npuzzled over their disappearance.\n\nSuddenly sounds began to break on my ear, coming from some inner chamber\nat the end of that in which the fire burned. I could scarcely see for\nthe smoke; but I began to make my way towards the noise, feeling along\nthe sides of rock. Then a second gleam of light seemed to rise before\nme, and I came to an aperture in the wall which gave entrance to another\nroom.\n\nThis in turn was full of smoke and glow--a murky orange glow, as if from\nsome strange flame of roots. There were the squat moving figures,\nrunning in wild antics round the fire. I crouched in the entrance,\nterrified and yet curious, till I saw something beyond the blaze which\nheld me dumb. Apart from the others and tied to some stake in the wall\nwas a woman's figure, and the face was the face of the shepherd's\nsister.\n\nMy first impulse was flight. I must get away and think,--plan, achieve\nsome desperate way of escape. I sped back to the silent chamber as if\nthe gang were at my heels. It was still empty, and I stood helplessly in\nthe centre, looking at the impassable walls of rock as a wearied beast\nmay look at the walls of its cage. I bethought me of the way I had\nescaped before and rushed thither, only to find it blocked by a huge\ncontrivance of stone. Yards and yards of solid rock were between me and\nthe upper air, and yet through it all came the crash and whistle of the\nstorm. If I were at my wits' end in this inner darkness, there was also\nhigh commotion among the powers of the air in that upper world.\n\nAs I stood I heard the soft steps of my tormentors. They seemed to think\nI was meditating escape, for they flung themselves on me and bore me to\nthe ground. I did not struggle, and when they saw me quiet, they\nsquatted round and began to speak. They told me of the holy season and\nits sacrifices. At first I could not follow them; then when I caught\nfamiliar words I found some clue, and they became intelligible. They\nspoke of a woman, and I asked, \"What woman?\" With all frankness they\ntold me of the custom which prevailed--how every twentieth summer a\nwoman was sacrificed to some devilish god, and by the hand of one of the\nstranger race. I said nothing, but my whitening face must have told them\na tale, though I strove hard to keep my composure. I asked if they had\nfound the victims. \"She is in this place,\" they said; \"and as for the\nman, thou art he.\" And with this they left me.\n\nI had still some hours; so much I gathered from their talk, for the\nsacrifice was at sunset. Escape was cut off for ever. I have always been\nsomething of a fatalist, and at the prospect of the irrevocable end my\ncheerfulness returned. I had my pistol, for they had taken nothing from\nme. I took out the little weapon and fingered it lovingly. Hope of the\nlost, refuge of the vanquished, ease to the coward,--blessed be he who\nfirst conceived it!\n\nThe time dragged on, the minutes grew to hours, and still I was left\nsolitary. Only the mad violence of the storm broke the quiet. It had\nincreased in fury, for the stones at the mouth of the exit by which I\nhad formerly escaped seemed to rock with some external pressure, and\ncutting shafts of wind slipped past and cleft the heat of the passage.\nWhat a sight the ravine outside must be, I thought, set in the forehead\nof a great hill, and swept clean by every breeze! Then came a crashing,\nand the long hollow echo of a fall. The rocks are splitting, said I; the\nroad down the corrie will be impassable now and for evermore.\n\nI began to grow weak with the nervousness of the waiting, and by-and-by\nI lay down and fell into a sort of doze. When I next knew consciousness\nI was being roused by two of the Folk, and bidden get ready. I stumbled\nto my feet, felt for the pistol in the hollow of my sleeve, and prepared\nto follow.\n\nWhen we came out into the wider chamber the noise of the storm was\ndeafening. The roof rang like a shield which has been struck. I noticed,\nperturbed as I was, that my guards cast anxious eyes around them,\nalarmed, like myself, at the murderous din. Nor was the world quieter\nwhen we entered the last chamber, where the fire burned and the remnant\nof the Folk waited. Wind had found an entrance from somewhere or other,\nand the flames blew here and there, and the smoke gyrated in odd\ncircles. At the back, and apart from the rest, I saw the dazed eyes and\nthe white old drawn face of the woman.\n\nThey led me up beside her to a place where there was a rude flat stone,\nhollowed in the centre, and on it a rusty iron knife, which seemed once\nto have formed part of a scythe-blade. Then I saw the ceremonial which\nwas marked out for me. It was the very rite which I had dimly figured as\ncurrent among a rude people, and even in that moment of horror I had\nsomething of the scholar's satisfaction.\n\nThe oldest of the Folk, who seemed to be a sort of priest, came to my\nside and mumbled a form of words. His fetid breath sickened me; his dull\neyes, glassy like a brute's with age, brought my knees together. He put\nthe knife in my hands, dragged the terror-stricken woman forward to the\naltar, and bade me begin.\n\nI began by sawing her bonds through. When she felt herself free she\nwould have fled back, but stopped when I bade her. At that moment there\ncame a noise of rending and crashing as if the hills were falling, and\nfor one second the eyes of the Folk were averted from the frustrated\nsacrifice.\n\nOnly for a moment. The next they saw what I had done, and with one\nimpulse rushed towards me. Then began the last scene in the play. I sent\na bullet through the right eye of the first thing that came on. The\nsecond shot went wide; but the third shattered the hand of an elderly\nruffian with a club. Never for an instant did they stop, and now they\nwere clutching at me. I pushed the woman behind, and fired three rapid\nshots in blind panic, and then, clutching the scythe, I struck right and\nleft like a madman.\n\nSuddenly I saw the foreground sink before my eyes. The roof sloped down,\nand with a sickening hiss a mountain of rock and earth seemed to\nprecipitate itself on the foremost of my assailants. One, nipped in the\nmiddle by a rock, caught my eye by his hideous writhings. Two only\nremained in what was now a little suffocating chamber, with embers from\nthe fire still smoking on the floor.\n\nThe woman caught me by the hand and drew me with her, while the two\nseemed mute with fear. \"There's a road at the back,\" she screamed. \"I\nken it. I fand it out.\" And she pulled me up a narrow hole in the rock.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nHow long we climbed I do not know. We were both fighting for air, with\nthe tightness of throat and chest, and the craziness of limb which mean\nsuffocation. I cannot tell when we first came to the surface, but I\nremember the woman, who seemed to have the strength of extreme terror,\npulling me from the edge of a crevasse and laying me on a flat rock. It\nseemed to be the depth of winter, with sheer-falling rain and a wind\nthat shook the hills.\n\nThen I was once more myself and could look about me. From my feet yawned\na sheer abyss, where once had been a hill-shoulder. Some great mass of\nrock on the brow of the mountain had been loosened by the storm, and in\nits fall had caught the lips of the ravine and blocked the upper outlet\nfrom the nest of dwellings. For a moment, I feared that all had been\ndestroyed.\n\nMy feeling--Heaven help me!--was not thankfulness for God's mercy and my\nescape, but a bitter mad regret. I rushed frantically to the edge, and\nwhen I saw only the blackness of darkness I wept weak tears. All the\ntime the storm was tearing at my body, and I had to grip hard by hand\nand foot to keep my place.\n\nSuddenly on the brink of the ravine I saw a third figure. We two were\nnot the only fugitives. One of the Folk had escaped.\n\nI ran to it, and to my surprise the thing as soon as it saw me rushed to\nmeet me. At first I thought it was with some instinct of\nself-preservation, but when I saw its eyes I knew the purpose of fight.\nClearly one or other should go no more from the place.\n\nWe were some ten yards from the brink when I grappled with it. Dimly I\nheard the woman scream with fright, and saw her scramble across the\nhillside. Then we were tugging in a death-throe, the hideous smell of\nthe thing in my face, its red eyes burning into mine, and its hoarse\nvoice muttering. Its strength seemed incredible; but I, too, am no\nweakling. We tugged and strained, its nails biting into my flesh, while\nI choked its throat unsparingly. Every second I dreaded lest we should\nplunge together over the ledge, for it was thither my adversary tried to\ndraw me. I caught my heel in a nick of rock, and pulled madly against\nit.\n\nAnd then, while I was beginning to glory with the pride of conquest, my\nhope was dashed in pieces. The thing seemed to break from my arms, and,\nas if in despair, cast itself headlong into the impenetrable darkness. I\nstumbled blindly after it, saved myself on the brink, and fell back,\nsick and ill, into a merciful swoon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\n\nVIII: NOTE IN CONCLUSION BY THE EDITOR\n\nAt this point the narrative of my unfortunate friend, Mr Graves of St\nChad's, breaks off abruptly. He wrote it shortly before his death, and\nwas prevented from completing it by the attack of heart failure which\ncarried him off. In accordance with the instructions in his will, I have\nprepared it for publication, and now in much fear and hesitation, give\nit to the world. First, however, I must supplement it by such facts as\nfall within my knowledge.\n\nThe shepherd seems to have gone to Allermuir and by the help of the\nletter convinced the inhabitants. A body of men was collected under the\nlandlord, and during the afternoon set out for the hills. But\nunfortunately the great midsummer storm--the most terrible of recent\nclimatic disturbances--had filled the mosses and streams, and they found\nthemselves unable to proceed by any direct road. Ultimately late in the\nevening they arrived at the cottage of Farawa, only to find there a\nraving woman, the shepherd's sister, who seemed crazy with brain-fever.\nShe told some rambling story about her escape, but her narrative said\nnothing of Mr Graves. So they treated her with what skill they\npossessed, and sheltered for the night in and around the cottage. The\nnext morning the storm had abated a little, and the woman had recovered\nsomething of her wits. From her they learned that Mr Graves was lying in\na ravine on the side of the Muneraw in imminent danger of his life. A\nbody set out to find him; but so immense was the landslip, and so\ndangerous the whole mountain, that it was nearly evening when they\nrecovered him from the ledge of rock. He was alive, but unconscious, and\non bringing him back to the cottage it was clear that he was, indeed,\nvery ill. There he lay for three months, while the best skill that could\nbe got was procured for him. By dint of an uncommon toughness of\nconstitution he survived; but it was an old and feeble man who returned\nto Oxford in the early winter.\n\nThe shepherd and his sister immediately left the countryside, and were\nnever more heard of, unless they are the pair of unfortunates who are at\npresent in a Scottish pauper asylum, incapable of remembering even their\nnames. The people who last spoke with them declared that their minds\nseemed weakened by a great shock, and that it was hopeless to try to get\nany connected or rational statement.\n\nThe career of my poor friend from that hour was little short of a\ntragedy. He awoke from his illness to find the world incredulous; even\nthe country-folk of Allermuir set down the story to the shepherd's\ncraziness and my friend's credulity. In Oxford, his argument was\nreceived with polite scorn. An account of his experiences which he drew\nup for the 'Times' was refused by the editor; and an article on\n\"Primitive Peoples of the North,\" embodying what he believed to be the\nresult of his discoveries, was unanimously rejected by every responsible\njournal in Europe. At first, he bore the treatment bravely. Reflection\nconvinced him that the colony had not been destroyed. Proofs were still\nawaiting his hand, and with courage and caution he might yet triumph\nover his enemies. But unfortunately, though the ardour of the scholar\nburned more fiercely than ever and all fear seemed to have been purged\nfrom his soul, the last adventure had grievously sapped his bodily\nstrength. In the spring following his accident he made an effort to\nreach the spot--alone, for no one could be persuaded to follow him in\nwhat was regarded as a childish madness. He slept at the now deserted\ncottage of Farawa, but in the morning found himself unable to continue,\nand with difficulty struggled back to the shepherd's cottage at\nAllercleuch, where he was confined to bed for a fortnight. Then it\nbecame necessary for him to seek health abroad, and it was not till the\nfollowing autumn that he attempted the journey again. He fell sick a\nsecond time at the inn of Allermuir, and during his convalescence had\nhimself carried to a knoll in the inn garden, whence a glimpse can be\nobtained of the shoulder of the Muneraw. There he would sit for hours\nwith his eyes fixed on the horizon, and at times he would be found\nweeping with weakness and vexation. The last attempt was made but two\nmonths before his last illness. On this occasion he got no farther than\nCarlisle, where he was taken ill with what proved to be a premonition of\ndeath. After that he shut his lips tightly, as though recognising the\nfutility of his hopes. Whether he had been soured by the treatment he\nreceived, or whether his brain had already been weakened, he had become\na morose silent man, and for the two years before his death had few\nfriends and no society. From the obituary notice in the 'Times' I take\nthe following paragraph, which shows in what light the world had come to\nlook upon him:--\n\n\"At the outset of his career he was regarded as a rising scholar in one\ndepartment of arch\u00e6ology, and his Taffert lectures were a real\ncontribution to an obscure subject. But in afterlife he was led into\nfantastic speculations; and when he found himself unable to convince his\ncolleagues, he gradually retired into himself, and lived practically a\nhermit's life till his death. His career, thus broken short, is a sad\ninstance of the fascination which the recondite and the quack can\nexercise even over men of approved ability.\"\n\nAnd now his own narrative is published, and the world can judge as it\npleases about the amazing romance. The view which will doubtless find\ngeneral acceptance is that the whole is a figment of the brain, begotten\nof some harmless moorland adventure and the company of such religious\nmaniacs as the shepherd and his sister. But some who knew the former\nsobriety and calmness of my friend's mind may be disposed timorously and\nwith deep hesitation to another verdict. They may accept the narrative,\nand believe that somewhere in those moorlands he met with a horrible\nprimitive survival, passed through the strangest adventure, and had his\nfingers on an epoch-making discovery. In this case they will be inclined\nto sympathise with the loneliness and misunderstanding of his latter\ndays. It is not for me to decide the question. Though a\nfellow-historian, the Picts are outside my period, and I dare not\nadvance an opinion on a matter with which I am not fully familiar. But I\nwould point out that the means of settling the question are still\nextant, and I would call upon some young arch\u00e6ologist, with a reputation\nto make, to seize upon the chance of the century. Most of the expresses\nfor the North stop at Allerfoot; a ten-miles' drive will bring him to\nAllermuir; and then with a fifteen-miles' walk he is at Farawa and on\nthe threshold of discovery. Let him follow the burn and cross the ridge\nand ascend the Scarts of the Muneraw, and, if he return at all, it may\nbe with a more charitable judgment of my unfortunate friend.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] The narrative of Mr. Graves was written in the year 1898.\n\n[2] In the light of subsequent events I have jotted down the materials\nto which I refer. The last authentic record of the Brownie is in the\nnarrative of the shepherd of Clachlands, taken down towards the close of\nlast century by the Reverend Mr. Gillespie, minister of Allerkirk, and\nincluded by him in his 'Songs and Legends of Glen Aller.' The\nauthorities on the strange carrying-away of children are to be found in\na series of articles in a local paper, the 'Allerfoot Advertiser,'\nSeptember and October 1878, and a curious book published anonymously at\nEdinburgh in 1848, entitled 'The Weathergaw.' The records of the\nunexplained murders in the same neighbourhood are all contained in Mr.\nFordoun's 'Theory of Expert Evidence,' and an attack on the book in the\n'Law Review' for June 1881. The Carrickfey case has a pamphlet to\nitself--now extremely rare--a copy of which was recently obtained in a\nbookseller's shop in Dumfries by a well-known antiquary, and presented\nto the library of the Supreme Court in Edinburgh.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nTHE FAR ISLANDS\n\n\n     \"Lady Alice, Lady Louise,\n     Between the wash of the tumbling seas----\"\n\n\nI\n\nWhen Bran the Blessed, as the story goes, followed the white bird on the\nLast Questing, knowing that return was not for him, he gave gifts to his\nfollowers. To Heliodorus he gave the gift of winning speech, and\nstraightway the man went south to the Italian seas, and, becoming a\nscholar, left many descendants who sat in the high places of the Church.\nTo Raymond he gave his steel battle-axe, and bade him go out to the\nwarrior's path and hew his way to a throne; which the man forthwith\naccomplished, and became an ancestor in the fourth degree of the first\nking of Scots. But to Colin, the youngest and the dearest, he gave no\ngift, whispering only a word in his ear and lying a finger on his\neyelids. Yet Colin was satisfied, and he alone of the three, after\ntheir master's going, remained on that coast of rock and heather.\n\nIn the third generation from Colin, as our elders counted years, came\none Colin the Red, who built his keep on the cliffs of Acharra and was a\nmighty sea-rover in his day. Five times he sailed to the rich parts of\nFrance, and a good score of times he carried his flag of three stars\nagainst the easterly vikings. A mere name in story, but a sounding piece\nof nomenclature well garnished with tales. A master-mind by all\naccounts, but cursed with a habit of fantasy; for hearing in his old age\nof a land to the westward, he forthwith sailed into the sunset, and\nthree days later was washed up, a twisted body, on one of the outer\nisles.\n\nSo far it is but legend, but with his grandson, Colin the Red, we fall\ninto the safer hands of the chroniclers. To him God gave the unnumbered\nsorrows of story-telling, for he was a bard, cursed with a bard's\nfervours, and none the less a mighty warrior among his own folk. He it\nwas who wrote the lament called 'The White Waters of Usna,' and the\nexquisite chain of romances, 'Glede-red Gold and Grey Silver.' His tales\nwere told by many fires, down to our grandfathers' time, and you will\nfind them still pounded at by the folk-lorists. But his airs--they are\neternal. On harp and pipe they have lived through the centuries; twisted\nand tortured, they survive in many song-books; and I declare that the\nother day I heard the most beautiful of them all murdered by a band at a\nGerman watering-place. This Colin led the wanderer's life, for he\ndisappeared at middle-age, no one knew whither, and his return was long\nlooked for by his people. Some thought that he became a Christian monk,\nthe holy man living in the sea-girt isle of Cuna, who was found dead in\nextreme old age, kneeling on the beach, with his arms, contrary to the\nfashion of the Church, stretched to the westward.\n\nAs history narrowed into bonds and forms the descendants of Colin took\nRaden for their surname, and settled more firmly on their lands in the\nlong peninsula of crag and inlets which runs west to the Atlantic. Under\nDonald of the Isles they harried the Kings of Scots, or, on their own\nauthority, made war on Macleans and Macranalds, till their flag of the\nthree stars, their badge of the grey-goose feather, and their on-cry of\n\"Cuna\" were feared from Lochalsh to Cantire. Later they made a truce\nwith the King, and entered into the royal councils. For years they\nwarded the western coast, and as king's lieutenants smoked out the\ninferior pirates of Eigg and Toronsay. A Raden was made a Lord of Sleat,\nanother was given lands in the low country and the name Baron of\nStrathyre, but their honours were transitory and short as their lives.\nRarely one of the house saw middle age. A bold, handsome, and stirring\nrace, it was their fate to be cut off in the rude warfare of the times,\nor, if peace had them in its clutches, to man vessel and set off once\nmore on those mad western voyages which were the weird of the family.\nThree of the name were found drowned on the far shore of Cuna; more than\none sailed straight out of the ken of mortals. One rode with the Good\nLord James on the pilgrimage of the Heart of Bruce, and died by his\nleader's side in the Saracen battle. Long afterwards a Raden led the\nwestern men against the Cheshire archers at Flodden, and was slain\nhimself in the steel circle around the king.\n\nBut the years brought peace and a greater wealth, and soon the cold\nstone tower was left solitary on the headland, and the new house of\nKinlochuna rose by the green links of the stream. The family changed its\nfaith, and an Episcopal chaplain took the place of the old mass-priest\nin the tutoring of the sons. Radens were in the '15 and the '45. They\nrose with Bute to power, and they long disputed the pride of Dundas in\nthe northern capital. They intermarried with great English houses till\nthe sons of the family were Scots only in name, living much abroad or in\nLondon, many of them English landowners by virtue of a mother's blood.\nSoon the race was of the common over-civilised type, graceful,\nwell-mannered, with abundant good looks, but only once in a generation\nreverting to the rugged northern strength. Eton and Oxford had in turn\ndisplaced the family chaplain, and the house by the windy headland grew\nemptier and emptier save when grouse and deer brought home its fickle\nmasters.\n\n\nII\n\nA childish illness brought Colin to Kinlochuna when he had reached the\nmature age of five, and delicate health kept him there for the greater\npart of the next six years. During the winter he lived in London, but\nfrom the late northern spring, through all the long bright summers, he\nlived in the great tenantless place without company--for he was an only\nchild. A French nurse had the charge of his doings, and when he had\npassed through the formality of lessons there were the long pinewoods at\nhis disposal, the rough moor, the wonderful black holes with the rich\nblack mud in them, and best of all the bay of Acharra, below the\nheadland, with Cuna lying in the waves a mile to the west. At such times\nhis father was busy elsewhere; his mother was dead; the family had few\nnear relatives; so he passed a solitary childhood in the company of\nseagulls and the birds of the moor.\n\nHis time for the beach was the afternoon. On the left as you go down\nthrough the woods from the house there runs out the great headland of\nAcharra, red and grey with mosses, and with a nimbus always of screaming\nseafowl. To the right runs a low beach of sand, passing into rough\nlimestone boulders and then into the heather of the wood. This in turn\nis bounded by a reef of low rocks falling by gentle breaks to the\nwater's edge. It is crowned with a tangle of heath and fern, bright at\nmost seasons with flowers, and dwarf pine-trees straggle on its crest\ntill one sees the meaning of its Gaelic name, \"The Ragged Cock's-Comb.\"\nThis place was Colin's playground in fine weather. When it blew rain or\nsnow from the north he dwelt indoors among dogs and books, puzzling his\nway through great volumes from his father's shelves. But when the mild\nwest-wind weather fell on the sea, then he would lie on the hot\nsand--Am\u00e8lie the nurse reading a novel on the nearest rock--and kick his\nsmall heels as he followed his fancy. He built great sand castles to the\nshape of Acharra old tower, and peopled them with preposterous knights\nand ladies; he drew great moats and rivers for the tide to fill; he\nfought battles innumerable with crackling seaweed, till Am\u00e8lie, with her\nsharp cry of \"Col\u00edn, Col\u00edn,\" would carry him houseward for tea.\n\nTwo fancies remained in his mind through those boyish years. One was\nabout the mysterious shining sea before him. In certain weathers it\nseemed to him a solid pathway. Cuna, the little ragged isle, ceased to\nblock the horizon, and his own white road ran away down into the west,\ntill suddenly it stopped and he saw no farther. He knew he ought to see\nmore, but always at one place, just when his thoughts were pacing the\nwhite road most gallantly, there came a baffling mist to his sight, and\nhe found himself looking at a commonplace sea with Cuna lying very real\nand palpable in the offing. It was a vexatious limitation, for all his\ndreams were about this pathway. One day in June, when the waters slept\nin a deep heat, he came down the sands barefoot, and lo! there was his\npathway. For one moment things seemed clear, the mist had not gathered\non the road, and with a cry he ran down to the tide's edge and waded in.\nThe touch of water dispelled the illusion, and almost in tears he saw\nthe cruel back of Cuna blotting out his own magic way.\n\nThe other fancy was about the low ridge of rocks which bounded the bay\non the right. His walks had never extended beyond it, either on the\nsands or inland, for that way lay a steep hillside and a perilous bog.\nBut often on the sands he had come to its foot and wondered what country\nlay beyond. He made many efforts to explore it, difficult efforts, for\nthe vigilant Am\u00e8lie had first to be avoided. Once he was almost at the\ntop when some seaweed to which he clung gave way, and he rolled back\nagain to the soft warm sand. By-and-by he found that he knew what was\nbeyond. A clear picture had built itself up in his brain of a mile of\nreefs, with sand in bars between them, and beyond all a sea-wood of\nalders slipping from the hill's skirts to the water's edge. This was not\nwhat he wanted in his explorations, so he stopped, till one day it\nstruck him that the westward view might reveal something beyond the\nhogbacked Cuna. One day, pioneering alone, he scaled the steepest\nheights of the sea-weed and pulled his chin over the crest of the ridge.\nThere, sure enough, was his picture--a mile of reefs and the tattered\nsea-wood. He turned eagerly seawards. Cuna still lay humped on the\nwaters, but beyond it he seemed to see his shining pathway running far\nto a speck which might be an island. Crazy with pleasure he stared at\nthe vision, till slowly it melted into the waves, and Cuna the\ninexorable once more blocked the skyline. He climbed down, his heart in\na doubt between despondency and hope.\n\nIt was the last day of such fancies, for on the morrow he had to face\nthe new world of school.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nAt Cecil's Colin found a new life and a thousand new interests. His\nearly delicacy had been driven away by the sea-winds of Acharra, and he\nwas rapidly growing up a tall, strong child, straight of limb like all\nhis house, but sinewy and alert beyond his years. He learned new games\nwith astonishing facility, became a fast bowler with a genius for\ntwists, and a Rugby three-quarters full of pluck and cunning. He soon\nattained to the modified popularity of a private school, and, being\nessentially clean, strong, and healthy, found himself a mark for his\njuniors' worship and a favourite with masters. The homage did not spoil\nhim, for no boy was ever less self-possessed. On the cricket-ground and\nthe football-field he was a leader, but in private he had the nervous,\nsensitive manners of the would-be recluse. No one ever accused him of\n\"side\"--his polite, halting address was the same to junior and senior;\nand the result was that wild affection which simplicity in the great is\nwont to inspire. He spoke with a pure accent, in which lurked no\nnorthern trace; in a little he had forgotten all about his birthplace\nand his origin. His name had at first acquired for him the sobriquet of\n\"Scottie,\" but the title was soon dropped from its manifest inaptness.\n\nIn his second year at Cecil's he caught a prevalent fever, and for days\nlay very near the brink of death. At his worst he was wildly delirious,\ncrying ceaselessly for Acharra and the beach at Kinlochuna. But as he\ngrew convalescent the absorption remained, and for the moment he seemed\nto have forgotten his southern life. He found himself playing on the\nsands, always with the boundary ridge before him, and the hump of Cuna\nrising in the sea. When dragged back to his environment by the inquiries\nof Bellew, his special friend, who came to sit with him, he was so\nabstracted and forgetful that the good Bellew was seriously grieved.\n\"The chap's a bit cracked, you know,\" he announced in hall. \"Didn't know\nme. Asked me what 'footer' meant when I told him about the Bayswick\nmatch, and talked about nothing but a lot of heathen Scotch names.\"\n\nOne dream haunted Colin throughout the days of his recovery. He was\ntormented with a furious thirst, poorly assuaged at long intervals by\nwatered milk. So when he crossed the borders of dreamland his first\nsearch was always for a well. He tried the brushwood inland from the\nbeach, but it was dry as stone. Then he climbed with difficulty the\nboundary ridge, and found little pools of salt water, while far on the\nother side gleamed the dark black bog-holes. Here was not what he\nsought, and he was in deep despair, till suddenly over the sea he caught\na glimpse of his old path running beyond Cuna to a bank of mist. He\nrushed down to the tide's edge, and to his amazement found solid ground.\nNow was the chance for which he had long looked, and he ran happily\nwestwards, till of a sudden the solid earth seemed to sink with him,\nand he was in the waters struggling. But two curious things he noted.\nOne was that the far bank of mist seemed to open for a pin-point of\ntime, and he had a gleam of land. He saw nothing distinctly, only a line\nwhich was not mist and was not water. The second was that the water was\nfresh, and as he was drinking from this curious new fresh sea he awoke.\nThe dream was repeated three times before he left the sick-room. Always\nhe wakened at the same place, always he quenched his thirst in the fresh\nsea, but never again did the mist open for him and show him the strange\ncountry.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nFrom Cecil's he went to the famous school which was the tradition in his\nfamily. The Head spoke to his house-master of his coming. \"We are to\nhave another Raden here,\" he said, \"and I am glad of it, if the young\none turns out to be anything like the others. There's a good deal of\ndry-rot among the boys just now. They are all too old for their years\nand too wise in the wrong way. They haven't anything like the enthusiasm\nin games they had twenty years ago when I first came here. I hope this\nyoung Raden will stir them up.\" The house-master agreed, and when he\nfirst caught sight of Colin's slim, well-knit figure, looked into the\nhandsome kindly eyes, and heard his curiously diffident speech, his\ndoubts vanished. \"We have got the right stuff now,\" he told himself, and\nthe senior for whom the new boy fagged made the same comment.\n\nFrom the anomalous insignificance of fagdom Colin climbed up the School,\nleaving everywhere a record of honest good-nature. He was allowed to\nforget his cricket and football, but in return he was initiated into the\nmysteries of the river. Water had always been his delight, so he went\nthrough the dreary preliminaries of being coached in a tub-pair till he\nlearned to swing steadily and get his arms quickly forward. Then came\nthe stages of scratch fours and scratch eights, till after a long\napprenticeship he was promoted to the dignity of a thwart in the Eight\nitself. In his last year he was Captain of Boats, a position which joins\nthe responsibility of a Cabinet Minister to the rapturous popular\napplause of a successful warrior. Nor was he the least distinguished of\na great band. With Colin at seven the School won the Ladies' after the\nclosest race on record.\n\nThe Head's prophecy fell true, for Colin was a born leader. For all his\ngood-humour and diffidence of speech, he had a trick of shutting his\nteeth which all respected. As captain he was the idol of the school, and\nhe ruled it well and justly. For the rest, he was a curious boy with\nnone of the ordinary young enthusiasms, reserved for all his kindliness.\nAt house \"shouters\" his was not the voice which led the stirring strains\nof \"Stroke out all you know,\" though his position demanded it. He cared\nlittle about work, and the School-house scholar, who fancied him from\nhis manner a devotee of things intellectual, found in Colin but an\naffected interest. He read a certain amount of modern poetry with\nconsiderable boredom; fiction he never opened. The truth was that he had\na romance in his own brain which, willy nilly, would play itself out,\nand which left him small relish for the pale second-hand inanities of\nart. Often, when with others he would lie in the deep meadows by the\nriver on some hot summer's day, his fancies would take a curious colour.\nHe adored the soft English landscape, the lush grasses, the slow\nstreams, the ancient secular trees. But as he looked into the hazy green\ndistance a colder air would blow on his cheek, a pungent smell of salt\nand pines would be for a moment in his nostrils, and he would be gazing\nat a line of waves on a beach, a ridge of low rocks, and a shining\nsea-path running out to--ah, that he could not tell! The envious Cuna\nwould suddenly block all the vistas. He had constantly the vision before\nhis eyes, and he strove to strain into the distance before Cuna should\nintervene. Once or twice he seemed almost to achieve it. He found that\nby keeping on the top of the low rock-ridge he could cheat Cuna by a\nsecond or two, and get a glimpse of a misty something out in the west.\nThe vision took odd times for recurring,--once or twice in lecture, once\non the cricket-ground, many times in the fields of a Sunday, and once\nwhile he paddled down to the start in a Trials race. It gave him a keen\npleasure: it was his private domain, where at any moment he might make\nsome enchanting discovery.\n\nAt this time he began to spend his vacations at Kinlochuna. His father,\nan elderly ex-diplomat, had permanently taken up his abode there, and\nwas rapidly settling into the easy life of the Scots laird. Colin\nreturned to his native place without enthusiasm. His childhood there had\nbeen full of lonely hours, and he had come to like the warm south\ncountry. He found the house full of people, for his father entertained\nhugely, and the talk was of sport and sport alone. As a rule, your very\ngreat athlete is bored by Scots shooting. Long hours of tramping and\ncrouching among heather cramp without fully exercising the body; and\nunless he has the love of the thing ingrained in him, the odds are that\nhe will wish himself home. The father, in his new-found admiration for\nhis lot, was content to face all weathers; the son found it an effort to\nkeep pace with such vigour. He thought upon the sunlit fields and reedy\nwatercourses with regret, and saw little in the hills but a rough waste\nscarred with rock and sour with mosses.\n\nHe read widely throughout these days, for his father had a taste for\nmodern letters, and new books lay littered about the rooms. He read\nqueer Celtic tales which he thought \"sickening rot,\" and mild Celtic\npoetry which he failed to understand. Among the guests was a noted\nmanufacturer of fiction, whom the elder Raden had met somewhere and\nbidden to Kinlochuna. He had heard the tale of Colin's ancestors and the\nsea headland of Acharra, and one day he asked the boy to show him the\nplace, as he wished to make a story of it. Colin assented unwillingly,\nfor he had been slow to visit this place of memories, and he did not\ncare to make his first experiment in such company. But the gentleman\nwould not be gainsaid, so the two scrambled through the sea-wood and\nclimbed the low ridge which looked over the bay. The weather was mist\nand drizzle; Cuna had wholly hidden herself, and the bluff Acharra\nloomed hazy and far. Colin was oddly disappointed: this reality was a\npoor place compared with his fancies. His companion stroked his peaked\nbeard, talked nonsense about Colin the Red and rhetoric about \"the\nspirit of the misty grey weather having entered into the old tale.\"\n\"Think,\" he cried; \"to those old warriors beyond that bank of mist was\nthe whole desire of life, the Golden City, the Far Islands, whatever you\ncare to call it.\" Colin shivered, as if his holy places had been\nprofaned, set down the man in his mind most unjustly as an \"awful little\ncad,\" and hurried him back to the house.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nOxford received the boy with open arms, for his reputation had long\npreceded him. To the majority of men he was the one freshman of his\nyear, and gossip was busy with his prospects. Nor was gossip\ndisappointed. In his first year he rowed seven in the Eight. The next\nyear he was captain of his college boats, and a year later the O.U.B.C.\nmade him its president. For three years he rowed in the winning Eight,\nand old coaches agreed that in him the perfect seven had been found. It\nwas he who in the famous race of 18-- caught up in the last three\nhundred yards the quickened stroke which gave Oxford victory. As he grew\nto his full strength he became a splendid figure of a man--tall, supple,\ndeep-chested for all his elegance. His quick dark eyes and his kindly\nhesitating manners made people think his face extraordinarily handsome,\nwhen really it was in no way above the common. But his whole figure, as\nhe stood in his shorts and sweater on the raft at Putney, was so full of\nyouth and strength that people involuntarily smiled when they saw him--a\nsmile of pleasure in so proper a piece of manhood.\n\nColin enjoyed life hugely at Oxford, for to one so frank and well\nequipped the place gave of its best. He was the most distinguished\npersonage of his day there, but, save to school friends and the men he\nmet officially on the river, he was little known. His diffidence and his\nvery real exclusiveness kept him from being the centre of a host of\nfriends. His own countrymen in the place were utterly nonplussed by him.\nThey claimed him eagerly as a fellow, but he had none of the ordinary\ncharacteristics of the race. There were Scots of every description\naround him--pale-faced Scots who worked incessantly, metaphysical Scots\nwho talked in the Union, robustious Scots who played football. They were\nall men of hearty manners and many enthusiasms,--who quoted Burns and\ndined to the immortal bard's honour every 25th of January; who told\ninterminable Scotch stories, and fell into fervours over national\nsports, dishes, drinks, and religions. To the poor Colin it was all\ninexplicable. At the remote house of Kinlochuna he had never heard of a\nFree Kirk or a haggis. He had never read a line of Burns, Scott bored\nhim exceedingly, and in all honesty he thought Scots games inferior to\nsouthern sports. He had no great love for the bleak country, he cared\nnothing for the traditions of his house, so he was promptly set down by\nhis compatriots as \"denationalised and degenerate.\"\n\nHe was idle, too, during these years as far as his \"schools\" were\nconcerned, but he was always very intent upon his own private business.\nWhenever he sat down to read, when he sprawled on the grass at river\npicnics, in chapel, in lecture--in short, at any moment when his body\nwas at rest and his mind at leisure--his fancies were off on the same\nold path. Things had changed, however, in that country. The boyish\ndevice of a hard road running over the waters had gone, and now it was\ninvariably a boat which he saw beached on the shingle. It differed in\nshape. At first it was an ugly salmon-coble, such as the fishermen used\nfor the nets at Kinlochuna. Then it passed, by rapid transitions,\nthrough a canvas skiff which it took good watermanship to sit, a whiff,\nan ordinary dinghey, till at last it settled itself into a long rough\nboat, pointed at both ends, with oar-holes in the sides instead of\nrow-locks. It was the devil's own business to launch it, and launch it\nanew he was compelled to for every journey; for though he left it bound\nin a little rock hollow below the ridge after landing, yet when he\nreturned, lo! there was the clumsy thing high and dry upon the beach.\n\nThe odd point about the new venture was that Cuna had ceased to trouble\nhim. As soon as he had pulled his first stroke the island disappeared,\nand nothing lay before him but the sea-fog. Yet, try as he might, he\ncould come little nearer. The shores behind him might sink and lessen,\nbut the impenetrable mist was still miles to the westward. Sometimes he\nrowed so far that the shore was a thin line upon the horizon, but when\nhe turned the boat it seemed to ground in a second on the beach. The\nlong laboured journey out and the instantaneous return puzzled him at\nfirst, but soon he became used to them. His one grief was the mist,\nwhich seemed to grow denser as he neared it. The sudden glimpse of land\nwhich he had got from the ridge of rock in the old boyish days was now\ndenied him, and with the denial came a keener exultation in the quest.\nSomewhere in the west, he knew, must be land, and in this land a well of\nsweet water--for so he had interpreted his feverish dream. Sometimes,\nwhen the wind blew against him, he caught scents from it--generally the\nscent of pines, as on the little ridge on the shore behind him.\n\nOne day on his college barge, while he was waiting for a picnic party to\nstart, he seemed to get nearer than before. Out on that western sea, as\nhe saw it, it was fresh, blowing weather, with a clear hot sky above. It\nwas hard work rowing, for the wind was against him, and the sun scorched\nhis forehead. The air seemed full of scents--and sounds, too, sounds of\nfar-away surf and wind in trees. He rested for a moment on his oars and\nturned his head. His heart beat quickly, for there was a rift in the\nmist, and far through a line of sand ringed with snow-white foam.\n\nSomebody shook him roughly,--\"Come on, Colin, old man. They're all\nwaiting for you. Do you know you've been half asleep?\"\n\nColin rose and followed silently, with drowsy eyes. His mind was\ncuriously excited. He had looked inside the veil of mist. Now he knew\nwhat was the land he sought.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nHe made the voyage often, now that the spell was broken. It was short\nwork to launch the boat, and, whereas it had been a long pull formerly,\nnow it needed only a few strokes to bring him to the Rim of the Mist.\nThere was no chance of getting farther, and he scarcely tried. He was\ncontent to rest there, in a world of curious scents and sounds, till the\nmist drew down and he was driven back to shore.\n\nThe change in his environment troubled him little. For a man who has\nbeen an idol at the University to fall suddenly into the comparative\ninsignificance of Town is often a bitter experience; but Colin, whose\nthoughts were not ambitious, scarcely noticed it. He found that he was\nless his own master than before, but he humbled himself to his new\nduties without complaint. Many of his old friends were about him; he had\nplenty of acquaintances; and, being \"sufficient unto himself,\" he was\nunaccustomed to ennui. Invitations showered upon him thick and fast.\nMatch-making mothers, knowing his birth and his father's income, and\nreflecting that he was the only child of his house, desired him as a\nson-in-law. He was bidden welcome everywhere, and the young girls, for\nwhose sake he was thus courted, found in him an attractive mystery. The\ntall good-looking athlete, with the kind eyes and the preposterously\nnervous manner, wakened their maidenly sympathies. As they danced with\nhim or sat next to him at dinner, they talked fervently of Oxford, of\nthe north, of the army, of his friends. \"Stupid, but nice, my dear,\" was\nLady Afflint's comment; and Miss Clara Etheridge, the beauty of the\nyear, declared to her friends that he was a \"dear boy, but so awkward.\"\nHe was always forgetful, and ever apologetic; and when he forgot the\nShandwicks' theatre-party, the Herapaths' dance, and at least a dozen\nminor matters, he began to acquire the reputation of a cynic and a\nrecluse.\n\n\"You're a queer chap, Col,\" Lieutenant Bellew said in expostulation.\n\nColin shrugged his shoulders; he was used to the description.\n\n\"Do you know that Clara Etheridge was trying all she knew to please you\nthis afternoon, and you looked as if you weren't listening? Most men\nwould have given their ears to be in your place.\"\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, but I thought I was very polite to her.\"\n\n\"And why weren't you at the Marshams' show?\"\n\n\"Oh, I went to polo with Collinson and another man. And, I say, old\nchap, I'm not coming to the Logans to-morrow. I've got a fence on with\nAdair at the school.\"\n\nLittle Bellew, who was a tremendous mirror of fashion and chevalier in\ngeneral, looked up curiously at his tall friend.\n\n\"Why don't you like the women, Col, when they're so fond of you?\"\n\n\"They aren't,\" said Colin hotly, \"and I don't dislike 'em. But, Lord!\nthey bore me. I might be doing twenty things when I talk nonsense to one\nof 'em for an hour. I come back as stupid as an owl, and besides there's\nheaps of things better sport.\"\n\nThe truth was that, while among men he was a leader and at his ease,\namong women his psychic balance was so oddly upset that he grew nervous\nand returned unhappy. The boat on the beach, ready in general to appear\nat the slightest call, would delay long after such experiences, and its\nplace would be taken by some woman's face for which he cared not a\nstraw. For the boat, on the other hand, he cared a very great deal. In\nall his frank wholesome existence there was this enchanting background,\nthis pleasure-garden which he cherished more than anything in life. He\nhad come of late to look at it with somewhat different eyes. The eager\ndesire to search behind the mist was ever with him, but now he had also\nsome curiosity about the details of the picture. As he pulled out to the\nRim of the Mist sounds seemed to shape themselves on his lips, which\nby-and-by grew into actual words in his memory. He wrote them down in\nscraps, and after some sorting they seemed to him a kind of Latin. He\nremembered a college friend of his, one Medway, now reading for the Bar,\nwho had been the foremost scholar of his acquaintance; so with the scrap\nof paper in his pocket he climbed one evening to Medway's rooms in the\nTemple.\n\nThe man read the words curiously, and puzzled for a bit. \"What's made\nyou take to Latin comps so late in life, Colin? It's baddish, you know,\neven for you. I thought they'd have licked more into you at Eton.\"\n\nColin grinned with amusement. \"I'll tell you about it later,\" he said.\n\"Can you make out what it means?\"\n\n\"It seems to be a kind of dog-Latin or monkish Latin or something of the\nsort,\" said Medway. \"It reads like this: '_Soles occidere solent_'\n(that's cribbed from Catullus, and besides it's the regular monkish pun)\n... _qua_ ... then _blandula_ something. Then there's a lot of Choctaw,\nand then _ill\u00e6 insul\u00e6 dilectc\u00e6 in quas festinant somnia animul\u00e6 gaudia_.\nThat's pretty fair rot. Hullo, by George! here's something\nbetter--_Insula pomorum insula vit\u00e6_. That's Geoffrey of Monmouth.\"\n\nHe made a dive to a bookcase and pulled out a battered little calf-bound\nduodecimo. \"Here's all about your Isle of Apple-trees. Listen. 'Situate\nfar out in the Western ocean, beyond the Utmost Islands, beyond even the\nlittle Isle of Sheep where the cairns of dead men are, lies the Island\nof Apple-trees where the heroes and princes of the nations live their\nsecond life.'\" He closed the book and put it back. \"It's the old\nancient story, the Greek Hesperides, the British Avilion, and this\nApple-tree Island is the northern equivalent.\"\n\nColin sat entranced, his memory busy with a problem. Could he\ndistinguish the scents of apple-trees among the perfumes of the Rim of\nthe Mist. For the moment he thought he could. He was roused by Medway's\nvoice asking the story of the writing.\n\n\"Oh, it's just some nonsense that was running in my head, so I wrote it\ndown to see what it was.\"\n\n\"But you must have been reading. A new exercise for you, Colin!\"\n\n\"No, I wasn't reading. Look here. You know the sort of pictures you make\nfor yourself of places you like.\"\n\n\"Rather! Mine is a Yorkshire moor with a little red shooting-box in the\nheart of it.\"\n\n\"Well, mine is different. Mine is a sort of beach with a sea and a lot\nof islands somewhere far out. It is a jolly place, fresh, you know, and\nblowing, and smells good. 'Pon my word, now I think of it, there's\nalways been a scent of apples.\"\n\n\"Sort of cider-press? Well, I must be off. You'd better come round to\nthe club and see the telegrams about the war. _You_ should be keen\nabout it.\"\n\nOne evening, a week later, Medway met a friend called Tillotson at the\nclub, and, being lonely, they dined together. Tillotson was a man of\nsome note in science, a dabbler in psychology, an amateur historian, a\nripe genealogist. They talked of politics and the war, of a new book, of\nMrs Runnymede, and finally of their hobbies.\n\n\"I am writing an article,\" said Tillotson. \"Craikes asked me to do it\nfor the 'Monthly.' It's on a nice point in psychics. I call it 'The\nTransmission of Fallacies,' but I do not mean the logical kind. The\nquestion is, Can a particular form of hallucination run in a family for\ngenerations? The proof must, of course, come from my genealogical\nstudies. I maintain it can. I instance the Douglas-Ernotts, not one of\nwhom can see straight with the left eye. That is one side. In another\nclass of examples I take the Drapiers, who hate salt water and never go\non board ship if they can help it. Then you remember the Durwards? Old\nLady Balcrynie used to tell me that no one of the lot could ever stand\nthe sight of a green frock. There's a chance for the romancer. The\nManor-waters have the same madness, only their colour is red.\"\n\nA vague remembrance haunted Medway's brain.\n\n\"I know a man who might give you points from his own case. Did you ever\nmeet a chap Raden--Colin Raden?\"\n\nTillotson nodded. \"Long chap--in the Guards? 'Varsity oar, and used to\nbe a crack bowler? No, I don't know him. I know him well by sight, and I\nshould like to meet him tremendously--as a genealogist, of course.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Medway.\n\n\"Why? Because the man's family is unique. You never hear much about them\nnowadays, but away up in that north-west corner of Scotland they have\nruled since the days of Noah. Why, man, they were aristocrats when our\nHowards and Nevilles were greengrocers. I wish you would get this Raden\nto meet me some night.\"\n\n\"I am afraid there's no chance of it just at present,\" said Medway,\ntaking up an evening paper. \"I see that his regiment has gone to the\nfront. But remind me when he comes back, and I'll be delighted.\"\n\n\nIII\n\nAnd now there began for Colin a curious divided life,--without, a\nconstant shifting of scene, days of heat and bustle and toil,--within, a\nslow, tantalising, yet exquisite adventure. The Rim of the Mist was now\nno more the goal of his journeys, but the starting-point. Lying there,\namid cool, fragrant sea-winds, his fanciful ear was subtly alert for the\nsounds of the dim land before him. Sleeping and waking the quest haunted\nhim. As he flung himself on his bed the kerosene-filled air would change\nto an ocean freshness, the old boat would rock beneath him, and with\nclear eye and a boyish hope he would be waiting and watching. And then\nsuddenly he would be back on shore, Cuna and the Acharra headland\nshining grey in the morning light, and with gritty mouth and sand-filled\neyes he would awaken to the heat of the desert camp.\n\nHe was kept busy, for his good-humour and energy made him a willing\nslave, and he was ready enough for volunteer work when others were weak\nwith heat and despair. A thirty-mile ride left him untired; more, he\nfollowed the campaign with a sharp intelligence and found a new\nenthusiasm for his profession. Discomforts there might be, but the days\nwere happy; and then--the cool land, the bright land, which was his for\nthe thinking of it.\n\nSoon they gave him reconnoitring work to do, and his wits were put to\nthe trial. He came well out of the thing, and earned golden praise from\nthe silent colonel in command. He enjoyed it as he had enjoyed a hard\nrace on the river or a good cricket match, and when his worried\ncompanions marvelled at his zeal he stammered and grew uncomfortable.\n\n\"How the deuce do you keep it up, Colin?\" the major asked him. \"I'm an\nold hand at the job, and yet I've got a temper like devilled bones. You\nseem as chirpy as if you were going out to fish a chalk-stream on a June\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Well, the fact is----\" and Colin pulled himself up short, knowing that\nhe could never explain. He felt miserably that he had an unfair\nadvantage of the others. Poor Bellew, who groaned and swore in the heat\nat his side, knew nothing of the Rim of the Mist. It was really rough\nluck on the poor beggars, and who but himself was the fortunate man?\n\nAs the days passed a curious thing happened. He found fragments of the\nOther world straying into his common life. The barriers of the two\ndomains were falling, and more than once he caught himself looking at a\nsteel-blue sea when his eyes should have found a mustard-coloured\ndesert. One day, on a reconnoitring expedition, they stopped for a\nlittle on a hillock above a jungle of scrub, and, being hot and tired,\nscanned listlessly the endless yellow distances.\n\n\"I suppose yon hill is about ten miles off,\" said Bellew with dry lips.\n\nColin looked vaguely. \"I should say five.\"\n\n\"And what's that below it--the black patch? Stones or scrub?\"\n\nColin was in a day-dream. \"Why do you call it black? It's blue, quite\nblue.\"\n\n\"Rot,\" said the other. \"It's grey-black.\"\n\n\"No, it's water with the sun shining on it. It's blue, but just at the\nedges it's very near sea-green.\"\n\nBellew rose excitedly. \"Hullo, Col, you're seeing the mirage! And you\nthe fittest of the lot of us! You've got the sun in your head, old man!\"\n\n\"Mirage!\" Colin cried in contempt. He was awake now, but the thought of\nconfusing his own bright western sea with a mirage gave him a curious\npain. For a moment he felt the gulf of separation between his two\nworlds, but only for a moment. As the party remounted he gave his\nfancies the rein, and ere he reached camp he had felt the oars in his\nhand and sniffed the apple-tree blossom from the distant beaches.\n\nThe major came to him after supper.\n\n\"Bellew told me you were a bit odd to-day, Colin,\" he said. \"I expect\nyour eyes are getting baddish. Better get your sand-spectacles out.\"\n\nColin laughed. \"Thanks. It's awfully good of you to bother, but I think\nBellew took me up wrong. I never was fitter in my life.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nBy-and-by the turn came for pride to be humbled. A low desert fever took\nhim, and though he went through the day as usual, it was with dreary\nlassitude; and at night, with hot hands clasped above his damp hair, he\nfound sleep a hard goddess to conquer.\n\nIt was the normal condition of the others, so he had small cause to\ncomplain, but it worked havoc with his fancies. He had never been ill\nsince his childish days, and this little fever meant much to one whose\nnature was poised on a needle-point. He found himself confronted with a\nhard bare world, with the gilt rubbed from its corners. The Rim of the\nMist seemed a place of vague horrors; when he reached it his soul was\nconsumed with terror; he struggled impotently to advance; behind him\nCuna and the Acharra coast seemed a place of evil dreams. Again, as in\nhis old fever, he was tormented with a devouring thirst, but the sea\nbeside him was not fresh, but brackish as a rock-pool. He yearned for\nthe apple-tree beaches in front; there, he knew, were cold springs of\nwater; the fresh smell of it was blown towards him in his nightmare.\n\nBut as the days passed and the misery for all grew more intense, an odd\nhope began to rise in his mind. It could not last, coolness and health\nwere waiting near, and his reason for the hope came from the odd events\nat the Rim of Mist. The haze was clearing from the foreground, the\nsurf-lined coast seemed nearer, and though all was obscure save the\nmilk-white sand and the foam, yet here was earnest enough for him. Once\nmore he became cheerful; weak and light-headed he rode out again; and\nthe major, who was recovering from sunstroke, found envy take the place\nof pity in his soul.\n\nThe hope was near fulfilment. One evening when the heat was changing\ninto the cooler twilight, Colin and Bellew were sent with a small picked\nbody to scour the foot-hills above the river in case of a flank attack\nduring the night-march. It was work they had done regularly for weeks,\nand it is possible that precautions were relaxed. At any rate, as they\nturned a corner of hill, in a sandy pass where barren rocks looked down\non more barren thorn thickets, a couple of rifle-shots rang out from the\nscarp, and above them appeared a line of dark faces and white steel. A\nmere handful, taken at a disadvantage, they could not hope to disperse\nnumbers, so Colin gave the word to wheel about and return. Again shots\nrang out, and little Bellew had only time to catch at his friend's arm\nto save him from falling from the saddle.\n\nThe word of command had scarcely left Colin's mouth when a sharp pain\nwent through his chest, and his breath seemed to catch and stop. He felt\nas in a condensed moment of time the heat, the desert smell, the dust in\nhis eyes and throat, while he leaned helplessly forward on his horse's\nmane. Then the world vanished for him.... The boat was rocking under\nhim, the oars in his hand. He pulled and it moved, straight, arrow-like\ntowards the forbidden shore. As if under a great wind the mist furled up\nand fled. Scents of pines, of apple-trees, of great fields of thyme and\nheather, hung about him; the sound of wind in a forest, of cool waters\nfalling in showers, of old moorland music, came thin and faint with an\nexquisite clearness. A second and the boat was among the surf, its\ngunwale ringed with white foam, as it leaped to the still waters beyond.\nClear and deep and still the water lay, and then the white beaches\nshelved downward, and the boat grated on the sand. He turned, every limb\nalert with a strange new life, crying out words which had shaped\nthemselves on his lips and which an echo seemed to catch and answer.\nThere was the green forest before him, the hills of peace, the cold\nwhite waters. With a passionate joy he leaped on the beach, his arms\noutstretched to this new earth, this light of the world, this old desire\nof the heart--youth, rapture, immortality.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nBellew brought the body back to camp, himself half-dead with fatigue and\nwhimpering like a child. He almost fell from his horse, and when others\ntook his burden from him and laid it reverently in his tent, he stood\nbeside it, rubbing sand and sweat from his poor purblind eyes, his teeth\nchattering with fever. He was given something to drink, but he swallowed\nbarely a mouthful.\n\n\"It was some d-d-damned sharpshooter,\" he said. \"Right through the\nbreast, and he never spoke to me again. My poor old Col! He was the best\nchap God ever created, and I do-don't care a dash what becomes of me\nnow. I was at school with him, you know, you men.\"\n\n\"Was he killed outright?\" asked the major hoarsely.\n\n\"N-no. He lived for about five minutes. But I think the sun had got into\nhis head or he was mad with pain, for he d-d-didn't know where he was.\nHe kept crying out about the smell of pine-trees and heather and a lot\nof pure nonsense about water.\"\n\n\"_Et dulces reminiscitur Argos_,\" somebody quoted mournfully, as they\nwent out to the desert evening.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD\n\nI: THE HOUSE OF MORE\n\n\n1\n\nI have told this story to many audiences with diverse results, and once\nagain I take my reputation in my hands and brave the perils. To the\ncommon circle of my friends it was a romance for a winter's fire, and I,\nthe most prosaic of men, was credited with a fancy. Once I repeated it\nto an acquaintance, who, scenting mystery, transcribed it in a\nnote-book, and, with feigned names, it figured in the publications of a\nLearned Society. One man only heard me with true appreciation; but he\nwas a wandering spirit with an ear open to marvels, and I hesitate to\nadvance his security. He received it simply, saying that God was great,\nand I cannot improve upon his comment.\n\nA chill evening in the early October of the year 189- found me driving\nin a dog-cart through the belts of antique woodland which form the\nlowland limits of the hilly parish of More. The Highland express, which\nbrought me from the north, took me no farther than Perth. Thence it had\nbeen a slow journey in a disjointed local train, till I emerged on the\nplatform at Morefoot, with a bleak prospect of pit-stalks, coal-heaps,\ncertain sour corn-lands, and far to the west a line of moor where the\nsun was setting. A neat groom and a respectable trap took the edge off\nmy discomfort, and soon I had forgotten my sacrifice and found eyes for\nthe darkening landscape. We were driving through a land of thick woods,\ncut at rare intervals by old long-frequented highways. The More, which\nat Morefoot is an open sewer, became a sullen woodland stream, where the\nbrown leaves of the season drifted. At times we would pass an ancient\nlodge, and through a gap in the trees would come a glimpse of a chipped\ncrow-step gable. The names of such houses, as told me by my companion,\nwere all famous. This one had been the home of a drunken Jacobite laird,\nand a kind of north-country Medmenham. Unholy revels had waked the old\nhalls, and the Devil had been toasted at many a hell-fire dinner. The\nnext was the property of a great Scots law family, and there the old\nLord of Session who built the place, in his frowsy wig and carpet\nslippers, had laid down the canons of Taste for his day and society. The\nwhole country had the air of faded and bygone gentility. The mossy\nroadside walls had stood for two hundred years, the few wayside houses\nwere toll-bars or defunct hostelries. The names, too, were great--Scots\nbaronial with a smack of France--Chatelray and Reiverslaw, Black Holm\nand Champertoun. The place had a cunning charm, mystery dwelt in every\ncranny, and yet it did not please me. The earth smelt heavy and raw, the\nroads were red underfoot, all was old, sorrowful, and uncanny. Compared\nwith the fresh Highland glen I had left, where wind and sun and flying\nshowers were never absent, all was chilly and dull and dead. Even when\nthe sun sent a shiver of crimson over the crests of certain firs, I felt\nno delight in the prospect. I admitted shamefacedly to myself that I was\nin a very bad temper.\n\nI had been staying at Glenaicill with the Clanroydens, and for a week\nhad found the proper pleasure in life. You know the house with its old\nrooms and gardens, and the miles of heather which defend it from the\nworld. The shooting had been extraordinary for a wild place far on in\nthe season, for there are few partridges and the woodcock are\nnotoriously late. I had done respectably in my stalking, more than\nrespectably on the river, and creditably on the moors. Moreover, there\nwere pleasant people in the house--and there were the Clanroydens. I had\nhad a hard year's work, sustained to the last moment of term, and a\nfortnight in Norway had been disastrous. It was therefore with real\ncomfort that I had settled myself down for another ten days in\nGlenaicill, when all my plans were shattered by Sybil's letter. Sybil is\nmy cousin and my very good friend, and in old days when I was briefless\nI had fallen in love with her many times. But she very sensibly chose\notherwise, and married a man Ladlaw--Robert John Ladlaw--who had been at\nschool with me. He was a cheery, good-humoured fellow, a great\nsportsman, a justice of the peace and deputy-lieutenant for his county,\nand something of an antiquary in a mild way. He had a box in\nLeicestershire to which he went in the hunting season; but from February\ntill October he lived in his moorland home. The place was called the\nHouse of More, and I had shot there once or twice in recent years. I\nremembered its loneliness and its comfort, the charming diffident Sybil\nand Ladlaw's genial welcome. And my recollections set me puzzling again\nover the letter which that morning had broken into my comfort. \"You\npromised us a visit this autumn,\" Sybil had written, \"and I wish you\nwould come as soon as you can.\" So far common politeness. But she had\ngone on to reveal the fact that Ladlaw was ill, she did not know how\nexactly, but something, she thought, about his heart. Then she had\nsigned herself my affectionate cousin, and then had come a short violent\npostscript, in which, as it were, the fences of convention had been laid\nlow. \"For Heaven's sake come and see us!\" she scrawled below. \"Bob is\nterribly ill, and I am crazy. Come at once.\" And then she finished with\nan afterthought, \"Don't bother about bringing doctors. It is not their\nbusiness.\"\n\nShe had assumed that I would come, and dutifully I set out. I could not\nregret my decision, but I took leave to upbraid my luck. The thought of\nGlenaicill with the woodcock beginning to arrive, and the Clanroydens\nimploring me to stay, saddened my journey in the morning, and the murky,\ncoally midland country of the afternoon completed my depression. The\ndrive through the woodlands of More failed to raise my spirits. I was\nanxious about Sybil and Ladlaw, and the accursed country had always\ngiven me a certain eeriness on my first approaching it. You may call it\nsilly; but I have no nerves, and am little susceptible to vague\nsentiment. It was sheer physical dislike of the rich deep soil, the\nwoody and antique smells, the melancholy roads and trees, and the\nflavour of old mystery. I am aggressively healthy and wholly Philistine.\nI love clear outlines and strong colours, and More, with its half-tints\nand hazy distances, depressed me miserably. Even when the road crept\nuphill and the trees ended, I found nothing to hearten me in the\nmoorland which succeeded. It was genuine moorland, close on 800 feet\nabove the sea, and through it ran this old grass-grown coach-road. Low\nhills rose to the left, and to the right after some miles of peat flared\nthe chimneys of pits and oil-works. Straight in front the moor ran out\ninto the horizon, and there in the centre was the last dying spark of\nthe sun. The place was as still as the grave save for the crunch of our\nwheels on the grassy road; but the flaring lights to the north seemed to\nendow it with life. I have rarely felt so keenly the feeling of movement\nin the inanimate world. It was an unquiet place, and I shivered\nnervously. Little gleams of loch came from the hollows, the burns were\nbrown with peat, and every now and then there rose in the moor jags of\nsickening red stone. I remembered that Ladlaw had talked about the place\nas the old Manann, the holy land of the ancient races. I had paid little\nattention at the time, but now it struck me that the old peoples had\nbeen wise in their choice. There was something uncanny in this soil and\nair. Framed in dank mysterious woods, and a country of coal and\nironstone, no great distance, too, from the capital city, it was a\nsullen relic of a lost barbarism. Over the low hills lay a green\npastoral country with bright streams and valleys, but here in this peaty\ndesert there were few sheep and little cultivation. The House of More\nwas the only dwelling, and, save for the ragged village, the wilderness\nwas given over to the wild things of the hills. The shooting was good;\nbut the best shooting on earth would not persuade me to make my abode in\nsuch a place. Ladlaw was ill; well, I did not wonder. You can have\nuplands without air, moors that are not health-giving, and a country\nlife which is more arduous than a townsman's. I shivered again, for I\nseemed to have passed in a few hours from the open noon to a kind of\ndank twilight.\n\nWe passed the village and entered the lodge-gates. Here there were trees\nagain, little innocent new-planted firs, which flourished badly. Some\nlarge plane-trees grew near the house, and there were thickets upon\nthickets of the ugly elder. Even in the half-darkness I could see that\nthe lawns were trim and the flower-beds respectable for the season;\ndoubtless Sybil looked after the gardeners. The oblong whitewashed\nhouse, more like a barrack than ever, opened suddenly on my sight, and I\nexperienced my first sense of comfort since I left Glenaicill. Here I\nshould find warmth and company, and, sure enough, the hall-door was wide\nopen, and in the great flood of light which poured from it Sybil stood\nto welcome me.\n\nShe ran down the steps as I dismounted, and, with a word to the groom,\ncaught my arm and drew me into the shadow. \"Oh, Henry, it was so good of\nyou to come. You mustn't let Bob think that you know he is ill. We don't\ntalk about it. I'll tell you afterwards. I want you to cheer him up. Now\nwe must go in, for he is in the hall expecting you.\"\n\nWhile I stood blinking in the light, Ladlaw came forward with\noutstretched hand and his usual cheery greeting. I looked at him and saw\nnothing unnatural in his appearance: a little drawn at the lips,\nperhaps, and heavy below the eyes, but still fresh-coloured and healthy.\nIt was Sybil who showed change. She was very pale, her pretty eyes were\ndeplorably mournful, and in place of her delightful shyness there was\nthe self-confidence and composure of pain. I was honestly shocked, and\nas I dressed my heart was full of hard thoughts about Ladlaw. What could\nhis illness mean? He seemed well and cheerful, while Sybil was pale, and\nyet it was Sybil who had written the postscript. As I warmed myself by\nthe fire, I resolved that this particular family difficulty was my\nproper business.\n\n\n2\n\nThe Ladlaws were waiting for me in the drawing-room. I noticed something\nnew and strange in Sybil's demeanour. She looked to her husband with a\nmotherly protective air, while Ladlaw, who had been the extreme of\nmasculine independence, seemed to cling to his wife with a curious\nappealing fidelity. In conversation he did little more than echo her\nwords. Till dinner was announced he spoke of the weather, the shooting,\nand Mabel Clanroyden. Then he did a queer thing, for, when I was about\nto offer my arm to Sybil, he forestalled me, and, clutching her right\narm with his left hand, led the way to the dining-room, leaving me to\nfollow in some bewilderment.\n\nI have rarely taken part in a more dismal meal. The House of More has a\npretty Georgian panelling through most of the rooms; but in the\ndining-room the walls are level, and painted a dull stone colour.\nAbraham offered up Isaac in a ghastly picture in front of me. Some\nphotographs of the Quorn hung over the mantelpiece, and five or six drab\nancestors filled up the remaining space. But one thing was new and\nstartling. A great marble bust, a genuine antique, frowned on me from a\npedestal. The head was in the late Roman style, clearly of some emperor,\nand in its commonplace environment the great brows, the massive neck,\nand the mysterious, solemn lips had a surprising effect. I nodded\ntowards the thing, and asked what it represented.\n\nLadlaw grunted something which I took for \"Justinian,\" but he never\nraised his eyes from his plate. By accident I caught Sybil's glance.\nShe looked towards the bust, and laid a finger on her lips.\n\nThe meal grew more doleful as it advanced. Sybil scarcely touched a\ndish, but her husband ate ravenously of everything. He was a strong,\nthick-set man, with a square, kindly face, burned brown by the sun. Now\nhe seemed to have suddenly coarsened. He gobbled with undignified haste,\nand his eye was extraordinarily vacant. A question made him start, and\nhe would turn on me a face so strange and inert that I repented the\ninterruption.\n\nI asked him about the autumn's sport, and he collected his wits with\ndifficulty. He thought it had been good on the whole, but he had shot\nbadly. He had not been quite so fit as usual. No, he had had nobody\nstaying with him--Sybil had wanted to be alone. He was afraid the moor\nmight have been under-shot, but he would make a big day with keepers and\nfarmers before the winter.\n\n\"Bob has done pretty well,\" Sybil said. \"He hasn't been out often, for\nthe weather has been very bad here. You can have no idea, Henry, how\nhorrible this moorland place of ours can be when it tries. It is one\ngreat sponge sometimes, with ugly red burns, and mud to the ankles.\"\n\n\"I don't think it's healthy,\" said I.\n\nLadlaw lifted his face. \"Nor do I: I think it's intolerable; but I am so\nbusy, I can't get away.\"\n\nOnce again I caught Sybil's warning eye as I was about to question him\non his business.\n\nClearly the man's brain had received a shock, and he was beginning to\nsuffer from hallucinations. This could be the only explanation, for he\nhad always led a temperate life. The _distrait_ wandering manner was the\nonly sign of his malady, for otherwise he seemed normal and mediocre as\never. My heart grieved for Sybil, alone with him in this wilderness.\n\nThen he broke the silence. He lifted his head and looked nervously\naround till his eye fell on the Roman bust.\n\n\"Do you know that this countryside is the old Manann?\" he said.\n\nIt was an odd turn to the conversation, but I was glad of a sign of\nintelligence. I answered that I had heard so.\n\n\"It's a queer name,\" he said oracularly; \"but the thing it stood for was\nqueerer. Manann, Manaw,\" he repeated, rolling the words on his tongue.\nAs he spoke, he glanced sharply, and, as it seemed to me, fearfully, at\nhis left side.\n\nThe movement of his body made his napkin slip from his left knee and\nfall on the floor. It leaned against his leg, and he started from its\ntouch as if he had been stung by a snake. I have never seen a more sheer\nand transparent terror on a man's face. He got to his feet, his strong\nframe shaking like a rush. Sybil ran round to his side, picked up the\nnapkin, and flung it on a sideboard. Then she stroked his hair as one\nwould stroke a frightened horse. She called him by his old boy's name of\nRobin, and at her touch and voice he became quiet. But the particular\ncourse then in progress was removed untasted.\n\nIn a few minutes he seemed to have forgotten his behaviour, for he took\nup the former conversation. For a time he spoke well and briskly.\n\n\"You lawyers,\" he said, \"understand only the dry framework of the past.\nYou cannot conceive the rapture, which only the antiquary can feel, of\nconstructing in every detail an old culture. Take this Manann. If I\ncould explore the secret of these moors, I would write the world's\ngreatest book. I would write of that prehistoric life when man was knit\nclose to nature. I would describe the people who were brothers of the\nred earth and the red rock and the red streams of the hills. Oh, it\nwould be horrible, but superb, tremendous! It would be more than a piece\nof history; it would be a new gospel, a new theory of life. It would\nkill materialism once and for all. Why, man, all the poets who have\ndeified and personified nature would not do an eighth part of my work. I\nwould show you the unknown, the hideous, shrieking mystery at the back\nof this simple nature. Men would see the profundity of the old crude\nfaiths which they affect to despise. I would make a picture of our\nshaggy, sombre-eyed forefather, who heard strange things in the\nhill-silences. I would show him brutal and terror-stricken, but wise,\nwise, God alone knows how wise! The Romans knew it, and they learned\nwhat they could from him, but he did not tell them much. But we have\nsome of his blood in us, and we may go deeper. Manann! A queer land\nnowadays! I sometimes love it and sometimes hate it, but I always fear\nit. It is like that statue, inscrutable.\"\n\nI would have told him that he was talking mystical nonsense; but I had\nlooked towards the bust, and my rudeness was checked on my lips. The\nmoor might be a common piece of ugly waste land, but the statue was\ninscrutable--of that there was no doubt. I hate your cruel,\nheavy-mouthed Roman busts; to me they have none of the beauty of life,\nand little of the interest of art. But my eyes were fastened on this as\nthey had never before looked on marble. The oppression of the heavy\nwoodlands, the mystery of the silent moor seemed to be caught and held\nin this face. It was the intangible mystery of culture on the verge of\nsavagery, a cruel, lustful wisdom, and yet a kind of bitter austerity\nwhich laughed at the game of life and stood aloof. There was no weakness\nin the heavy-veined brow and slumbrous eyelids. It was the face of one\nwho had conquered the world and found it dust and ashes, one who had\neaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and scorned human\nwisdom. And at the same time it was the face of one who knew uncanny\nthings, a man who was the intimate of the half-world and the dim\nbackground of life. Why on earth I should connect the Roman grandee[3]\nwith the moorland parish of More, I cannot say; but the fact remains,\nthat there was that in the face which I knew had haunted me through the\nwoodlands and bogs of the place, a sleepless, dismal, incoherent\nmelancholy.\n\n\"I bought that at Colenzo's,\" Ladlaw said, \"because it took my fancy. It\nmatches well with this place.\"\n\nI thought it matched very ill with his drab walls and Quorn photographs,\nbut I held my peace.\n\n\"Do you know who it is?\" he asked. \"It is the head of the greatest man\nthe world has ever seen. You are a lawyer and know your Justinian.\"\n\nThe Pandects are scarcely part of the daily work of a common-law\nbarrister. I had not looked into them since I left college.\n\n\"I know that he married an actress,\" I said, \"and was a sort of\nall-round genius. He made law and fought battles and had rows with the\nChurch. A curious man! And wasn't there some story about his selling his\nsoul to the Devil and getting law in exchange? Rather a poor bargain!\"\n\nI chattered away sillily enough, to dispel the gloom of that\ndinner-table. The result of my words was unhappy. Ladlaw gasped, and\ncaught at his left side as if in pain. Sybil, with tragic eyes, had been\nmaking signs to me to hold my peace. Now she ran round to her husband's\nside and comforted him like a child. As she passed me she managed to\nwhisper in my ear to talk to her only and let her husband alone.\n\nFor the rest of dinner I obeyed my orders to the letter. Ladlaw ate his\nfood in gloomy silence, while I spoke to Sybil of our relatives and\nfriends, of London, Glenaicill, and any random subject. The poor girl\nwas dismally forgetful, and her eye would wander to her husband with\nwifely anxiety. I remember being suddenly overcome by the comic aspect\nof it all. Here were we three fools alone in this dank upland, one of us\nsick and nervous, talking out-of-the-way nonsense about Manann and\nJustinian, gobbling his food and getting scared at his napkin, another\ngravely anxious, and myself at my wits' end for a solution. It was a Mad\nTea-party with a vengeance, Sybil the melancholy little Dormouse, and\nLadlaw the incomprehensible Hatter. I laughed aloud, but checked myself\nwhen I caught my cousin's eye. It was really no case for finding\nhumour. Ladlaw was very ill, and Sybil's face was getting deplorably\nthin.\n\nI welcomed the end of that meal with unmannerly joy, for I wanted to\nspeak seriously with my host. Sybil told the butler to have the lamps\nlit in the library. Then she leaned over to me and spoke low and\nrapidly: \"I want you to talk with Bob. I'm sure you can do him good.\nYou'll have to be very patient with him and very gentle. Oh please try\nand find out what is wrong with him. He won't tell me, and I can only\nguess.\"\n\nThe butler returned with word that the library was ready to receive us,\nand Sybil rose to go. Ladlaw half rose, protesting, making the most\ncurious, feeble clutches at his side. His wife quieted him. \"Henry will\nlook after you, dear,\" she said. \"You are going into the library to\nsmoke.\" Then she slipped from the room, and we were left alone.\n\nHe caught my arm fiercely with his left hand, and his grip nearly made\nme cry out. As we walked down the hall I could feel his arm twitching\nfrom the elbow to the shoulder. Clearly he was in pain, and I set it\ndown to some form of cardiac affection, which might possibly issue in\nparalysis.\n\nI settled him in the biggest arm-chair, and took one of his cigars. The\nlibrary is the pleasantest room in the house, and at night, when a\npeat-fire burned on the old hearth and the great red curtains were\ndrawn, it used to be the place for comfort and good talk. Now I noticed\nchanges. Ladlaw's book-shelves had been filled with the proceedings of\nantiquarian societies and many light-hearted works in _belles-lettres_.\nBut now the Badminton Library had been cleared out of a shelf where it\nstood most convenient to the hand, and its place taken by an old Leyden\nreprint of Justinian. There were books on Byzantine subjects of which I\nnever dreamed he had heard the names. There were volumes of history and\nspeculation, all of a slightly bizarre kind; and to crown everything,\nthere were several bulky medical works with gaudily coloured plates. The\nold atmosphere of sport and travel had gone from the room, with the\nmedley of rods, whips, and gun-cases which used to cumber the tables.\nNow the place was moderately tidy and slightly learned--and I did not\nlike it.\n\nLadlaw refused to smoke, and sat for a little while in silence. Then of\nhis own accord he broke the tension,--\n\n\"It was devilish good of you to come, Harry. This is a lonely place for\na man who is a bit seedy.\"\n\n\"I thought you might be alone,\" I said, \"so I looked you up on my way\ndown from Glenaicill. I'm sorry to find you looking ill.\"\n\n\"Do you notice it?\" he asked sharply.\n\n\"It's tolerably patent,\" I said. \"Have you seen a doctor?\"\n\nHe said something uncomplimentary about doctors, and kept looking at me\nwith his curious dull eyes.\n\nI remarked the strange posture in which he sat--his head screwed round\nto his right shoulder, and his whole body a protest against something at\nhis left hand.\n\n\"It looks like your heart,\" I said. \"You seem to have pains in your left\nside.\"\n\nAgain a spasm of fear. I went over to him and stood at the back of his\nchair.\n\n\"Now, for goodness' sake, my dear fellow, tell me what is wrong? You're\nscaring Sybil to death. It's lonely work for the poor girl, and I wish\nyou would let me help you.\"\n\nHe was lying back in his chair now, with his eyes half shut, and\nshivering like a frightened colt. The extraordinary change in one who\nhad been the strongest of the strong kept me from realising its\ngravity. I put a hand on his shoulder, but he flung it off.\n\n\"For God's sake sit down!\" he said hoarsely. \"I'm going to tell you; but\nI'll never make you understand.\"\n\nI sat down promptly opposite him.\n\n\"It's the Devil,\" he said very solemnly. I am afraid that I was rude\nenough to laugh. He took no notice, but sat with the same tense,\nmiserable air, staring over my head.\n\n\"Right,\" said I. \"Then it is the Devil. It's a new complaint, so it's as\nwell I did not bring a doctor. How does it affect you?\" He made the old\nimpotent clutch at the air with his left hand. I had the sense to become\ngrave at once. Clearly this was some mental affection, some\nhallucination born of physical pain.\n\nThen he began to talk in a low voice, very rapidly, with his head bent\nforward like a hunted animal's. I am not going to set down what he told\nme in his own words, for they were incoherent often, and there was much\nrepetition. But I am going to write the gist of the odd story which took\nmy sleep away on that autumn night, with such explanations and additions\nas I think needful. The fire died down, the wind arose, the hour grew\nlate, and still he went on in his mumbling recitative. I forgot to\nsmoke, forgot my comfort,--everything but the odd figure of my friend\nand his inconceivable romance. And the night before I had been in\ncheerful Glenaicill!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nHe had returned to the House of More, he said, in the latter part of\nMay, and shortly after he fell ill. It was a trifling\nsickness--influenza or something--but he had never quite recovered. The\nrainy weather of June depressed him, and the extreme heat of July made\nhim listless and weary. A kind of insistent sleepiness hung over him,\nand he suffered much from nightmare. Towards the end of July his former\nhealth returned; but he was haunted with a curious oppression. He seemed\nto himself to have lost the art of being alone. There was a perpetual\nsound in his left ear, a kind of moving and rustling at his left side,\nwhich never left him by night or day. In addition he had become the prey\nof nerves and an insensate dread of the unknown.\n\nLadlaw, as I have explained, was a commonplace man, with fair talents, a\nmediocre culture, honest instincts, and the beliefs and incredulities of\nhis class. On abstract grounds I should have declared him an unlikely\nman to be the victim of a hallucination. He had a kind of dull,\nbourgeois rationalism, which used to find reasons for all things in\nheaven and earth. At first he controlled his dread with proverbs. He\ntold himself it was the sequel of his illness, or the light-headedness\nof summer heat on the moors. But it soon outgrew his comfort. It became\na living second presence, an _alter ego_ which dogged his footsteps. He\nbecame acutely afraid of it. He dared not be alone for a moment, and\nclung to Sybil's company despairingly. She went off for a week's visit\nin the beginning of August, and be endured for seven days the tortures\nof the lost. His malady advanced upon him with swift steps. The presence\nbecame more real daily. In the early dawning, in the twilight, and in\nthe first hours of the morning it seemed at times to take a visible\nbodily form. A kind of amorphous featureless shadow would run from his\nside into the darkness, and he would sit palsied with terror. Sometimes\nin lonely places his footsteps sounded double, and something would brush\nelbows with him. Human society alone exorcised it. With Sybil at his\nside he was happy; but as soon as she left him the thing came slinking\nback from the unknown to watch by him. Company might have saved him,\nbut joined to his affliction was a crazy dread of his fellows. He would\nnot leave his moorland home, but must bear his burden alone among the\nwild streams and mosses of that dismal place.\n\nThe Twelfth came, and he shot wretchedly, for his nerve had gone to\npieces. He stood exhaustion badly, and became a dweller about the doors.\nBut with this bodily inertness came an extraordinary intellectual\nrevival. He read widely in a blundering way, and he speculated\nunceasingly. It was characteristic of the man that, as soon as he left\nthe paths of the prosaic, he should seek his supernatural in a very\nconcrete form. He assumed that he was haunted by the Devil--the visible,\npersonal Devil in whom our fathers believed. He waited hourly for the\nshape at his side to speak, but no words came. The Accuser of the\nBrethren in all but tangible form was his ever-present companion. He\nfelt, he declared, the spirit of old evil entering subtly into his\nblood. He sold his soul many times over, and yet there was no\npossibility of resistance. It was a Visitation more undeserved than\nJob's, and a thousandfold more awful.\n\nFor a week or more he was tortured with a kind of religious mania. When\na man of a healthy, secular mind finds himself adrift on the terrible\nocean of religious troubles, he is peculiarly helpless, for he has not\nthe most rudimentary knowledge of the winds and tides. It was useless to\ncall up his old carelessness; he had suddenly dropped into a new world\nwhere old proverbs did not apply. And all the while, mind you, there was\nthe shrieking terror of it--an intellect all alive to the torture and\nthe most unceasing physical fear. For a little he was on the near edge\nof idiocy.\n\nThen by accident it took a new form. While sitting with Sybil one day in\nthe library, he began listlessly to turn over the leaves of an old book.\nHe read a few pages, and found the hint of a story like his own. It was\nsome French life of Justinian, one of the unscholarly productions of\nlast century, made up of stories from Procopius and tags of Roman law.\nHere was his own case written down in black and white; and the man had\nbeen a king of kings! This was a new comfort, and for a little--strange\nthough it may seem--he took a sort of pride in his affliction. He\nworshipped the great emperor and read every scrap he could find on him,\nnot excepting the Pandects and the Digest. He sent for the bust in the\ndining-room, paying a fabulous price. Then he settled himself to study\nhis imperial prototype, and the study became an idolatry. As I have\nsaid, Ladlaw was a man of ordinary talents and certainly of meagre\nimaginative power. And yet from the lies of the 'Secret History' and the\ncrudities of German legalists he had constructed a marvellous portrait\nof a man. Sitting there in the half-lit room, he drew the picture,--the\nquiet, cold king with his inheritance of Dacian mysticism, holding the\ngreat world in fee, giving it law and religion, fighting its wars,\nbuilding its churches, and yet all the while intent upon his own private\nwork of making his peace with his soul. The churchman and warrior whom\nall the world worshipped, and yet one going through life with his lip\nquivering, the Watcher by the Threshold ever at his left side. Sometimes\nat night in the great Brazen Palace, warders heard the emperor walking\nin the dark corridors, alone and yet not alone; for once, when a servant\nentered with a lamp, he saw his master with a face as of another world,\nand something beside him which had no face or shape, but which he knew\nto be that hoary Evil which is older than the stars. Crazy nonsense! I\nhad to rub my eyes to assure myself that I was not sleeping. No! There\nwas my friend with his suffering face, and it was the library of More.\n\nAnd then he spoke of Theodora--actress, harlot, _d\u00e9vote_, empress. For\nhim the lady was but another part of the uttermost horror, a form of the\nshapeless thing at his side. I felt myself falling under the\nfascination. I have no nerves and little imagination, but in a flash I\nseemed to realise something of that awful featureless face, crouching\never at a man's hand, till darkness and loneliness comes and it rises to\nits mastery. I shivered as I looked at the man in the chair before me.\nThose dull eyes of his were looking upon things I could not see, and I\nsaw their terror. I realised that it was grim earnest for him. Nonsense\nor no, some devilish fancy had usurped the place of sanity, and he was\nbeing slowly broken upon the wheel. And then, when his left hand\ntwitched, I almost cried out. I had thought it comic before; now it\nseemed the last proof of tragedy.\n\nHe stopped, and I got up with loose knees and went to the window. Better\nthe black night than the intangible horror within. I flung up the sash\nand looked out across the moor. There was no light, nothing but an inky\ndarkness and the uncanny rustle of elder-bushes. The sound chilled me,\nand I closed the window.\n\n\"The land is the old Manann,\" Ladlaw was saying. \"We are beyond the pale\nhere. Do you hear the wind?\"\n\nI forced myself back into sanity and looked at my watch. It was nearly\none o'clock.\n\n\"What ghastly idiots we are!\" I said. \"I am off to bed.\"\n\nLadlaw looked at me helplessly. \"For God's sake don't leave me alone!\"\nhe moaned. \"Get Sybil.\"\n\nWe went together back to the hall, while he kept the same feverish grip\non my arm. Some one was sleeping in a chair by the hall-fire, and to my\ndistress I recognised my hostess. The poor child must have been sadly\nwearied. She came forward with her anxious face.\n\n\"I'm afraid Bob has kept you very late, Henry,\" she said. \"I hope you\nwill sleep well. Breakfast at nine, you know.\" And then I left them.\n\nOver my bed there was a little picture, a reproduction of some Italian\nwork of Christ and the Demoniac. Some impulse made me hold my candle up\nto it. The madman's face was torn with passion and suffering, and his\neye had the pained furtive look which I had come to know. And by his\nleft side there was a dim shape crouching.\n\nI got into bed hastily, but not to sleep. I felt that my reason must be\ngoing. I had been pitchforked from our clear and cheerful modern life\ninto the mists of old superstition. Old tragic stories of my Calvinist\nupbringing returned to haunt me. The man dwelt in by a devil was no new\nfancy; but I believed that Science had docketed and analysed and\nexplained the Devil out of the world. I remembered my dabblings in the\noccult before I settled down to law--the story of Donisarius, the monk\nof Padua, the unholy legend of the Face of Proserpina, the tales of\n_succubi_ and _incubi_, the Leannain Sith and the Hidden Presence. But\nhere was something stranger still. I had stumbled upon that very\npossession which fifteen hundred years ago had made the monks of New\nRome tremble and cross themselves. Some devilish occult force, lingering\nthrough the ages, had come to life after a long sleep. God knows what\nearthly connection there was between the splendid Emperor of the World\nand my prosaic friend, or between the glittering shores of the Bosphorus\nand this moorland parish! But the land was the old Manann! The spirit\nmay have lingered in the earth and air, a deadly legacy from Pict and\nRoman. I had felt the uncanniness of the place; I had augured ill of it\nfrom the first. And then in sheer disgust I rose and splashed my face\nwith cold water.\n\nI lay down again, laughing miserably at my credulity. That I, the sober\nand rational, should believe in this crazy fable, was too palpably\nabsurd. I would steel my mind resolutely against such harebrained\ntheories. It was a mere bodily ailment,--liver out of order, weak heart,\nbad circulation, or something of that sort. At the worst it might be\nsome affection of the brain to be treated by a specialist. I vowed to\nmyself that next morning the best doctor in Edinburgh should be brought\nto More.\n\nThe worst of it was that my duty compelled me to stand my ground. I\nforesaw the few remaining weeks of my holiday blighted. I should be tied\nto this moorland prison, a sort of keeper and nurse in one, tormented by\nsilly fancies. It was a charming prospect, and the thought of Glenaicill\nand the woodcock made me bitter against Ladlaw. But there was no way out\nof it. I might do Ladlaw good, and I could not have Sybil worn to death\nby his vagaries.\n\nMy ill-nature comforted me, and I forgot the horror of the thing in its\nvexation. After that, I think I fell asleep and dozed uneasily till\nmorning. When I awoke I was in a better frame of mind. The early sun had\nworked wonders with the moorland. The low hills stood out fresh-coloured\nand clear against the pale October sky, the elders sparkled with frost,\nthe raw film of morn was rising from the little loch in tiny clouds. It\nwas a cold rousing day, and I dressed in good spirits and went down to\nbreakfast.\n\nI found Ladlaw looking ruddy and well, very different from the broken\nman I remembered of the night before. We were alone, for Sybil was\nbreakfasting in bed. I remarked on his ravenous appetite, and he smiled\ncheerily. He made two jokes during the meal, he laughed often, and I\nbegan to forget the events of the previous day. It seemed to me that I\nmight still flee from More with a clear conscience. He had forgotten\nabout his illness. When I touched distantly upon the matter he showed a\nblank face.\n\nIt might be that the affection had passed: on the other hand, it might\nreturn to him at the darkening--I had no means to decide. His manner was\nstill a trifle _distrait_ and peculiar, and I did not like the dulness\nin his eye. At any rate, I should spend the day in his company, and the\nevening would decide the question.\n\nI proposed shooting, which he promptly vetoed. He was no good at\nwalking, he said, and the birds were wild. This seriously limited the\npossible occupations. Fishing there was none, and hill-climbing was out\nof the question. He proposed a game at billiards, and I pointed to the\nglory of the morning. It would have been sacrilege to waste such\nsunshine in knocking balls about. Finally we agreed to drive somewhere\nand have lunch, and he ordered the dog-cart.\n\nIn spite of all forebodings I enjoyed the day. We drove in the opposite\ndirection from the woodland parts, right away across the moor to the\ncoal-country beyond. We lunched at the little mining town of Borrowmuir,\nin a small and noisy public-house. The roads made bad going, the country\nwas far from pretty, and yet the drive did not bore me. Ladlaw talked\nincessantly, talked as I had never heard man talk before. There was\nsomething indescribable in all he said,--a different point of view, a\nlost groove of thought, a kind of innocence and archaic shrewdness in\none. I can only give you a hint of it by saying that it was like the\nmind of an early ancestor placed suddenly among modern surroundings. It\nwas wise with a remote wisdom, and silly (now and then) with a quite\nantique and distant silliness.\n\nI will give you instances of both. He provided me with a theory of\ncertain early fortifications, which must be true, which commends itself\nto the mind with overwhelming conviction, and yet which is so out of the\nway of common speculation that no man could have guessed it. I do not\npropose to set down the details, for I am working at it on my own\naccount. Again, he told me the story of an old marriage custom, which\ntill recently survived in this district,--told it with full\ncircumstantial detail and constant allusions to other customs which he\ncould not possibly have known of. Now for the other side. He explained\nwhy well-water is in winter warmer than a running stream, and this was\nhis explanation. At the Antipodes our winter is summer; consequently the\nwater of a well which comes through from the other side of the earth\nmust be warm in winter and cold in summer, since in our summer it is\nwinter there. You perceive what this is. It is no mere silliness, but a\ngenuine effort of an early mind which had just grasped the fact of the\nAntipodes, to use it in explanation.\n\nGradually I was forced to the belief that it was not Ladlaw who was\ntalking to me, but something speaking through him, something at once\nwiser and simpler. My old fear of the Devil began to depart. This\nspirit, this exhalation, whatever it was, was ingenuous in its way, at\nleast in its daylight aspect. For a moment I had an idea that it was a\nreal reflex of Byzantine thought, and that by cross-examining I might\nmake marvellous discoveries. The ardour of the scholar began to rise in\nme, and I asked a question about that much-debated point, the legal\nstatus of the _apocrisiarii_. To my vexation he gave no response.\nClearly the intelligence of this familiar had its limits.\n\nIt was about three in the afternoon, and we had gone half of our\nhomeward journey, when signs of the old terror began to appear. I was\ndriving, and Ladlaw sat on my left. I noticed him growing nervous and\nsilent shivering at the flick of the whip, and turning half-way round\ntowards me. Then he asked me to change places, and I had the unpleasant\nwork of driving from the wrong side. After that I do not think he spoke\nonce till we arrived at More, but sat huddled together with the\ndriving-rug almost up to his chin--an eccentric figure of a man.\n\nI foresaw another such night as the last, and I confess my heart sank. I\nhad no stomach for more mysteries, and somehow with the approach of\ntwilight the confidence of the day departed. The thing appeared in\ndarker colours, and I could have found it in my mind to turn coward.\nSybil alone deterred me. I could not bear to think of her alone with\nthis demented being. I remembered her shy timidity, her innocence. It\nwas monstrous that the poor thing should be called on thus to fight\nalone with phantoms. So I braced myself for another evening.\n\nWhen we came to the House it was almost sunset. Ladlaw got out very\ncarefully on the right side, and for a second stood by the horse. The\nsun was making our shadows long, and as I stood beyond him, it seemed\nfor a moment that his shadow was double. It may have been mere fancy,\nfor I had not time to look twice. He was standing, as I have said, with\nhis left side next the horse. Suddenly the harmless elderly cob fell\ninto a very panic of fright, reared upright, and all but succeeded in\nkilling its master. I was in time to pluck Ladlaw from under its feet,\nbut the beast had become perfectly unmanageable, and we left a groom\nstruggling to quiet it.\n\nIn the hall the butler gave me a telegram. It was from my clerk,\nsummoning me back at once to an important consultation.\n\n\nII: THE MINISTER INTERVENES\n\nHere was a prompt removal of my scruples! There could be no question of\nmy remaining, for the case was one of the first importance, which I had\nfeared might break up my holiday. The consultation fell in vacation-time\nto meet the convenience of certain people who were going abroad, and\nthere was the most instant demand for my presence. I must go and at\nonce; and, as I hunted in the time-table, I found that in five hours'\ntime a night-train for the South would pass Borrowmuir, which might be\nstopped by special wire. This would give me time for dinner and a\ncomfortable departure.\n\nBut I had no pleasure in my freedom, for I was in despair about Sybil. I\nmust return to More--that was clear; and I must find some one to look\nafter Ladlaw. I found my cousin in the drawing-room alone and told her\nmy plans.\n\nShe was very pale and fragile, and she seemed to shiver as the prospect\nof solitude returned to her. I spoke with all the carelessness I could\nmuster. \"I am coming back,\" I said. \"Don't think you have got rid of me\nso easily. It is most unpleasant to have to travel eight hundred miles\nin thirty-six hours, but there is no help for it. I ought to be back\nagain by Friday morning. And you know Bob is much better. He was quite\nlike his old self driving to-day.\"\n\nMy words comforted the poor child, and I went away with the novel\nfeeling of a good conscience. Frankly, I hate the sordid and unpleasant.\nI am honestly a sun-worshipper; I have small taste for arduous duty, and\nthe quixotic is my abhorrence. My professional success is an accident,\nfor Lord knows I had no impulse to contend and little ambition. But\nsomewhere or other I have the rudiments of an austere conscience. It\ngives me no peace, and as I love a quiet life, I do its bidding with a\ngrumble. Now I grumbled fiercely in spirit, but outwardly I was a model\nof virtuous cheerfulness.\n\nBut to find somebody to keep Ladlaw company--there was the rub. I racked\nmy brains to think of a substitute. It must be a man of some education\nand not a mere servant, and it must be somebody in the parish of More;\nthe conjunction seemed for the moment impossible. Then a brilliant idea\nstruck me. There was the minister of Morebrig, the ugly village by the\nroadside. I remembered him on previous visits. He was a burly young man,\nwith a high complexion and a drooping blonde moustache, who smoked cheap\ncigarettes incessantly, and spat. He had been what they call a\n\"brilliant student,\" and he was reported to be something of an orator,\neagerly sought after by city congregations, but at present hiding his\nlight under the bushel of Morebrig to allow him time to prepare some\ngreat theological work. Ladlaw had liked him in a half-amused and\ntolerant way, and he used to come sometimes to dine. His name was Bruce\nOliphant, and he inhabited a dark manse at the outskirts of the village.\n\nI had an hour before dinner, and I set out for Mr Oliphant's dwelling. I\nremember the curious dull village street, without colour or life, drab\nwomen looking out of dingy doorways, and a solitary child playing in the\nred mud. The manse stood at the back of the usual elder thicket, a\nlittle place with small windows and a weather-stained front door. A\ngaunt old servant ushered me into Mr Oliphant's study, where I found\nthat young man smoking and reading a weekly paper. It was a room well\nstocked with books in the popular religious vein, and the Poets in gilt\neditions adorned his shelves. Mr Oliphant greeted me with the nervous\nease of one who would fain cultivate a good manner. The first sight of\nhim sent my hopes down. He had a large calf-like face, mildly arrogant\neyes, and a chin which fell sharply away beneath the eaves of his\nmoustache. This was not one to do Ladlaw much good; indeed I questioned\nif I could ever make him understand, for the man before me had an\nimpenetrable air of omniscience.\n\n\"I have come to ask you a great favour on behalf of the Ladlaws,\" said\nI. \"You are the only other gentleman in the parish of More, and it is\nyour duty to help your neighbours.\"\n\nHe bowed, with pleased eyes. \"Anything,\" he said. \"I'll be very glad.\"\n\n\"I am staying there just now, you know, and as it happens I must go back\nto town by the night-train. I'll only be gone a day, but you know that\nLadlaw is a melancholy beggar and gets low-spirited. Now I want you to\ngo up and stay at the House for a couple of nights while I am away.\"\n\nIt was an odd request, and he stared at me. \"Why, what's wrong with Mr\nLadlaw?\" he asked. \"I should never have called him melancholy. Now, his\nlady is different. She always looks a little pale. Did she send you to\nask me?\" Mr Oliphant was a stickler for the usages of polite society.\n\nI sat down in a chair and took one of his cigarettes. \"Now, look here,\nOliphant,\" I said. \"You are a man of education and common-sense, and I\nam going to do you the honour to tell you a story which I would not tell\nto a stupid man. A stupid man would laugh at me. I hope you will see the\ngravity of the thing.\"\n\nI told him briefly the points in Ladlaw's case. His eyes grew very round\nas I went on, and when I finished he laughed nervously. He was clearly\nimpressed; but he was too ignorant and unimaginative to understand\nfully, and he had his credit as a representative of modern thought to\nsupport. \"Oh, come now! You don't mean all that; I never heard the like\nof it. You can't expect me as a Christian man to believe in a Pagan\nspirit. I might as well believe in ghosts at once. What has the familiar\nof a heathen emperor to do with this parish?\"\n\n\"Justinian was a Christian,\" I said.\n\nHe looked puzzled. \"It's all preposterous. Meaning no disrespect to you,\nI must decline to believe it. My profession compels me to discourage\nsuch nonsense.\"\n\n\"So does mine,\" I said wearily. \"Good Lord! man, do you think I came\nhere to tell you a fairy tale? It's the most terrible earnest. Now I\nwant you to give me an answer, for I have very little time.\"\n\nHe was still incredulous and inclined to argue. \"Do you know if Mr\nLadlaw has been--eh--a strictly temperate man?\" he asked.\n\nWith this my patience departed. I got up to go, with rude thoughts on\nthe stupidity of the clergy. But Mr Oliphant was far from a refusal. He\nhad no objection to exchange the barren comfort of the manse for the\ncomparative luxury of the House, and he had no distrust of his power to\nenliven. As he accompanied me to the door he explained his position.\n\"You see, if they really want me I will come. Tell Mrs Ladlaw that I\nshall be delighted. Mrs Ladlaw is a lady for whom I have a great\nrespect.\"\n\n\"So have I,\" I said crossly. \"Very well. A trap shall be sent for you\nafter dinner. Good evening, Mr Oliphant. It is a pleasure to have met\nyou.\"\n\nWhen I reached the House, I told Sybil of my arrangement. For the first\ntime since my arrival she smiled. \"It's very kind of him, but I am\nafraid he won't do much good. Bob will frighten him away.\"\n\n\"I fancy he won't. The man is strong in his self-confidence and\nremarkably dense. He'll probably exasperate Bob into sanity. In any case\nI'll be back by Friday morning.\"\n\nAs I drove away the trap arrived at the door, bringing Mr Oliphant and\nhis portmanteau.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nThe events of the next twenty-four hours, during which I was travelling\nin the Scotch express or transacting dreary business in my chambers, are\nknown only from the narrative of the minister. He wrote it out some\nweeks after at my request, for I wished to have all the links in the\ntale. I propose to give the gist of it, as he wrote it, stripped of\ncertain reflections on human life and an inscrutable Providence, with\nwhich he had garnished it.\n\n\n_Narrative of the Reverend Mr Oliphant_\n\nI arrived at the House of More at a quarter-past eight on the Wednesday\nevening. The family had dined early, as Mr Grey was leaving for London,\nand when I arrived I was taken to the library, where I found Mr Ladlaw.\nI had not seen him for some time, and thought him looking pale and a\nlittle haggard. He seemed glad to see me, and made me sit down in a\nchair on his left and draw it up close to him. I wondered at his manner,\nfor though we had always been on good terms he had never admitted me to\nany close intimacy. But now he was more than amiable. He made me ring\nfor toddy, and though he refused to taste it himself, he pressed the\nbeverage on me. Then he gave me a large cigar, at which I trembled, and\nfinally he said that we should play at picquet. I declined resolutely,\nfor it is part of my conscience to refuse to join in any card games; but\nhe made no trouble, and indeed in a moment seemed to have forgotten his\nproposition.\n\nThe next thing he did startled my composure. For he asked abruptly, \"Do\nyou believe in a living personal Devil, Oliphant?\"\n\nI was taken aback, but answered that to the best of my light I did not.\n\n\"And why not?\" he asked sharply,\n\nI explained that it was an old, false, anthropomorphic fiction, and that\nthe modern belief was infinitely more impressive. I quoted the words of\nDr Rintoul, one of our Church leaders. I am sorry to say that Mr\nLadlaw's words were, \"Dr Rintoul be d--d!\"\n\n\"Who the deuce are you to change the belief of centuries?\" he cried.\n\"Our forefathers believed in him. They saw him at evening slinking about\nthe folds and peat-stacks, or wrapped up in a black gown standing in the\npulpits of the Kirk. Are we wiser men than they?\"\n\nI answered that culture had undoubtedly advanced in our day.\n\nMr Ladlaw replied with blasphemous words on modern culture. I had\nimagined him to be a gentleman of considerable refinement, and I knew he\nhad taken a good degree at college. Consequently, I was disagreeably\nsurprised at his new manner.\n\n\"You are nothing better than an ignorant parson,\"--these were his\nwords,--\"and you haven't even the merits of your stupid profession. The\nold Scots ministers were Calvinists to the backbone, and they were\nstrong men--strong men, do you hear?--and they left their mark upon the\nnation. But your new tea-meeting kind of parson, who has nothing but a\nsmattering of bad German to commend him, is a nuisance to God and man.\nAnd they don't believe in the Devil! Well, he'll get them safe enough\nsome day.\"\n\nI implored him to remember my cloth, and curb his bad language.\n\n\"I say the Devil will get you all safe enough some day,\" he repeated.\n\nI rose to retire in as dignified a manner as possible, but he was before\nme and closed the door. I began to be genuinely frightened.\n\n\"For God's sake, don't go!\" he cried. \"Don't leave me alone. Do sit\ndown, Oliphant, like a good chap, and I promise to hold my tongue. You\ndon't know how horrible it is to be left alone.\"\n\nI sat down again, though my composure was shaken. I remembered Mr Grey's\nwords about the strange sickness.\n\nThen Mr Ladlaw fell into an extraordinary moodiness. He sat huddled up\nin his chair, his face turned away from me, and for some time neither of\nus spoke a word. I thought that I had seriously offended him, and\nprepared to apologise, so I touched his left shoulder to attract his\nattention. Instantly he jumped to his feet, screaming, and turned on me\na face of utter terror. I could do nothing but stare at him, and in a\nsecond he quieted down and returned to his seat.\n\nThen he became partially sane, and murmured a sort of excuse. I thought\nthat I would discover what truth lay in Mr Grey's singular hypothesis. I\ndid not ask him bluntly, as an ordinary man would have done, what was\nhis malady, but tactfully, as I thought then, I led the conversation to\ndemoniacal possession in the olden time, and quoted Pellinger's theory\non the Scriptural cases. He answered with extraordinary vehemence,\nshowing a childish credulity I little expected from an educated man.\n\n\"I see that you hold to the old interpretation,\" I said pleasantly.\n\"Nowadays, we tend to find the solution in natural causes.\"\n\n\"Heavens, man!\" he cried. \"What do you mean by natural? You haven't the\nmost rudimentary knowledge of nature. Listen to me, and I will tell you\nsomething.\"\n\nAnd with this he began a long rambling account of something which I\ncould not understand. He talked much about a name which sounded like\nCanaan, and then he wandered to another subject and talked about\nProserpina, whom I remembered from Mr Matthew Arnold's poem. I would\nhave thought him trying to ridicule me, if I had not seen his face,\nwhich was white and drawn with pain; and, again, I would have thought\nhim drunk, but for his well-known temperate habits. By-and-by even my\nnerves, which are very strong, began to suffer. I understood fragments\nof his talk, and the understanding did not reassure me. It was poisonous\nnonsense, but it had a terrible air of realism. He had a queer habit of\ncatching at his heart like a man with the heart disease, and his eyes\nwere like a mad dog's I once saw, the pupil drawn to a pin-point with\nfear. I could not bear it, so I tried to break the spell. I offered,\nagainst my conscience, to play a card game, but his face showed that he\ndid not understand me. I began to feel a sort of languor of terror. I\ncould hardly rise from my chair, and when at last I got up the whole\nroom seemed haunted. I rushed to the bell and rang it violently, and\nthen tried to open the door. But he was before me again, and gripped my\narm so fiercely that I cried out between the pain and my dread of him.\n\n\"Come back!\" he cried hoarsely. \"Don't leave me alone. For God's sake,\nOliphant!\"\n\nJust then the man-servant opened the door, and found the two of us\nstanding like lunatics. I had the sense to save the situation, and I\nasked him to bring more coals for the fire. Then as soon as he turned to\ngo, I stepped out of the open door before Mr Ladlaw could prevent me.\n\nThe hall seemed empty, but to my surprise I found Mrs Ladlaw sleeping\nin a chair by the fire. I did not like to waken her, but I was at my\nwits' end with fright. If I had known the way to the kitchen, I should\nhave sought the servants' company. I ran down a passage, but it seemed\nto end in a blind wall, and in a great fear I turned and ran upstairs.\nBut the upper lobbies seemed to be unlit, and I was turning back when I\nheard Ladlaw's voice behind me. It was muffled and queer, and the sound\ndrove me into the darkness. When I turned a corner, to my relief I saw a\nlamp burning on a table and recognised my bedroom door. Here was\nsanctuary at last, and I ran in and shut it behind me.\n\nMy nerves were so shaken by the evening's performances that I found it\nimpossible to get to sleep. I sat up the better part of the night by the\nfire, and smoked several cigarettes, which in ordinary circumstances I\nshould never have dared to do in a strange bedroom. About four o'clock,\nI think, I dozed off in my chair, and awoke about nine, very stiff and\ncold, to find Ladlaw laughing at me in the doorway.\n\nI was at first so confused that I did not remember what had scared me\nthe night before. Then, as it came back to me, I was amazed at my\nhost's appearance. He looked fresh and well, and in excellent spirits.\nHe laughed immoderately when he found I had not gone to bed.\n\n\"You do look cheap,\" he said. \"Breakfast's in half an hour. You will\nfeel better when you have had a tub.\"\n\nI bathed reluctantly, feeling ill and bitterly cold; but I was comforted\nby a good breakfast. Then I had an opportunity of talking to Mrs Ladlaw.\nAs I remembered her, she had been full of gaiety, and even, I thought, a\nlittle frivolous; but now she was so pale and silent that I pitied her\nsincerely. I began to feel an intense dislike of her husband, partly for\nthe fright he had given me the night before, and partly for the effect\nhis silliness seemed to be having on his wife. The day was a fine one,\nbut after breakfast he showed no intention of going out. I expected to\nbe asked to shoot, a sport which I sometimes try; but he never spoke of\nit, and insisted on my coming to the billiard-room. As we were leaving\nthe table Mrs Ladlaw touched my arm, and asked me in a low tone if I\nwould promise to stay all day with her husband. \"I want to go down to\nMorefoot,\" she said, \"and you know he cannot be left alone.\" I promised\nwillingly, for in the daylight Mr Ladlaw had no terrors for me. I\nthought that Mrs Ladlaw looked relieved. Poor thing! she badly needed a\nrespite.\n\nWe hung aimlessly about the place till lunch, playing a few games of\nbilliards, and in the intervals looking at stables and harness-rooms and\nthe now barren gardens. At lunch Mrs Ladlaw appeared, but immediately\nafter I heard wheels on the gravel and knew that she had gone to\nMorefoot. Then I began to feel nervous again. I was the only responsible\nperson left in the place, and Mr Ladlaw might at any moment relapse into\ncraziness. I watched his moods anxiously, and talked all the nonsense I\nknew to keep him in good humour. I told him stories, I talked wildly of\nsport, I made ridiculous jokes at which I felt myself blushing. At first\nhe seemed amused, but soon I felt that my words were falling on deaf\nears. He himself began to talk, violently, incessantly, and, I may say,\nbrilliantly. If my memory had been better and my balance less upset, I\nmight have made my reputation, though it would have been a reputation,\nperhaps, that a minister of the Gospel might well look askance at. I\ncould have written a terrible romance from that man's babbling. Nay, I\ncould have done more: I could have composed a new philosophy which would\nhave cast Nietzsche in the shade for ever. I do not wish to exaggerate,\nbut I have never been so impressed with a sense of a crazy intellectual\nacumen. This Mr Ladlaw, whom I had known as a good landlord and a\nrespectable country gentleman, now appeared as a kind of horrible\ngenius, a brilliant and malignant satyr. I was shocked and confounded,\nand at the same time filled with admiration. I remember that we passed\nthrough the dining-room, where there was a great marble bust of a Roman\nemperor, an old discoloured thing, but wonderful in its way. Mr Ladlaw\nstopped before it and pointed out its merits. The thing seemed simple\nenough, and yet after the description I fled from it as if it had been a\ndevil. He followed me, still talking, and we found ourselves in the\nlibrary.\n\nI remember that I suggested tea, but he scarcely heeded me. The darkness\nwas falling, Mrs Ladlaw had not returned, and I felt horribly\nuncomfortable. I tried to draw him away from the room which I feared,\nbut he made no sign of understanding. I perceived that the malady of the\nlast night was returning. I hated that library, with its low fire, its\nghastly white books, and its dreary outlook. I picked up one volume,\nand it was lettered on the back 'Sancti Adelberti Certamina.' I dropped\nit, only to feel Mr Ladlaw clutching my right arm and dragging me to one\nof those horrible arm-chairs.\n\n\"The night is coming on, the old Nox Atra that the monks dreaded.\nPromise me that you won't go away.\"\n\nI promised feebly, and prayed for Mrs Ladlaw's return. I suggested that\nthe lamps should be lit. He rose and tried to light the hanging central\none, and I noticed how his hands trembled. His awkwardness upset the\nthing, and it fell with a crash on the floor. He jumped back with a\ncurious scream like an animal.\n\nI was so miserably scared that I had not the heart to do the work for\nhim, so we sat on in the darkness. Any sound from the out-of-doors would\nhave comforted me, but the whole world was as silent as death. I felt\nthat a little more would drive me mad, and the thought roused me to make\na final effort after safety. In spite of all my promises I must get\naway. A man's first duty was to himself, and the hour had come for me. I\nthought with longing of my little bare manse and my solemn housekeeper.\nAnd yet how was I to escape, for this man was the stronger, and he\nwould never let me go.\n\nI begged him to come into the hall, but he refused. Then I became very\ncunning. I suggested that we should go to the door and receive Mrs\nLadlaw. He did not know that she had gone, and the news made him so\nnervous that he accepted my proposal. He caught my arm as before, and,\nleaning heavily upon me, went into the hall. There was no one about, and\nthe fire had died down; but at the far end there was a pale glimmer from\nthe glass door. We opened it and stood on the top step, looking over the\ndark lawns. Now was the time for an effort for freedom. If I could only\nget rid of his hand I might escape across the fields. I believed him to\nbe too weak on his legs to follow me, and in any case I was a\nrespectable runner. Out of doors he seemed less formidable: it was only\nin that haunted room that I shuddered.\n\nI took the only way of escape which presented itself. There was a\nflowering-shrub in a pot on the top of the parapet. I caught this with\nmy elbow and knocked it over, so that it broke with a clatter on the\nstone. As I expected, he screamed and jumped aside, letting go my arm\nfor one instant. The next I was down the steps and running hard across\nthe lawns to the park beyond.\n\nFor a little I heard him stumbling after me, breathing heavily and with\nlittle short cries. I ran with the speed of fear, for till I was within\nmy own doors I could feel no security. Once I turned and there he was, a\nfield behind me, running with his head down like a blind dog. I skirted\nthe village, broke through the little fir plantation, and came out on\nthe highway. I saw the light from Jean's little window, and it was like\na beacon of hope. In a few minutes I was at the door, and my servant\nstared as I rushed in, without hat or overcoat, and wet with\nperspiration. I insisted on barring the doors, and bolting and\nshuttering every window. Then I had the unusual luxury of a fire in my\nbedroom, and there I supped, and sat till I fell asleep.\n\n_End of Mr Oliphant's Statement_\n\n\nIII: EVENTS ON THE UPLANDS\n\nI returned from town by the night express, which landed me at Borrowmuir\nabout seven on the Friday morning. To my surprise there was no dog-cart\nto meet me, as had been arranged, and I was compelled to hire from the\ninn. The omission filled me with forebodings. Things must have gone\nbadly at More in my absence, or the careful Sybil would never have\nforgotten. I grudged the time occupied in that weary drive. The horse\nseemed intolerably slow, the roads unaccountably steep. It was a sharp\nmorning, with haze on the fields and promise of bright sunshine at\nmidday; but, tired as I was with my two days' journey, I was in the\nhumour to see little good in my case. I was thankful when we drew up at\nthe house-door, and, cold and stiff, I hobbled up the steps.\n\nThe door was open, and I entered. The hall was empty, there was no sign\nof any servant, and all the doors were wide to the wall. I tried one\nroom after another without success. Then I made my voice heard in that\nplace. I shouted for Ladlaw, and then I shouted for Sybil. There came no\nanswer, and in despair I rushed to the kitchen wing. There I found a\ncluster of frightened maids, and by dint of much questioning learned the\ntruth.\n\nLadlaw, it seemed, had disappeared from the house about a quarter-past\nsix on the previous night. The minister had decamped and found sanctuary\nin the manse; but there was no trace of the other. Sybil had gone to\nMorefoot in the afternoon, and, returning about half-past six, found\nher husband gone. She had been distracted with anxiety, had gone to the\nmanse, where she found Mr Oliphant in a state of nervous collapse and\nquite unable to make any coherent statement, and had then roused some of\nthe neighbouring shepherds and organised a search-party. They had\nsearched all night, but so far no word had come of the result.\nMeanwhile, Sybil, utterly wearied and a little hysterical, was in bed,\nsleeping, for her anxiety of the past week had culminated in a sort of\ndeep languor, which in the circumstances was the best thing that could\nhave happened. There was no question of wakening her; but, as I snatched\na hurried breakfast, it seemed to me that I must at once follow the\nsearch. They were to meet in the morning at a farm called Mossrigging,\nbeneath a hill of the same name, and if I went there I might get word of\nthem. In the meantime I must interview Mr Oliphant.\n\nI found him in bed, unshaven, and very hollow about the eyes. He told me\na lame story, and indeed his fright was so palpable that I had not the\nheart to blame him. But I insisted that he should get up and come with\nme, for every man would be needed to search those mossy uplands. I was\ndog-tired, sleepy, and irritable, and yet I must go: why should not\nthis man, who had had his night's rest?\n\nHe made some feeble objection; but he had a conscience of his own and\nrose obediently. We set out to the nearest part of the moor, he in his\nclergyman's garb, and I in a dark suit and a bowler; and I remember\nthinking how oddly unsuited was our dress for this stalking-game. I was\nwretchedly anxious, for I liked Ladlaw, and God alone knew where he\nmight have got to in the night. There were deep bogs and ugly old\npit-shafts on the moor, and there were ravines with sheer red sides. At\nany moment we might find tragedy, and I dreaded the report of the\nsearchers at Mossrigging. When we left the road, we followed an old\ncart-track up a shallow glen, where stood some curious old stone\nchimneys, which had been built by a speculator who hoped to make a\nfortune from peat. The sun was beginning to break through the haze, and\nmiles of low moorland were disclosed to left and right. But the hills in\nfront were still cloudy, and we were close on the cottage before we knew\nits whereabouts. It stood high in a crinkle of hill, with a wide\nprospect north and east to the sea, and as I turned I saw Morebrig\nsmoking clear in the autumn light, and the chimneys of the House above\nthe fir-trees. Out on the waters three ships were sailing like\ntoy-boats, a reminder of the bustling modern life beyond this antique\nplace of horrors.\n\nThe house was full of men, devouring their morning porridge. They were\nshepherds of the neighbourhood, and two boys from the village, as well\nas John Ker, the head-keeper from More. One man, Robert Tod by name,\nanswered my unspoken question. \"We havena gotten him, but we've gotten\nhis whereabouts. We got a glisk o' him about six this mornin' on the\nbackside o' the Lowe Moss. I kent him fine by the way he ran. Lord, but\nhe was souple! Nane o' us could come within a hunner yairds o' him.\nWe'll hae to wyse him gently, sir, and some o' us'll hae to tak a lang\ncast round the hill.\"\n\nI had no ambition to \"tak a lang cast round the hill\"; but these men had\nbeen abroad all night, and I and the minister must undertake the duty.\nTod agreed to come with us, and the shaggy silent men of the party\nexpounded the plan of campaign. The Lowe Moss was impassable on one\nside, on another bounded by a steep hill-shoulder, and on the others by\ntwo narrow glens. They would watch the glens; we three should make a\ncircuit and come back over the hill, driving the fugitive before us.\nOnce enclosed between the moss and our three parties, he should be an\neasy capture. I implored them to go to work gently, for I feared that he\nmight be driven into the bog. They shook their heads and laughed: it was\nall a kind of crazy sport to them, and their one idea was to carry out\ntheir orders.\n\nI confess I was desperately tired before we had forded the upper waters\nof the More, crossed the Redscaurhead, and looked over the green\npasture-lands to the south. It was a most curious sight; for whereas one\nside of the range was rough and mossy and hideous with red scaurs, the\nother was a gentle slope with sweet hill-grass and bright shallow\nwaters. It was a new country where the old curse could not reign, and an\nidea took possession of me that if once Ladlaw came into the place he\nwould be healed of his malady. The air seemed clearer, the sky softer,\nthe whole world simple and clean. We fetched a circuit down one of the\nlittle streams till we came to the back of the hill which on its face is\ncalled Mossrigging. I was abominably tired, but in better spirits. As\nfor the minister, he groaned occasionally, but never spoke a word.\n\nAt the foot we separated to the distance of half a mile, and began the\nascent. So far there was no sign of our man. Tod was on the far east, I\nwas in the centre, and Mr Oliphant took the west. I cannot profess to\nremember exactly all the incidents of that climb. I was too stupid with\nsleep and exertion, and the little distant figures of my companions\ndanced in a kind of haze. The ascent was simple,--short grass, varied by\nshort heather, with at wide intervals a patch of shingle. The shepherd\nwalked with an easy swing, the minister stumbled and groaned, while I,\nin sheer bravado and irritation at my weakness, kept up a kind of\ndespairing trot. The Devil and Ladlaw combined might confront me, but I\nwas too tired to care. Indeed, in a little I had forgotten all about the\npurpose of our quest.\n\nThen, quite suddenly, almost at the summit, in a little hollow of the\nridge, I saw our man. He was sitting on the ground, directly in the\nminister's line, and his head was sunk on his breast. I remember being\ntaken with a horrid thought that he was dead, and quickened my trot to a\nrun. Meanwhile the minister was approaching very near, but apparently\nquite unconscious of his presence. His eyes were in the ends of the\nearth, and he ambled along with no purpose in the world.\n\nWhat happened rests mainly on my authority; but Robert Tod, shepherd in\nNether Mossrigging, is ready to swear to the essentials. Mr Oliphant\nstumbled on into the hollow till he was within ten yards of the sitting\nfigure. Ladlaw never moved; but the subtle influence which tells of\nhuman presence came suddenly upon the minister's senses, for he lifted\nhis eyes and started. The man was still scared to death, and he\nnaturally turned to run away, when something happened which I cannot\nwell explain. Ladlaw was still sitting with his head on his breast, and\nyet it was clear to my mind that Ladlaw had somehow risen and was\nstruggling with the minister. I could see the man's wrists strained and\ntwisted as if in a death-grapple, and his white face reddening with\nexertion. He seemed to be held round the middle, for his feet tottered\nseveral times, and once he lurched to the left side, so that I thought\nhe was thrown. And yet he was only battling with the air, for there was\nLadlaw sitting quietly some yards from him.\n\nAnd then suddenly the contest seemed to cease. Mr Oliphant ran straight\npast the sitting man and over the brow of the hill. Surprise had held\nTod and myself motionless. Now the spell was broken, and from our\nseveral places we ran towards Ladlaw. I heard the shepherd's loud voice\ncrying, \"Look at Oliphant! Oliphant's no wise!\" and I thought I heard a\nnote of sardonic mirth. In any case, it was the minister he was after,\nfor a moment later he disappeared down the further slope.\n\nMr Oliphant might go where he pleased, but my business was with my\nfriend. I caught Ladlaw by the shoulder and shook him fiercely. Then I\npulled him to his feet, let him go, and he rolled over. The sight was so\ncomic that I went into a fit of nervous laughter; but the shock seemed\nto have restored his wits, for he opened sleepy eyes and regarded me\nsolemnly. I do not propose to analyse my reasons, but I was conscious\nthat it was the old Ladlaw who was looking at me. I knew he was healed\nof his malady, but how I knew it I do not know. He stuck both fists into\nhis eyes like a sleepy child. Then he yawned, and looked down ruefully\nat soaked, soiled, and ragged clothing. Then he looked reproachfully at\nme.\n\n\"What's up?\" he asked. \"Stop that hideous row and tell me what has\nhappened. Have I had an accident?\"\n\nThen I spoke cunningly. \"Nothing much. A little bit of a fall, but\nyou'll be all right soon. Why, you look better already.\" And again I\nwent into a fit of laughter.\n\nHe grew wholesomely cross. \"Oh, don't be a confounded jackass!\" he\ncried. \"I feel as if I hadn't slept for a week, and I'm hungry and\nthirsty.\"\n\nHe swallowed the contents of my flask, and wolfed my sandwiches in a\ndisgusting way. Then he proposed that we should go home. \"I'm tired, and\nI'm sick of shooting for the day. By the bye, where's my gun?\"\n\n\"Broken,\" I said, \"broken in the fall. The keeper is going to look after\nit.\" And with the aid of my arm he began with feeble steps his homeward\njourney.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nThe minister--this is the tale of Robert Tod and his colleagues--ran\ndown the precipitous part of Mossrigging like a thing inspired. Tod,\nlabouring heavily in his wake, declared that he went down the hillside\nlike a loose stone, slipping, stumbling, yet never altogether losing his\nfeet, and clearing dangers solely by the grace of God. As he went, said\nthe men, he made clutches at the air, and his face was the face of one\ndistraught. They ran together from their different places to intercept\nhim on the edge of the bog, for at first they thought he was Ladlaw.\nWhen they saw their mistake they did not stop, for Tod was making\nfrantic signals for pursuit. John Ker, the More keeper, was nearest, and\nhe declared afterwards that he never approached a business so\nunwillingly. \"I wad hae grippit a wild stot or a daft staig suner nor\nyon man,\" he said. But the business was too public for sheer cowardice.\nJohn assaulted him on the left flank while the other attacked in front,\nand John was bowled over like a ninepin. It was not the minister, he\nsaid, but something else, something with an arm two yards long, which\nflew out like a steam-hammer. But the others were more fortunate. One\ncaught Mr Oliphant's right arm, another hung on to the flaps of his\ncoat, while a third tripped him up gallantly, till the whole body of\nthem rolled on the ground. Then ensued an indescribable fray. Tod got a\nblack eye from some unknown source, and one of the boys lost several\nfront teeth. Howls of rage filled the moorland air, and all the while,\nthey declared, the minister was praying with an unction which was never\nheard in the kirk. \"Lord, give me peace!\" he cried. \"Lord, take the\nthing away!\" and then again, \"Get thee behind me, Satan!\"\n\nThe end came very suddenly, for the company rolled into the bog. The\nminister, being lowest, saved the others, but he floundered in the green\nslime up to his middle. The accident seemed to inspire sobriety. He\nceased his prayers, his face lost its horror, and took on a common human\nfear. Then Tod and his friends laboured heroically to rescue him, and\nall the while, they declared, something was pommelling them and bruising\nthem, and they showed four long black marks on their bodies. Slowly they\nraised Mr Oliphant from the slough, and on a bridge of coats he crept\nback to solid land. And then something happened which was the crowning\nmarvel of the business. It was a still sharp day; but suddenly there\ncame a wind, hot and harsh, and like nothing they had ever known. It\nstung them like nettles, played for a moment in their midst, and then in\na kind of visible cloud passed away from them over the bog in the\ndirection of the Red Loch. And with the wind went the Thing which had so\nlong played havoc in the place; and the men were left with an unkempt\nfigure, coated with slime and shivering with fright, but once more the\nsane and prosaic Mr Oliphant, the minister of the parish of More.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *      *       *\n\nWe got Ladlaw and the minister back to the house with much trouble, for\nboth were weak on their legs, and one was still in a pitiable fright.\nThe two kept eyeing each other, one with a sort of disgusted amusement,\nthe other with a wondering fear. The shepherds were mystified; but they\nwere matter-of-fact beings, who, having fulfilled their orders, gave no\nmore thought to the business. The wounded nursed their bruises and swore\ncheerfully, and the boy with the broken teeth whistled his complaints. A\ngood dinner restored them to humour, and the last I saw was Ker and Tod\ngoing over the Odyssey of their adventures to a circle of critical\nspectators.\n\nWhen Ladlaw and the minister had washed and fed, and sat smoking in the\nlibrary, I went to talk to Sybil. I have often wondered how much she\nunderstood. At any rate she took my word that the trouble had passed,\nand in a fit of tears thanked me for my labours. Then she said she would\ngo to her husband, and I led her to the library, where the two heroes\nwere smoking the pipe of peace.\n\nLadlaw greeted her cheerily as if nothing had happened. \"I feel a bit\nshaken,\" he said, \"but I'll be all right after a night's rest. You\nneedn't be nervous, Sib. By the bye, Harry, where's that gun?\"\n\nThen he wandered round the room, casting an unfriendly eye on his new\nacquisitions. \"Look here! Somebody has been playing the fool in this\nplace. I can't see a single Badminton, and where did this stuff come\nfrom?\" And he tapped a row of books in old vellum. \"I never remember the\nthings before. St Adelbert! Who on earth was he? Why, any one who came\nin suddenly and did not know me might think I was a minor poet. I wish\nyou'd tell Harrison to clear all this truck away.\"\n\nThe minister sat by the fire and said nothing. The marvellous had\nintruded upon his easy life and spoiled the balance. I was sorry for the\nman as I thanked him in a low tone and asked how he felt.\n\nThe words came from between chattering teeth.\n\n\"I am getting b-better,\" he said, \"but I have had a terrible\nsh-shock.--I am a Christian man and I have been tempted. I thought we\nlived in a progressive age, but now I know that we d-d-don't. And I am\ngoing to write to Dr Rintoul.\"\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[3] I have identified the bust, which, when seen under other\ncircumstances, had little power to affect me. It was a copy of the head\nof Justinian in the Tesci Museum at Venice, and several duplicates\nexist, dating apparently from the seventh century, and showing traces of\nByzantine decadence in the scrollwork on the hair. It is engraved in M.\nDelacroix's 'Byzantium,' and, I think, in Windscheid's\n'Pandektenlehrbuch.'\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nTHE OUTGOING OF THE TIDE[4]\n\n\n     \"Between the hours of twelve and one, even at the turning of the\n     tide.\"\n\n\nMen come from distant parts to admire the tides of Solloway, which race\nin at flood and retreat at ebb with a greater speed than a horse can\nfollow. But nowhere are there queerer waters than in our own parish of\nCaulds at the place called the Sker Bay, where between two horns of land\na shallow estuary receives the stream of the Sker. I never daunder by\nits shores, and see the waters hurrying like messengers from the great\ndeep, without solemn thoughts and a memory of Scripture words on the\nterror of the sea. The vast Atlantic may be fearful in its wrath, but\nwith us it is no clean open rage, but the deceit of the creature, the\nunholy ways of quicksands when the waters are gone, and their stealthy\nreturn like a thief in the night-watches. But in the times of which I\nwrite there were more awful fears than any from the violence of nature.\nIt was before the day of my ministry in Caulds, for then I was a bit\ncallant in short clothes in my native parish of Lesmahagow; but the\nworthy Doctor Chrystal, who had charge of spiritual things, has told me\noften of the power of Satan and his emissaries in that lonely place. It\nwas the day of warlocks and apparitions, now happily driven out by the\nzeal of the General Assembly. Witches pursued their wanchancy calling,\nbairns were spirited away, young lassies selled their souls to the evil\none, and the accuser of the brethren in the shape of a black tyke was\nseen about cottage-doors in the gloaming. Many and earnest were the\nprayers of good Doctor Chrystal, but the evil thing, in spite of his\nwrestling, grew and flourished in his midst. The parish stank of\nidolatry, abominable rites were practised in secret, and in all the\nbounds there was no one had a more evil name for this black traffic than\none Alison Sempill, who bode at the Skerburnfoot.\n\nThe cottage stood nigh the burn in a little garden with lilyoaks and\ngrosart-bushes lining the pathway. The Sker ran by in a linn among\nhollins, and the noise of its waters was ever about the place. The\nhighroad on the other side was frequented by few, for a nearer-hand way\nto the west had been made through the Lowe Moss. Sometimes a herd from\nthe hills would pass by with sheep, sometimes a tinkler or a wandering\nmerchant, and once in a long while the laird of Heriotside on his grey\nhorse riding to Gledsmuir. And they who passed would see Alison Hirpling\nin her garden, speaking to herself like the ill wife she was, or sitting\non a cuttystool by the doorside with her eyes on other than mortal\nsights. Where she came from no man could tell. There were some said she\nwas no woman, but a ghost haunting some mortal tenement. Others would\nthreep she was gentrice, come of a persecuting family in the west, that\nhad been ruined in the Revolution wars. She never seemed to want for\nsiller; the house was as bright as a new preen, the yaird better delved\nthan the manse garden; and there was routh of fowls and doos about the\nsmall steading, forbye a wheen sheep and milk-kye in the fields. No man\never saw Alison at any market in the countryside, and yet the\nSkerburnfoot was plenished yearly in all proper order. One man only\nworked on the place, a doited lad who had long been a charge to the\nparish, and who had not the sense to fear danger or the wit to\nunderstand it. Upon all other the sight of Alison, were it but for a\nmoment, cast a cold grue, not to be remembered without terror. It seems\nshe was not ordinarily ill-faured, as men use the word. She was maybe\nsixty years in age, small and trig, with her grey hair folded neatly\nunder her mutch. But the sight of her eyes was not a thing to forget.\nJohn Dodds said they were the een of a deer with the devil ahint them,\nand indeed they would so appal an onlooker that a sudden unreasoning\nterror came into his heart, while his feet would impel him to flight.\nOnce John, being overtaken in drink on the roadside by the cottage, and\ndreaming that he was burning in hell, woke, and saw the old wife\nhobbling towards him. Thereupon he fled soberly to the hills, and from\nthat day became a quiet-living humble-minded Christian. She moved about\nthe country like a wraith, gathering herbs in dark loanings, lingering\nin kirkyairds, and casting a blight on innocent bairns. Once Robert\nSmillie found her in a ruinous kirk on the Lang Muir where of old the\nidolatrous rites of Rome were practised. It was a hot day, and in the\nquiet place the flies buzzed in crowds, and he noted that she sat\nclothed in them as with a garment, yet suffering no discomfort. Then he,\nhaving mind of Beelzebub, the god of flies, fled without a halt\nhomewards; but, falling in the Coo's Loan, broke two ribs and a\ncollar-bone, the whilk misfortune was much blessed to his soul. And\nthere were darker tales in the countryside, of weans stolen, of lassies\nmisguided, of innocent beasts cruelly tortured, and in one and all there\ncame in the name of the wife of the Skerburnfoot. It was noted by them\nthat kenned best that her cantrips were at their worst when the tides in\nthe Sker Bay ebbed between the hours of twelve and one. At this season\nof the night the tides of mortality run lowest, and when the outgoing of\nthese unco waters fell in with the setting of the current of life, then\nindeed was the hour for unholy revels. While honest men slept in their\nbeds, the auld rudas carlines took their pleasure. That there is a\ndelight in sin no man denies, but to most it is but a broken glint in\nthe pauses of their conscience. But what must be the hellish joy of\nthose lost beings who have forsworn God and trysted with the Prince of\nDarkness, it is not for a Christian to say. Certain it is that it must\nbe great, though their master waits at the end of the road to claim the\nwizened things they call their souls. Serious men, notably Gidden Scott\nin the Back of the Hill and Simon Wauch in the Sheiling of Chasehope,\nhave seen Alison wandering on the wet sands, dancing to no earthly\nmusic, while the heavens, they said, were full of lights and sounds\nwhich betokened the presence of the prince of the powers of the air. It\nwas a season of heart-searching for God's saints in Caulds, and the\ndispensation was blessed to not a few.\n\nIt will seem strange that in all this time the presbytery was idle, and\nno effort was made to rid the place of so fell an influence. But there\nwas a reason, and the reason, as in most like cases, was a lassie.\nForbye Alison there lived at the Skerburnfoot a young maid, Ailie\nSempill, who by all accounts was as good and bonnie as the other was\nevil. She passed for a daughter of Alison's, whether born in wedlock or\nnot I cannot tell; but there were some said she was no kin to the auld\nwitch-wife, but some bairn spirited away from honest parents. She was\nyoung and blithe, with a face like an April morning and a voice in her\nthat put the laverocks to shame. When she sang in the kirk folk have\ntold me that they had a foretaste of the music of the New Jerusalem,\nand when she came in by the village of Caulds old men stottered to their\ndoors to look at her. Moreover from her earliest days the bairn had some\nglimmerings of grace. Though no minister would visit the Skerburnfoot,\nor if he went, departed quicker than he came, the girl Ailie attended\nregular at the catechising at the Mains of Sker. It may be that Alison\nthought she would be a better offering for the devil if she were given\nthe chance of forswearing God, or it may be that she was so occupied in\nher own dark business that she had no care of the bairn. Meanwhile the\nlass grew up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. I have heard\nDoctor Chrystal say that he never had a communicant more full of the\nthings of the Spirit. From the day when she first declared her wish to\ncome forward to the hour when she broke bread at the table, she walked\nlike one in a dream. The lads of the parish might cast admiring eyes on\nher bright cheeks and yellow hair as she sat in her white gown in the\nkirk, but well they knew she was not for them. To be the bride of Christ\nwas the thought that filled her heart; and when at the fencing of the\ntables Doctor Chrystal preached from Matthew nine and fifteen, \"Can the\nchildren of the bride-chamber mourn, as long as the bridegroom is with\nthem?\" it was remarked by sundry that Ailie's face was liker the\ncountenance of an angel than of a mortal lass.\n\nIt is with the day of her first communion that this narrative of mine\nbegins. As she walked home after the morning table she communed in\nsecret and her heart sank within her. She had mind of God's mercies in\nthe past, how He had kept her feet from the snares of evil-doers which\nhad been spread around her youth. She had been told unholy charms like\nthe seven south streams and the nine rowan berries, and it was noted\nwhen she went first to the catechising that she prayed \"Our Father which\nwert in heaven,\" the prayer which the ill wife Alison had taught her,\nmeaning by it Lucifer who had been in heaven and had been cast out\ntherefrom. But when she had come to years of discretion she had freely\nchosen the better part, and evil had ever been repelled from her soul\nlike Gled water from the stones of Gled brig. Now she was in a rapture\nof holy content. The drucken bell--for the ungodly fashion lingered in\nCaulds--was ringing in her ears as she left the village, but to her it\nwas but a kirk-bell and a goodly sound. As she went through the woods\nwhere the primroses and the whitethorn were blossoming, the place\nseemed as the land of Elam, wherein there were twelve wells and\nthreescore and ten palm-trees. And then, as it might be, another thought\ncame into her head, for it is ordained that frail mortality cannot long\ncontinue in holy joy. In the kirk she had been only the bride of Christ;\nbut as she came through the wood, with the birds lilting and the winds\nof the world blowing, she had mind of another lover. For this lass,\nthough so cold to men, had not escaped the common fate. It seemed that\nthe young Heriotside, riding by one day, stopped to speir something or\nother, and got a glisk of Ailie's face, which caught his fancy. He\npassed the road again many times, and then he would meet her in the\ngloaming or of a morning in the field as she went to fetch the kye.\n\"Blue are the hills that are far away\" is an owercome in the\ncountryside, and while at first on his side it may have been but a young\nman's fancy, to her he was like the god Apollo descending from the\nskies. He was good to look on, brawly dressed, and with a tongue in his\nhead that would have wiled the bird from the tree. Moreover, he was of\ngentle kin, and she was a poor lass biding in a cot-house with an\nill-reputed mother. It seems that in time the young man, who had begun\nthe affair with no good intentions, fell honestly in love, while she\nwent singing about the doors as innocent as a bairn, thinking of him\nwhen her thoughts were not on higher things. So it came about that long\nere Ailie reached home it was on young Heriotside that her mind dwelt,\nand it was the love of him that made her eyes glow and her cheeks\nredden.\n\nNow it chanced that at that very hour her master had been with Alison,\nand the pair of them were preparing a deadly pit. Let no man say that\nthe devil is not a cruel tyrant. He may give his folk some scrapings of\nunhallowed pleasure; but he will exact tithes, yea of anise and cummin,\nin return, and there is aye the reckoning to pay at the hinder end. It\nseems that now he was driving Alison hard. She had been remiss of late,\nfewer souls sent to hell, less zeal in quenching the Spirit, and above\nall the crowning offence that her bairn had communicated in Christ's\nkirk. She had waited overlong, and now it was like that Ailie would\nescape her toils. I have no skill of fancy to tell of that dark\ncollogue, but the upshot was that Alison swore by her lost soul and the\npride of sin to bring the lass into thrall to her master. The fiend had\nbare departed when Ailie came over the threshold to find the auld\ncarline glunching by the fire.\n\nIt was plain she was in the worst of tempers. She flyted on the lass\ntill the poor thing's cheek paled. \"There you gang,\" she cried, \"troking\nwi' thae wearifu' Pharisees o' Caulds, whae daurna darken your mither's\ndoor. A bonnie dutiful child, quotha! Wumman, ha ye nae pride?--no even\nthe mense o' a tinkler-lass?\" And then she changed her voice, and would\nbe as soft as honey. \"My puir wee Ailie! was I thrawn till ye? Never\nmind, my bonnie. You and me are a' that's left, and we maunna be ill to\nither.\" And then the two had their dinner, and all the while the auld\nwife was crooning over the lass. \"We maun 'gree weel,\" she says, \"for\nwe're like to be our lee-lane for the rest o' our days. They tell me\nHeriotside is seeking Joan o' the Croft, and they're sune to be cried in\nGledsmuir kirk.\"\n\nIt was the first the lass had heard of it, and you may fancy she was\nstruck dumb. And so with one thing and other the auld witch raised the\nfiends of jealousy in that innocent heart. She would cry out that\nHeriotside was an ill-doing wastrel, and had no business to come and\nflatter honest lasses. And then she would speak of his gentle birth and\nhis leddy mother, and say it was indeed presumption to hope that so\ngreat a gentleman could mean all that he said. Before long Ailie was\nsilent and white, while her mother rhymed on about men and their ways.\nAnd then she could thole it no longer, but must go out and walk by the\nburn to cool her hot brow and calm her thoughts, while the witch indoors\nlaughed to herself at her devices.\n\nFor days Ailie had an absent eye and a sad face, and it so fell out that\nin all that time young Heriotside, who had scarce missed a day, was laid\nup with a broken arm and never came near her. So in a week's time she\nwas beginning to hearken to her mother when she spoke of incantations\nand charms for restoring love. She kenned it was sin; but though not\nseven days syne she had sat at the Lord's table, so strong is love in a\nyoung heart that she was on the very brink of it. But the grace of God\nwas stronger than her weak will. She would have none of her mother's\nrunes and philters, though her soul cried out for them. Always when she\nwas most disposed to listen some merciful power stayed her consent.\nAlison grew thrawner as the hours passed. She kenned of Heriotside's\nbroken arm, and she feared that any day he might recover and put her\nstratagems to shame. And then it seems that she collogued with her\nmaster and heard word of a subtler device. For it was approaching that\nuncanny time of year, the festival of Beltane, when the auld pagans were\nwont to sacrifice to their god Baal. In this season warlocks and\ncarlines have a special dispensation to do evil, and Alison waited on\nits coming with graceless joy. As it happened, the tides in the Sker Bay\nebbed at this time between the hours of twelve and one, and, as I have\nsaid, this was the hour above all others when the powers of darkness\nwere most potent. Would the lass but consent to go abroad in the\nunhallowed place at this awful season and hour of the night, she was as\nfirmly handfasted to the devil as if she had signed a bond with her own\nblood. For there, it seemed, the forces of good fled far away, the world\nfor one hour was given over to its ancient prince, and the man or woman\nwho willingly sought the spot was his bond-servant for ever. There are\ndeadly sins from which God's people may recover. A man may even\ncommunicate unworthily, and yet, so be it he sin not against the Holy\nGhost, he may find forgiveness. But it seems that for this Beltane sin\nthere could be no pardon, and I can testify from my own knowledge that\nthey who once committed it became lost souls from that day. James\nDeuchar, once a promising professor, fell thus out of sinful bravery and\ndied blaspheming; and of Kate Mallison, who went the same road, no man\ncan tell. Here, indeed, was the witch-wife's chance, and she was the\nmore keen, for her master had warned her that this was her last chance.\nEither Ailie's soul would be his, or her auld wrinkled body and black\nheart would be flung from this pleasant world to their apportioned\nplace.\n\nSome days later it happened that young Heriotside was stepping home over\nthe Lang Muir about ten at night--it being his first jaunt from home\nsince his arm had mended. He had been to the supper of the Forest Club\nat the Cross Keys in Gledsmuir, a clamjamfry of wild young blades who\npassed the wine and played at cartes once a-fortnight. It seems he had\ndrunk well, so that the world ran round about and he was in the best of\ntempers. The moon came down and bowed to him, and he took off his hat to\nit. For every step he travelled miles, so that in a little he was beyond\nScotland altogether and pacing the Arabian desert. He thought he was the\nPope of Rome, so he held out his foot to be kissed, and rolled twenty\nyards to the bottom of a small brae. Syne he was the King of France,\nand fought hard with a whinbush till he had banged it to pieces. After\nthat nothing would content him but he must be a bogle, for he found his\nhead dunting on the stars and his legs were knocking the hills together.\nHe thought of the mischief he was doing to the auld earth, and sat down\nand cried at his wickedness. Then he went on, and maybe the steep road\nto the Moss Rig helped him, for he began to get soberer and ken his\nwhereabouts.\n\nOn a sudden he was aware of a man linking along at his side. He cried \"A\nfine night,\" and the man replied. Syne, being merry from his cups, he\ntried to slap him on the back. The next he kenned he was rolling on the\ngrass, for his hand had gone clean through the body and found nothing\nbut air.\n\nHis head was so thick with wine that he found nothing droll in this.\n\"Faith, friend,\" he says, \"that was a nasty fall for a fellow that has\nsupped weel. Where might your road be gaun to?\"\n\n\"To the World's End,\" said the man; \"but I stop at the Skerburnfoot.\"\n\n\"Bide the night at Heriotside,\" says he. \"It's a thought out of your\nway, but it's a comfortable bit.\"\n\n\"There's mair comfort at the Skerburnfoot,\" said the dark man.\n\nNow the mention of the Skerburnfoot brought back to him only the thought\nof Ailie and not of the witch-wife, her mother. So he jaloused no ill,\nfor at the best he was slow in the uptake.\n\nThe two of them went on together for a while, Heriotside's fool head\nfilled with the thought of the lass. Then the dark man broke silence.\n\"Ye're thinkin' o' the maid Ailie Sempill,\" says he.\n\n\"How ken ye that?\" asked Heriotside.\n\n\"It is my business to read the herts o' men,\" said the other.\n\n\"And who may ye be?\" said Heriotside, growing eerie.\n\n\"Just an auld packman,\" said he--\"nae name ye wad ken, but kin to mony\ngentle houses.\"\n\n\"And what about Ailie, you that ken sae muckle?\" asked the young man.\n\n\"Naething,\" was the answer--\"naething that concerns you, for ye'll never\nget the lass.\"\n\n\"By God, and I will!\" says Heriotside, for he was a profane swearer.\n\n\"That's the wrong name to seek her in, any way,\" said the man.\n\nAt this the young laird struck a great blow at him with his stick, but\nfound nothing to resist him but the hill-wind.\n\nWhen they had gone on a bit the dark man spoke again. \"The lassie is\nthirled to holy things,\" says he. \"She has nae care for flesh and blood,\nonly for devout contemplation.\"\n\n\"She loves me,\" says Heriotside.\n\n\"Not you,\" says the other, \"but a shadow in your stead.\"\n\nAt this the young man's heart began to tremble, for it seemed that there\nwas truth in what his companion said, and he was ower drunk to think\ngravely.\n\n\"I kenna whatna man ye are,\" he says, \"but ye have the skill of lassies'\nhearts. Tell me truly, is there no way to win her to common love?\"\n\n\"One way there is,\" said the man, \"and for our friendship's sake I will\ntell it you. If ye can ever tryst wi' her on Beltane's Eve on the Sker\nsands, at the green link o' the burn where the sands begin, on the ebb\no' the tide when the midnight is bye but afore cockcrow, she'll be\nyours, body and soul, for this world and for ever.\"\n\nAnd then it appeared to the young man that he was walking his lone up\nthe grass walk of Heriotside with the house close by him. He thought no\nmore of the stranger he had met, but the word stuck in his heart.\n\nIt seems that about this very time Alison was telling the same tale to\npoor Ailie. She cast up to her every idle gossip she could think of.\n\"It's Joan o' the Croft,\" was aye her owercome, and she would threep\nthat they were to be cried in kirk on the first Sabbath of May. And then\nshe would rhyme on about the black cruelty of it, and cry down curses on\nthe lover, so that her daughter's heart grew cauld with fear. It is\nterrible to think of the power of the world even in a redeemed soul.\nHere was a maid who had drunk of the well of grace and tasted of God's\nmercies, and yet there were moments when she was ready to renounce her\nhope. At those awful seasons God seemed far off and the world very nigh,\nand to sell her soul for love looked a fair bargain. At other times she\nwould resist the devil and comfort herself with prayer; but aye when she\nwoke there was the sore heart, and when she went to sleep there were the\nweary eyes. There was no comfort in the goodliness of spring or the\nbright sunshine weather, and she who had been wont to go about the\ndoors lightfoot and blithe was now as dowie as a widow woman.\n\nAnd then one afternoon in the hinder end of April came young Heriotside\nriding to the Skerburnfoot. His arm was healed, he had got him a fine\nnew suit of green, and his horse was a mettle beast that well set off\nhis figure. Ailie was standing by the doorstep as he came down the road,\nand her heart stood still with joy. But a second thought gave her\nanguish. This man, so gallant and braw, would never be for her;\ndoubtless the fine suit and the capering horse were for Joan o' the\nCroft's pleasure. And he in turn, when he remarked her wan cheek and\ndowie eyes, had mind of what the dark man said on the muir, and saw in\nher a maid sworn to no mortal love. Yet the passion for her had grown\nfiercer than ever, and he swore to himself that he would win her back\nfrom her phantasies. She, one may believe, was ready enough to listen.\nAs she walked with him by the Sker water his words were like music to\nher ears, and Alison within-doors laughed to herself and saw her devices\nprosper.\n\nHe spoke to her of love and his own heart, and the girl hearkened\ngladly. Syne he rebuked her coldness and cast scorn upon her piety, and\nso far was she beguiled that she had no answer. Then from one thing and\nanother he spoke of some true token of their love. He said he was\njealous, and craved something to ease his care. \"It's but a small thing\nI ask,\" says he; \"but it will make me a happy man, and nothing ever\nshall come atween us. Tryst wi' me for Beltane's Eve on the Sker sands,\nat the green link o' the burn where the sands begin, on the ebb o' the\ntide when midnight is bye but afore cockcrow. For,\" said he, \"that was\nour forebears' tryst for true lovers, and wherefore no for you and me?\"\n\nThe lassie had grace given her to refuse, but with a woful heart, and\nHeriotside rode off in black discontent, leaving poor Ailie to sigh her\nlone. He came back the next day and the next, but aye he got the same\nanswer. A season of great doubt fell upon her soul. She had no clearness\nin her hope, nor any sense of God's promises. The Scriptures were an\nidle tale to her, prayer brought her no refreshment, and she was\nconvicted in her conscience of the unpardonable sin. Had she been less\nfull of pride she would have taken her troubles to good Doctor Chrystal\nand got comfort; but her grief made her silent and timorous, and she\nfound no help anywhere. Her mother was ever at her side, seeking with\ncoaxings and evil advice to drive her to the irrevocable step. And all\nthe while there was her love for the man riving in her bosom and giving\nher no ease by night or day. She believed she had driven him away and\nrepented her denial. Only her pride held her back from going to\nHeriotside and seeking him herself. She watched the road hourly for a\nsight of his face, and when the darkness came she would sit in a corner\nbrooding over her sorrows.\n\nAt last he came, speiring the old question. He sought the same tryst,\nbut now he had a further tale. It seemed he was eager to get her away\nfrom the Skerburnside and auld Alison. His aunt, the Lady Balcrynie,\nwould receive her gladly at his request till the day of their marriage.\nLet her but tryst with him at the hour and place he named, and he would\ncarry her straight to Balcrynie, where she would be safe and happy. He\nnamed that hour, he said, to escape men's observation for the sake of\nher own good name. He named that place, for it was near her dwelling,\nand on the road between Balcrynie and Heriotside, which fords the Sker\nBurn. The temptation was more than mortal heart could resist. She gave\nhim the promise he sought, stifling the voice of conscience; and as she\nclung to his neck it seemed to her that heaven was a poor thing compared\nwith a man's love.\n\nThree days remained till Beltane's Eve, and throughout the time it was\nnoted that Heriotside behaved like one possessed. It may be that his\nconscience pricked him, or that he had a glimpse of his sin and its\ncoming punishment. Certain it is that, if he had been daft before, he\nnow ran wild in his pranks, and an evil report of him was in every\nmouth. He drank deep at the Cross Keys, and fought two battles with\nyoung lads that had angered him. One he led off with a touch on the\nshoulder, the other goes lame to this day from a wound he got in the\ngroin. There was word of the procurator-fiscal taking note of his\ndoings, and troth, if they had continued long he must have fled the\ncountry. For a wager he rode his horse down the Dow Craig, wherefore the\nname of the place is the Horseman's Craig to this day. He laid a hundred\nguineas with the laird of Slipperfield that he would drive four horses\nthrough the Slipperfield loch, and in the prank he had his bit chariot\ndung to pieces and a good mare killed. And all men observed that his\neyes were wild and his face grey and thin, and that his hand would\ntwitch as he held the glass, like one with the palsy.\n\nThe eve of Beltane was lown and hot in the low country, with fire\nhanging in the clouds and thunder grumbling about the heavens. It seems\nthat up in the hills it had been an awesome deluge of rain, but on the\ncoast it was still dry and lowering. It is a long road from Heriotside\nto the Skerburnfoot. First you go down the Heriot Water, and syne over\nthe Lang Muir to the edge of Mucklewhan. When you pass the steadings of\nMirehope and Cockmalane you turn to the right and ford the Mire Burn.\nThat brings you on to the turnpike road, which you will ride till it\nbends inland, while you keep on straight over the Whinny Knowes to the\nSker Bay. There, if you are in luck, you will find the tide out and the\nplace fordable dryshod for a man on a horse. But if the tide runs, you\nwill do well to sit down on the sands and content yourself till it turn,\nor it will be the solans and scarts of the Solloway that will be seeing\nthe next of you. On this Beltane's Eve the young man, after supping with\nsome wild young blades, bade his horse be saddled about ten o'clock. The\ncompany were eager to ken his errand, but he waved them back. \"Bide\nhere,\" he says, \"and birl the wine till I return. This is a ploy of my\nown on which no man follows me.\" And there was that in his face as he\nspoke which chilled the wildest, and left them well content to keep to\nthe good claret and the soft seat and let the daft laird go his own\nways.\n\nWell and on, he rode down the bridle-path in the wood, along the top of\nthe Heriot glen, and as he rode he was aware of a great noise beneath\nhim. It was not wind, for there was none, and it was not the sound of\nthunder, and aye as he speired at himself what it was it grew the louder\ntill he came to a break in the trees. And then he saw the cause, for\nHeriot was coming down in a furious flood, sixty yards wide, tearing at\nthe roots of the aiks, and flinging red waves against the drystone\ndykes. It was a sight and sound to solemnise a man's mind, deep calling\nunto deep, the great waters of the hills running to meet with the great\nwaters of the sea. But Heriotside recked nothing of it, for his heart\nhad but one thought and the eye of his fancy one figure. Never had he\nbeen so filled with love of the lass, and yet it was not happiness but a\ndeadly secret fear.\n\nAs he came to the Lang Muir it was geyan dark, though there was a moon\nsomewhere behind the clouds. It was little he could see of the road,\nand ere long he had tried many moss-pools and sloughs, as his braw new\ncoat bare witness. Aye in front of him was the great hill of Mucklewhan,\nwhere the road turned down by the Mire. The noise of the Heriot had not\nlong fallen behind him ere another began, the same eerie sound of burns\ncrying to ither in the darkness. It seemed that the whole earth was\noverrun with waters. Every little runnel in the bog was astir, and yet\nthe land around him was as dry as flax, and no drop of rain had fallen.\nAs he rode on the din grew louder, and as he came over the top of\nMirehope he kenned by the mighty rushing noise that something uncommon\nwas happening with the Mire Burn. The light from Mirehope sheiling\ntwinkled on his left, and had the man not been dozened with his fancies\nhe might have observed that the steading was deserted and men were\ncrying below in the fields. But he rode on, thinking of but one thing,\ntill he came to the cot-house of Cockmalane, which is nigh the fords of\nthe Mire.\n\nJohn Dodds, the herd who bode in the place, was standing at the door,\nand he looked to see who was on the road so late.\n\n\"Stop,\" says he, \"stop, Laird Heriotside. I kenna what your errand is,\nbut it is to no holy purpose that ye're out on Beltane Eve. D'ye no hear\nthe warning o' the waters?\"\n\nAnd then in the still night came the sound of Mire like the clash of\narmies.\n\n\"I must win over the ford,\" says the laird quietly, thinking of another\nthing.\n\n\"Ford!\" cried John in scorn. \"There'll be nae ford for you the nicht\nunless it be the ford o' the river Jordan. The burns are up, and bigger\nthan man ever saw them. It'll be a Beltane's Eve that a' folk will\nremember. They tell me that Gled valley is like a loch, and that there's\nan awesome folk drooned in the hills. Gin ye were ower the Mire, what\nabout crossin' the Caulds and the Sker?\" says he, for he jaloused he was\ngoing to Gledsmuir.\n\nAnd then it seemed that that word brought the laird to his senses. He\nlooked the airt the rain was coming from, and he saw it was the airt the\nSker flowed. In a second, he has told me, the works of the devil were\nrevealed to him. He saw himself a tool in Satan's hands, he saw his\ntryst a device for the destruction of the body, as it was assuredly\nmeant for the destruction of the soul, and there came on his mind the\npicture of an innocent lass borne down by the waters with no place for\nrepentance. His heart grew cold in his breast. He had but one thought, a\nsinful and reckless one--to get to her side, that the two might go\ntogether to their account. He heard the roar of the Mire as in a dream,\nand when John Dodds laid hands on his bridle he felled him to the earth.\nAnd the next seen of it was the laird riding the floods like a man\npossessed.\n\nThe horse was the grey stallion he aye rode, the very beast he had\nridden for many a wager with the wild lads of the Cross Keys. No man but\nhimself durst back it, and it had lamed many a hostler lad and broke two\nnecks in its day. But it seemed it had the mettle for any flood, and\ntook the Mire with little spurring. The herds on the hillside looked to\nsee man and steed swept into eternity; but though the red waves were\nbreaking about his shoulders and he was swept far down, he aye held on\nfor the shore. The next thing the watchers saw was the laird struggling\nup the far bank, and casting his coat from him, so that he rode in his\nsark. And then he set off like a wildfire across the muir towards the\nturnpike road. Two men saw him on the road and have recorded their\nexperience. One was a gangrel, by name M'Nab, who was travelling from\nGledsmuir to Allerkirk with a heavy pack on his back and a bowed head.\nHe heard a sound like wind afore him, and, looking up, saw coming down\nthe road a grey horse stretched out to a wild gallop and a man on its\nback with a face like a soul in torment. He kenned not whether it was\ndevil or mortal, but flung himself on the roadside, and lay like a corp\nfor an hour or more till the rain aroused him. The other was one Sim\nDoolittle, the fish-hawker from Allerfoot, jogging home in his fish-cart\nfrom Gledsmuir fair. He had drunk more than was fit for him, and he was\nsinging some light song, when he saw approaching, as he said, the pale\nhorse mentioned in the Revelations, with Death seated as the rider.\nThoughts of his sins came on him like a thunder-clap, fear loosened his\nknees, he leaped from the cart to the road, and from the road to the\nback of a dyke. Thence he flew to the hills, and was found the next\nmorning far up among the Mire Craigs, while his horse and cart were\ngotten on the Aller sands, the horse lamed and the cart without the\nwheels.\n\nAt the tollhouse the road turns inland to Gledsmuir, and he who goes to\nSker Bay must leave it and cross the wild land called the Whinny\nKnowes, a place rough with bracken and foxes' holes and old stone\ncairns. The tollman, John Gilzean, was opening his window to get a\nbreath of air in the lown night when he heard or saw the approaching\nhorse. He kenned the beast for Heriotside's, and, being a friend of the\nlaird's, he ran down in all haste to open the yett, wondering to himself\nabout the laird's errand on this night. A voice came down the road to\nhim bidding him hurry; but John's old fingers were slow with the keys,\nand so it happened that the horse had to stop, and John had time to look\nup at the gash and woful face.\n\n\"Where away the nicht sae late, laird?\" says John.\n\n\"I go to save a soul from hell,\" was the answer.\n\nAnd then it seems that through the open door there came the chapping of\na clock.\n\n\"Whatna hour is that?\" asks Heriotside.\n\n\"Midnicht,\" says John, trembling, for he did not like the look of\nthings.\n\nThere was no answer but a groan, and horse and man went racing down the\ndark hollows of the Whinny Knowes.\n\nHow he escaped a broken neck in that dreadful place no human being will\never tell. The sweat, he has told me, stood in cold drops upon his\nforehead; he scarcely was aware of the saddle in which he sat; and his\neyes were stelled in his head, so that he saw nothing but the sky ayont\nhim. The night was growing colder, and there was a small sharp wind\nstirring from the east. But, hot or cold, it was all one to him, who was\nalready cold as death. He heard not the sound of the sea nor the\npeesweeps startled by his horse, for the sound that ran in his ears was\nthe roaring Sker Water and a girl's cry. The thought kept goading him,\nand he spurred the grey till the creature was madder than himself. It\nleaped the hole which they call the Devil's Mull as I would step over a\nthistle, and the next he kenned he was on the edge of the Sker Bay.\n\nIt lay before him white and ghastly, with mist blowing in wafts across\nit and a slow swaying of the tides. It was the better part of a mile\nwide, but save for some fathoms in the middle where the Sker current\nran, it was no deeper even at flood than a horse's fetlocks. It looks\neerie at bright midday when the sun is shining and whaups are crying\namong the seaweeds; but think what it was on that awesome night with the\npowers of darkness brooding over it like a cloud. The rider's heart\nquailed for a moment in natural fear. He stepped his beast a few feet\nin, still staring afore him like a daft man. And then something in the\nsound or the feel of the waters made him look down, and he perceived\nthat the ebb had begun and the tide was flowing out to sea.\n\nHe kenned that all was lost, and the knowledge drove him to stark\ndespair. His sins came in his face like birds of night, and his heart\nshrank like a pea. He knew himself for a lost soul, and all that he\nloved in the world was out in the tides. There, at any rate, he could go\ntoo, and give back that gift of life he had so blackly misused. He cried\nsmall and soft like a bairn, and drove the grey out into the waters. And\naye as he spurred it the foam should have been flying as high as his\nhead; but in that uncanny hour there was no foam, only the waves running\nsleek like oil. It was not long ere he had come to the Sker channel,\nwhere the red moss-waters were roaring to the sea, an ill place to ford\nin midsummer heat, and certain death, as folks reputed it, at the\nsmallest spate. The grey was swimming, but it seemed the Lord had other\npurposes for him than death, for neither man nor horse could drown. He\ntried to leave the saddle, but he could not; he flung the bridle from\nhim, but the grey held on, as if some strong hand were guiding. He cried\nout upon the devil to help his own, he renounced his Maker and his God;\nbut whatever his punishment, he was not to be drowned. And then he was\nsilent, for something was coming down the tide.\n\nIt came down as quiet as a sleeping bairn, straight for him as he sat\nwith his horse breasting the waters, and as it came the moon crept out\nof a cloud and he saw a glint of yellow hair. And then his madness died\naway and he was himself again, a weary and stricken man. He hung down\nover the tides and caught the body in his arms, and then let the grey\nmake for the shallows. He cared no more for the devil and all his\nmyrmidons, for he kenned brawly he was damned. It seemed to him that his\nsoul had gone from him and he was as toom as a hazel-shell. His breath\nrattled in his throat, the tears were dried up in his head, his body had\nlost its strength, and yet he clung to the drowned maid as to a hope of\nsalvation. And then he noted something at which he marvelled dumbly. Her\nhair was drookit back from her clay-cold brow, her eyes were shut, but\nin her face there was the peace of a child. It seemed even that her lips\nwere smiling. Here, certes, was no lost soul, but one who had gone\njoyfully to meet her Lord. It may be in that dark hour at the burn-foot,\nbefore the spate caught her, she had been given grace to resist her\nadversary and flung herself upon God's mercy.\n\nAnd it would seem that it had been granted, for when he came to the\nSkerburnfoot there in the corner sat the weird-wife Alison dead as a\nstone and shrivelled like a heatherbirn.\n\nFor days Heriotside wandered the country or sat in his own house with\nvacant eye and trembling hands. Conviction of sin held him like a vice:\nhe saw the lassie's death laid at his door, her face haunted him by day\nand night, and the word of the Lord dirled in his ears telling of wrath\nand punishment. The greatness of his anguish wore him to a shadow, and\nat last he was stretched on his bed and like to perish. In his extremity\nworthy Doctor Chrystal went to him unasked and strove to comfort him.\nLong, long the good man wrestled, but it seemed as if his ministrations\nwere to be of no avail. The fever left his body, and he rose to stotter\nabout the doors; but he was still in his torments, and the mercy-seat\nwas far from him. At last in the back-end of the year came Mungo\nMuirhead to Caulds to the autumn communion, and nothing would serve him\nbut he must try his hand at this storm-tossed soul. He spoke with power\nand unction, and a blessing came with his words, the black cloud lifted\nand showed a glimpse of grace, and in a little the man had some\nassurance of salvation. He became a pillar of Christ's Kirk, prompt to\ncheck abominations, notably the sin of witchcraft, foremost in good\nworks; but with it all a humble man, who walked contritely till his\ndeath. When I came first to Caulds I sought to prevail upon him to\naccept the eldership, but he aye put me by, and when I heard his tale I\nsaw that he had done wisely. I mind him well as he sat in his chair or\ndaundered through Caulds, a kind word for every one and sage counsel in\ntime of distress, but withal a severe man to himself and a crucifier of\nthe body. It seems that this severity weakened his frame, for three\nyears syne come Martinmas he was taken ill with a fever, and after a\nweek's sickness he went to his account, where I trust he is accepted.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[4] From the unpublished remains of the Reverend John Dennistoun,\nsometime minister of the Gospel in the parish of Caulds, and author of\n'Satan's Artifices against the Elect.'\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nTHE RIME OF TRUE THOMAS\n\n\n     _The Tale of the Respectable Whaup and the Great Godly Man_\n\n\nThis is a story that I heard from the King of the Numidians, who with\nhis tattered retinue encamps behind the peat-ricks. If you ask me where\nand when it happened I fear that I am scarce ready with an answer. But I\nwill vouch my honour for its truth; and if any one seek further proof,\nlet him go east the town and west the town and over the fields of\nNomansland to the Long Muir, and if he find not the King there among the\npeat-ricks, and get not a courteous answer to his question, then times\nhave changed in that part of the country, and he must continue the quest\nto his Majesty's castle in Spain.\n\nOnce upon a time, says the tale, there was a Great Godly Man, a shepherd\nto trade, who lived in a cottage among heather. If you looked east in\nthe morning, you saw miles of moor running wide to the flames of\nsunrise, and if you turned your eyes west in the evening, you saw a\ngreat confusion of dim peaks with the dying eye of the sun set in a\ncrevice. If you looked north, too, in the afternoon, when the life of\nthe day is near its end and the world grows wise, you might have seen a\ncountry of low hills and haughlands with many waters running sweet among\nmeadows. But if you looked south in the dusty forenoon or at hot midday,\nyou saw the far-off glimmer of a white road, the roofs of the ugly\nlittle clachan of Kilmaclavers, and the rigging of the fine new kirk of\nThreepdaidle.\n\nIt was a Sabbath afternoon in the hot weather, and the man had been to\nkirk all the morning. He had heard a grand sermon from the minister (or\nit may have been the priest, for I am not sure of the date and the King\ntold the story quickly)--a fine discourse with fifteen heads and three\nparentheses. He held all the parentheses and fourteen of the heads in\nhis memory, but he had forgotten the fifteenth; so for the purpose of\nrecollecting it, and also for the sake of a walk, he went forth in the\nafternoon into the open heather.\n\nThe whaups were crying everywhere, making the air hum like the twanging\nof a bow. _Poo-eelie, Poo-eelie_, they cried, _Kirlew, Kirlew_, _Whaup,\nWha- -up_. Sometimes they came low, all but brushing him, till they\ndrove settled thoughts from his head. Often had he been on the moors,\nbut never had he seen such a stramash among the feathered clan. The\nwailing iteration vexed him, and he _shoo'd_ the birds away with his\narms. But they seemed to mock him and whistle in his very face, and at\nthe flaff of their wings his heart grew sore. He waved his great stick;\nhe picked up bits of loose moor-rock and flung them wildly; but the\ngodless crew paid never a grain of heed. The morning's sermon was still\nin his head, and the grave words of the minister still rattled in his\near, but he could get no comfort for this intolerable piping. At last\nhis patience failed him and he swore unchristian words. \"Deil rax the\nbirds' thrapples,\" he cried.\n\nAt this all the noise was hushed and in a twinkling the moor was empty.\nOnly one bird was left, standing on tall legs before him with its head\nbowed upon its breast, and its beak touching the heather.\n\nThen the man repented his words and stared at the thing in the moss.\n\"What bird are ye?\" he asked thrawnly.\n\n\"I am a Respectable Whaup,\" said the bird, \"and I kenna why ye have\nbroken in on our family gathering. Once in a hundred years we foregather\nfor decent conversation, and here we are interrupted by a muckle,\nsweerin' man.\"\n\nNow the shepherd was a fellow of great sagacity, yet he never thought it\na queer thing that he should be having talk in the mid-moss with a bird.\n\n\"What for were ye making siccan a din, then?\" he asked. \"D'ye no ken ye\nwere disturbing the afternoon of the holy Sabbath?\"\n\nThe bird lifted its eyes and regarded him solemnly. \"The Sabbath is a\nday of rest and gladness,\" it said, \"and is it no reasonable that we\nshould enjoy the like?\"\n\nThe shepherd shook his head, for the presumption staggered him. \"Ye\nlittle ken what ye speak of,\" he said. \"The Sabbath is for them that\nhave the chance of salvation, and it has been decreed that salvation is\nfor Adam's race and no for the beasts that perish.\"\n\nThe whaup gave a whistle of scorn. \"I have heard all that long ago. In\nmy great-grandmother's time, which 'ill be a thousand years and mair\nsyne, there came a people from the south with bright brass things on\ntheir heads and breasts and terrible swords at their thighs. And with\nthem were some lang-gowned men who kenned the stars and would come out\no' nights to talk to the deer and the corbies in their ain tongue. And\none, I mind, foregathered with my great-grandmother and told her that\nthe souls o' men flitted in the end to braw meadows where the gods bide\nor gaed down to the black pit which they ca' Hell. But the souls o'\nbirds, he said, die wi' their bodies, and that's the end o' them.\nLikewise in my mother's time, when there was a great abbey down yonder\nby the Threepdaidle Burn which they called the House of Kilmaclavers,\nthe auld monks would walk out in the evening to pick herbs for their\ndistillings, and some were wise and kenned the ways of bird and beast.\nThey would crack often o'nights with my ain family, and tell them that\nChrist had saved the souls o' men, but that birds and beasts were\nperishable as the dew o' heaven. And now ye have a black-gowned man in\nThreepdaidle who threeps on the same owercome. Ye may a' ken something\no' your ain kitchen-midden, but certes! ye ken little o' the warld\nbeyond it.\"\n\nNow this angered the man, and he rebuked the bird. \"These are great\nmysteries,\" he said, \"which are no to be mentioned in the ears of an\nunsanctified creature. What can a thing like you wi' a lang neb and twae\nlegs like stilts ken about the next warld?\"\n\n\"Weel, weel,\" said the whaup, \"we'll let the matter be. Everything to\nits ain trade, and I will not dispute with ye on metapheesics. But if ye\nken something about the next warld, ye ken terrible little about this.\"\n\nNow this angered the man still more, for he was a shepherd reputed to\nhave great skill in sheep and esteemed the nicest judge of hogg and\nwether in all the countryside. \"What ken ye about that?\" he asked. \"Ye\nmay gang east to Yetholm and west to Kells, and no find a better herd.\"\n\n\"If sheep were a',\" said the bird, \"ye micht be right; but what o' the\nwide warld and the folk in it? Ye are Simon Etterick o' the Lowe Moss.\nDo ye ken aucht o' your forebears?\"\n\n\"My father was a God-fearing man at the Kennelhead, and my grandfather\nand great-grandfather afore him. One o' our name, folk say, was shot at\na dykeback by the Black Westeraw.\"\n\n\"If that's a',\" said the bird, \"ye ken little. Have ye never heard o'\nthe little man, the fourth back from yoursel', who killed the Miller o'\nBewcastle at the Lammas Fair? That was in my ain time, and from my\nmother I have heard o' the Covenanter who got a bullet in his wame\nhunkering behind the divot-dyke and praying to his Maker. There were\nothers o' your name rode in the Hermitage forays and burned Naworth and\nWarkworth and Castle Gay. I have heard o' an Etterick, Sim o' the\nRedcleuch, who cut the throat o' Jock Johnstone in his ain house by the\nAnnan side. And my grandmother had tales o' auld Ettericks who rade wi'\nDouglas and the Bruce and the ancient Kings o' Scots; and she used to\ntell o' others in her mother's time, terrible shock-headed men, hunting\nthe deer and rinnin' on the high moors, and bidin' in the broken stane\nbiggings on the hill-taps.\"\n\nThe shepherd stared, and he, too, saw the picture. He smelled the air of\nbattle and lust and foray, and forgot the Sabbath.\n\n\"And you yoursel',\" said the bird, \"are sair fallen off from the auld\nstock. Now ye sit and spell in books, and talk about what ye little\nunderstand, when your fathers were roaming the warld. But little cause\nhave I to speak, for I too am a downcome. My bill is two inches shorter\nthan my mother's, and my grandmother was taller on her feet. The warld\nis getting weaklier things to dwell in it, even since I mind mysel'.\"\n\n\"Ye have the gift o' speech, bird,\" said the man, \"and I would hear\nmair.\" You will perceive that he had no mind of the Sabbath day or the\nfifteenth head of the forenoon's discourse.\n\n\"What things have I to tell ye when ye dinna ken the very horn-book o'\nknowledge? Besides, I am no clatter-vengeance to tell stories in the\nmiddle o' the muir, where there are ears open high and low. There's\nothers than me wi' mair experience and a better skill at the telling.\nOur clan was well acquaint wi' the reivers and lifters o' the muirs, and\ncould crack fine o' wars and the taking of cattle. But the blue hawk\nthat lives in the corrie o' the Dreichil can speak o' kelpies and the\ndwarfs that bide in the hill. The heron, the lang solemn fellow, kens o'\nthe greenwood fairies and the wood elfins, and the wild geese that\nsquatter on the tap o' the Muneraw will croak to ye of the merrymaidens\nand the girls o' the pool. The wren--him that hops in the grass below\nthe birks--has the story of the _Lost Ladies of the Land_, which is ower\nauld and sad for any but the wisest to hear; and there is a wee bird\nbides in the heather--hill-lintie men call him--who sings the _Lay of\nthe West Wind_, and the _Glee of the Rowan Berries_. But what am I\ntalking of? What are these things to you, if ye have not first heard\nTrue Thomas's Rime, which is the beginning and end o' all things?\"\n\n\"I have heard no rime,\" said the man, \"save the sacred psalms o' God's\nKirk.\"\n\n\"Bonny rimes,\" said the bird. \"Once I flew by the hinder end o' the Kirk\nand I keekit in. A wheen auld wives wi' mutches and a wheen solemn men\nwi' hoasts! Be sure the Rime is no like yon.\"\n\n\"Can ye sing it, bird?\" said the man, \"for I am keen to hear it.\"\n\n\"Me sing,\" cried the bird, \"me that has a voice like a craw! Na, na, I\ncanna sing it, but maybe I can take ye where ye may hear it. When I was\nyoung an auld bogblitter did the same to me, and sae began my education.\nBut are ye willing and brawly willing?--for if ye get but a sough of it\nye will never mair have an ear for other music.\"\n\n\"I am willing and brawly willing,\" said the man.\n\n\"Then meet me at the Gled's Cleuch Head at the sun's setting,\" said the\nbird, and it flew away.\n\n\nNow it seemed to the man that in a twinkling it was sunset, and he found\nhimself at the Gled's Cleuch Head with the bird flapping in the heather\nbefore him. The place was a long rift in the hill, made green with\njuniper and hazel, where it was said True Thomas came to drink the\nwater.\n\n\"Turn ye to the west,\" said the whaup, \"and let the sun fall on your\nface; then turn ye five times round about and say after me the Rune of\nthe Heather and the Dew.\" And before he knew, the man did as he was\ntold, and found himself speaking strange words, while his head hummed\nand danced as if in a fever.\n\n\"Now lay ye down and put your ear to the earth,\" said the bird; and the\nman did so. Instantly a cloud came over his brain, and he did not feel\nthe ground on which he lay or the keen hill-air which blew about him. He\nfelt himself falling deep into an abysm of space, then suddenly caught\nup and set among the stars of heaven. Then slowly from the stillness\nthere welled forth music, drop by drop like the clear falling of rain,\nand the man shuddered, for he knew that he heard the beginning of the\nRime.\n\nHigh rose the air, and trembled among the tallest pines and the summits\nof great hills. And in it were the sting of rain and the blatter of\nhail, the soft crush of snow and the rattle of thunder among crags. Then\nit quieted to the low sultry croon which told of blazing midday when the\nstreams are parched and the bent crackles like dry tinder. Anon it was\nevening, and the melody dwelled among the high soft notes which mean the\ncoming of dark and the green light of sunset. Then the whole changed to\na great p\u00e6an which rang like an organ through the earth. There were\ntrumpet notes in it and flute notes and the plaint of pipes. \"Come\nforth,\" it cried; \"the sky is wide and it is a far cry to the world's\nend. The fire crackles fine o' nights below the firs, and the smell of\nroasting meat and wood smoke is dear to the heart of man. Fine, too, is\nthe sting of salt and the risp of the north wind in the sheets. Come\nforth, one and all, to the great lands oversea, and the strange tongues\nand the fremit peoples. Learn before you die to follow the Piper's Son,\nand though your old bones bleach among grey rocks, what matter, if you\nhave had your bellyful of life and come to your heart's desire?\" And the\ntune fell low and witching, bringing tears to the eyes and joy to the\nheart; and the man knew (though no one told him) that this was the first\npart of the Rime, the _Song of the Open Road_, the _Lilt of the\nAdventurer_, which shall be now and ever and to the end of days.\n\nThen the melody changed to a fiercer and sadder note. He saw his\nforefathers, gaunt men and terrible, run stark among woody hills. He\nheard the talk of the bronze-clad invader, and the jar and clangour as\nstone met steel. Then rose the last coronach of his own people, hiding\nin wild glens, starving in corries, or going hopelessly to the death. He\nheard the cry of Border foray, the shouts of the famished Scots as they\nharried Cumberland, and he himself rode in the midst of them. Then the\ntune fell more mournful and slow, and Flodden lay before him. He saw the\nflower of the Scots gentry around their King, gashed to the breast-bone,\nstill fronting the lines of the south, though the paleness of death sat\non each forehead. \"The flowers of the Forest are gone,\" cried the lilt,\nand through the long years he heard the cry of the lost, the desperate,\nfighting for kings over the water and princes in the heather. \"Who\ncares?\" cried the air. \"Man must die, and how can he die better than in\nthe stress of fight with his heart high and alien blood on his sword?\nHeigh-ho! One against twenty, a child against a host, this is the\nromance of life.\" And the man's heart swelled, for he knew (though no\none told him) that this was the _Song of Lost Battles_ which only the\ngreat can sing before they die.\n\nBut the tune was changing, and at the change the man shivered, for the\nair ran up to the high notes and then down to the deeps with an eldrich\ncry, like a hawk's scream at night, or a witch's song in the gloaming.\nIt told of those who seek and never find, the quest that knows no\nfulfilment. \"There is a road,\" it cried, \"which leads to the Moon and\nthe Great Waters. No change-house cheers it, and it has no end; but it\nis a find road, a braw road--who will follow it?\" And the man knew\n(though no one told him) that this was the _Ballad of Grey Weather_,\nwhich makes him who hears it sick all the days of his life for something\nwhich he cannot name. It is the song which the birds sing on the moor in\nthe autumn nights, and the old crow on the treetop hears and flaps his\nwing. It is the lilt which men and women hear in the darkening of their\ndays, and sigh for the unforgettable; and lovesick girls get catches of\nit and play pranks with their lovers. It is a song so old that Adam\nheard it in the Garden before Eve came to comfort him, so young that\nfrom it still flows the whole joy and sorrow of earth.\n\nThen it ceased, and all of a sudden the man was rubbing his eyes on the\nhillside, and watching the falling dusk. \"I have heard the Rime,\" he\nsaid to himself, and he walked home in a daze. The whaups were crying,\nbut none came near him, though he looked hard for the bird that had\nspoken with him. It may be that it was there and he did not know it, or\nit may be that the whole thing was only a dream; but of this I cannot\nsay.\n\n\nThe next morning the man rose and went to the manse.\n\n\"I am glad to see you, Simon,\" said the minister, \"for it will soon be\nthe Communion Season, and it is your duty to go round with the tokens.\"\n\n\"True,\" said the man, \"but it was another thing I came to talk about,\"\nand he told him the whole tale.\n\n\"There are but two ways of it, Simon,\" said the minister. \"Either ye are\nthe victim of witchcraft, or ye are a self-deluded man. If the former\n(whilk I am loth to believe), then it behoves ye to watch and pray lest\nye enter into temptation. If the latter, then ye maun put a strict watch\nover a vagrom fancy, and ye'll be quit o' siccan whigmaleeries.\"\n\nNow Simon was not listening, but staring out of the window. \"There was\nanother thing I had it in my mind to say,\" said he. \"I have come to lift\nmy lines, for I am thinking of leaving the place.\"\n\n\"And where would ye go?\" asked the minister, aghast.\n\n\"I was thinking of going to Carlisle and trying my luck as a dealer, or\nmaybe pushing on with droves to the South.\"\n\n\"But that's a cauld country where there are no faithfu' ministrations,\"\nsaid the minister.\n\n\"Maybe so, but I am not caring very muckle about ministrations,\" said\nthe man, and the other looked after him in horror.\n\nWhen he left the manse he went to a Wise Woman, who lived on the left\nside of the kirk-yard above Threepdaidle burn-foot. She was very old,\nand sat by the ingle day and night, waiting upon death. To her he told\nthe same tale.\n\nShe listened gravely, nodding with her head. \"Ach,\" she said, \"I have\nheard a like story before. And where will you be going?\"\n\n\"I am going south to Carlisle to try the dealing and droving,\" said the\nman, \"for I have some skill of sheep.\"\n\n\"And will ye bide there?\" she asked.\n\n\"Maybe aye, and maybe no,\" he said. \"I had half a mind to push on to the\nbig toun or even to the abroad. A man must try his fortune.\"\n\n\"That's the way of men,\" said the old wife. \"I, too, have heard the\nRime, and many women who now sit decently spinning in Kilmaclavers have\nheard it. But a woman may hear it and lay it up in her soul and bide at\nhame, while a man, if he get but a glisk of it in his fool's heart, must\nneeds up and awa' to the warld's end on some daft-like ploy. But gang\nyour ways and fare-ye-weel. My cousin Francie heard it, and he went\nnorth wi' a white cockade in his bonnet and a sword at his side, singing\n'Charlie's come hame.' And Tam Crichtoun o' the Bourhopehead got a sough\no' it one simmer's morning, and the last we heard o' Tam he was fechting\nlike a deil among the Frenchmen. Once I heard a tinkler play a sprig of\nit on the pipes, and a' the lads were wud to follow him. Gang your\nways, for I am near the end o' mine.\" And the old wife shook with her\ncoughing.\n\nSo the man put up his belongings in a pack on his back and went\nwhistling down the Great South Road.\n\n\nWhether or not this tale have a moral it is not for me to say. The King\n(who told it me) said that it had, and quoted a scrap of Latin, for he\nhad been at Oxford in his youth before he fell heir to his kingdom. One\nmay hear tunes from the Rime, said he, in the thick of a storm on the\nscarp of a rough hill, in the soft June weather, or in the sunset\nsilence of a winter's night. But let none, he added, pray to have the\nfull music; for it will make him who hears it a footsore traveller in\nthe ways o' the world and a masterless man till death.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nBASILISSA\n\n\nI\n\nWhen Vernon was a very little boy he was the sleepiest of mortals, but\nin the spring he had seasons of bad dreams, and breakfast became an idle\nmeal. Mrs Ganthony, greatly concerned, sent for Dr Moreton from Axby,\nand homely remedies were prescribed.\n\n\"It is the spring fever,\" said the old man. \"It gives the gout to me and\nnightmares to this baby; it brings lads and lasses together, and\nscatters young men about the world. An antique complaint, Mrs Ganthony.\nBut it will right itself, never fear. _Ver non semper viret._\" Chuckling\nat his ancient joke, the doctor mounted his horse, leaving the nurse\nonly half comforted. \"What fidgets me,\" she told the housekeeper, \"is\nthe way his lordship holds his tongue. For usual he'll shout as lusty as\na whelp. But now I finds him in the morning with his eyes like moons\nand his skin white and shiny, and never a cheep has he given the whole\nblessed night, with me laying next door, and it open, and a light\nsleeper at all times, Mrs Wace, ma'am.\"\n\nEvery year the dreams came, generally--for his springs were spent at\nSeverns--in the big new night-nursery at the top of the west wing, which\nhis parents had built not long before their death. It had three windows\nlooking over the moorish flats which run up to the Lancashire fells, and\nfrom one window, by craning your neck, you could catch a glimpse of the\nsea. It was all hung, too, with a Chinese paper whereon pink and green\nparrots squatted in wonderful blue trees, and there seemed generally to\nbe a wood fire burning. Vernon's recollections of his childish nightmare\nare hazy. He always found himself in a room different from the nursery\nand bigger, but with the same smell of wood smoke. People came and went,\nsuch as his nurse, the butler, Simon the head-keeper, Uncle Appleby his\nguardian, Cousin Jennifer, the old woman who sold oranges in Axby, and a\nhost of others. Nobody hindered them from going away, and they seemed to\nbe pleading with him to come too. There was danger in the place;\nsomething was going to happen in that big room, and if by that time he\nwas not gone there would be mischief. But it was quite clear to him that\nhe could not go. He must stop there, with the wood smoke in his\nnostrils, and await the advent of a terrible Something. But he was never\nquite sure of the nature of the compulsion. He had a notion that if he\nmade a rush for the door at Uncle Appleby's heels he would be allowed to\nescape, but that somehow he would be behaving badly. Anyhow, the place\nput him into a sweat of fright, and Mrs Ganthony looked darkly at him in\nthe morning.\n\n\nVernon was nine before this odd spring dream began to take definite\nshape--at least he thinks he must have been about that age. The\ndream-stage was emptying. There was nobody in the room now but himself,\nand he saw its details a little more clearly. It was not any apartment\nin the modern magnificence of Severns. Rather it looked like one of the\nbig old panelled chambers which the boy remembered from visits to\nMidland country houses, where he had arrived after dark and had been put\nto sleep in a great bed in a place lit with dancing firelight. In the\nmorning it had looked only an ordinary big room, but at that hour of the\nevening it had seemed an enchanted citadel. The dreamroom was not\nunlike these, for there was the scent of a wood fire and there were\ndancing shadows, but he could not see clearly the walls or the ceiling,\nand there was no bed. In one corner was a door which led to the outer\nworld, and through this he knew that he might on no account pass.\nAnother door faced him, and he knew that he had only to turn the handle\nand enter it. But he did not want to, for he understood quite clearly\nwhat was beyond. There was another room like the first one, but he knew\nnothing about it, except that opposite the entrance another door led out\nof it. Beyond was a third chamber, and so on interminably. There seemed\nto the boy no end to this fantastic suite. He thought of it as a great\nsnake of masonry, winding up hill and down dale away to the fells or the\nsea. Yes, but there was an end. Somewhere far away in one of the rooms\nwas a terror waiting on him, or, as he feared, coming towards him. Even\nnow it might be flitting from room to room, every minute bringing its\nsoft tread nearer to the chamber of the wood fire.\n\nAbout this time of life the dream was an unmitigated horror. Once it\ncame while he was ill with a childish fever, and it sent his\ntemperature up to a point which brought Dr Moreton galloping from Axby.\nIn his waking hours he did not, as a rule, remember it clearly; but\nduring the fever, asleep and awake, that sinuous building, one room\nthick, with each room opening from the other, was never away from his\nthoughts. It fretted him to think that outside were the cheerful moors\nwhere he hunted for plovers' eggs, and that only a thin wall of stone\nkept him from pleasant homely things. The thought used to comfort him\nfor a moment when he was awake, but in the dream it never came near him.\nAsleep, the whole world seemed one suite of rooms, and he, a forlorn\nlittle prisoner, doomed to wait grimly on the slow coming through the\nmany doors of a Fear which transcended word and thought.\n\nHe was a silent, self-absorbed boy, and though the fact of his\nnightmares was patent to the little household, the details remained\nlocked in his heart. Not even to Uncle Appleby would he tell them when\nthat gentleman, hurriedly kind, came down to visit his convalescent\nward. His illness made Vernon grow, and he shot up into a lanky, leggy\nboy--weakly, too, till the hills tautened his sinews again. His Greek\nblood--his grandmother had been a Karolides--had given him a face\ncuriously like the young Byron, with a finely-cut brow and nostrils, and\nhauteur in the full lips. But Vernon had no Byronic pallor, for his\nupland home kept him sunburnt and weather-beaten, and below his straight\nGreek brows shone a pair of grey and steadfast and very English eyes.\n\nHe was about fifteen--so he thinks--when he made the great discovery.\nThe dream had become almost a custom now. It came in April at Severns\nduring the Easter holidays--a night's discomfort (it was now scarcely\nmore) in the rush and glory of the spring fishing. There was a moment of\nthe old wild heart-fluttering; but a boy's fancy is quickly dulled, and\nthe endless corridors were now more of a prison than a witch's\nante-chamber. By this time, with the help of his diary, he had fixed the\ndate of the dream: it came regularly on the night of the first Monday of\nApril. Now the year I speak of he had been on a long expedition into the\nhills, and had stridden homewards at a steady four miles an hour among\nthe gleams and shadows of an April twilight. He was alone at Severns, so\nhe had his supper in the big library, where afterwards he sat watching\nthe leaping flames in the open stone hearth. He was very weary, and\nsleep fell upon him in his chair. He found himself in the wood-smoke\nchamber, and before him the door leading to the unknown. But it was no\nindefinite fear that lay beyond. He knew clearly--though how he knew he\ncould not tell--that each year the Something came one room nearer, and\nwas even now but ten rooms off. In ten years his own door would open,\nand then----\n\nHe woke in the small hours, chilled and mazed, but with a curious new\nassurance in his heart. Hitherto the nightmare had left him in gross\nterror, unable to endure the prospect of its recurrence, till the kindly\nforgetfulness of youth had soothed him. But now, though his nerves were\ntense with fright, he perceived that there was a limit to the mystery.\nSome day it must declare itself, and fight on equal terms. As he thought\nover the matter in the next few days he had the sense of being\nforewarned and prepared for some great test of courage. The notion\nexhilarated as much as it frightened him. Late at night, or on soft\ndripping days, or at any moment of lessened vitality, he would bitterly\nwish that he had been born an ordinary mortal. But on a keen morning of\nfrost, when he rubbed himself warm after a cold tub, or at high noon of\nsummer, the adventure of the dream almost pleased him. Unconsciously he\nbraced himself to a harder discipline. His fitness, moral and physical,\nbecame his chief interest, for reasons which would have been\nunintelligible to his friends and more so to his masters. He passed\nthrough school an aloof and splendid figure, magnificently athletic,\nwith a brain as well as a perfect body--a good fellow in everybody's\nopinion, but a grave one. He had no intimates, and never shared the\nsecret of the spring dream. For some reason which he could not tell, he\nwould have burned his hand off rather than breathe a hint of it. Pure\nterror absolves from all conventions and demands a confidant, so terror,\nI think, must have largely departed from the nightmare as he grew older.\nFear, indeed, remained, and awe and disquiet, but these are human\nthings, whereas terror is of hell.\n\nHad he told any one, he would no doubt have become self-conscious and\nfelt acutely his difference from other people. As it was, he was an\nordinary schoolboy, much beloved, and, except at odd moments, unaware of\nany brooding destiny. As he grew up and his ambition awoke, the moments\nwhen he remembered the dream were apt to be disagreeable, for a boy's\nambitions are strictly conventional and his soul revolts at the\nabnormal. By the time he was ready for the University he wanted above\nall things to run the mile a second faster than any one else, and had\nvague hopes of exploring wild countries. For most of the year he lived\nwith these hopes and was happy; then came April, and for a short season\nhe was groping in dark places. Before and after each dream he was in a\nmood of exasperation; but when it came he plunged into a different\natmosphere, and felt the quiver of fear and the quick thrill of\nexpectation. One year, in the unsettled moods of nineteen, he made an\nattempt to avoid it. He and three others were on a walking tour in\nBrittany in gusty spring weather, and came late one evening to an inn by\nan estuary where seagulls clattered about the windows. Youth-like they\nordered a great and foolish feast, and sat all night round a bowl of\npunch, while school songs and \"John Peel\" contended with the dirling of\nthe gale. At daylight they took the road again, without having closed an\neye, and Vernon told himself that he was rid of his incubus. He wondered\nat the time why he was not more cheerful. Next April he was at Severns,\nreading hard, and on the first Monday of the month he went to bed with\nscarcely a thought of what that night used to mean. The dream did not\nfail him. Once more he was in the chamber with the wood fire; once again\nhe was peering at the door and wondering with tremulous heart what lay\nbeyond. For the Something had come nearer by two rooms, and was now only\nfive doors away. He wrote in his diary at that time some lines from\nKeats' 'Indian Maid's Song':--\n\n\n             \"I would deceive her,\n             And so leave her,\n     But ah! she is so constant and so kind.\"\n\n\nAnd there is a mark of exclamation against the \"she,\" as if he found\nsome irony in it.\n\nFrom that day the boy in him died. The dream would not suffer itself to\nbe forgotten. It moulded his character and determined his plans like the\nvow of the young Hannibal at the altar. He had forgotten now either to\nfear or to hope; the thing was part of him, like his vigorous young\nbody, his slow kindliness, his patient courage. He left Oxford at\ntwenty-two with a prodigious reputation which his remarkable athletic\nrecord by no means explained. All men liked him, but no one knew him; he\nhad a thousand acquaintances and a hundred friends, but no comrade.\nThere was a sense of brooding power about him which attracted and\nrepelled his little world. No one forecast any special career for him;\nindeed, it seemed almost disrespectful to condescend upon such details.\nIt was not what Vernon would do that fired the imagination of his\nfellows, but what they dimly conceived that he already was. I remember\nmy first sight of him about that time, a tall young man in the corner of\na club smoking-room, with a head like Apollo's and eyes which received\nmuch but gave nothing. I guessed at once that he had foreign blood in\nhim, not from any oddness of colouring or feature but from his silken\nreserve. We of the North are angular in our silences; we have not\nlearned the art of gracious reticence.\n\nHis twenty-third April was spent in a hut on the Line, somewhere between\nthe sources of the Congo and the Nile, in the trans-African expedition\nwhen Waldemar found the new variety of okapi. The following April I was\nin his company in a tent far up on the shoulder of a Kashmir mountain.\nOn the first Monday of the month we had had a heavy day after ovis, and\nthat night I was asleep almost before my weary limbs were tucked into my\nkaross. I knew nothing of Vernon's dream, but next morning I remember\nthat I remarked a certain heaviness of eye, and wondered idly if the\nframe of this Greek divinity was as tough as it was shapely.\n\n\nII\n\nNext year Vernon left England early in March. He had resolved to visit\nagain his grandmother's country and to indulge his passion for cruising\nin new waters.\n\nHis 20-ton yawl was sent as deck cargo to Patras, while he followed by\nway of Venice. He brought one man with him from Wyvenhoe, a lean gipsy\nlad called Martell, and for his other hand he found an Epirote at Corfu,\nwho bore a string of names that began with Constantine. From Patras with\na west wind they made good sailing up the Gulf of Corinth, and, passing\nthrough the Canal, came in the last days of March to the Pir\u00e6us. In that\nplace of polyglot speech, whistling engines, and the odour of gasworks,\nthey delayed only for water and supplies, and presently had rounded\nSunium, and were beating up the Euripus with the Attic hills rising\nsharp and clear in the spring sunlight. Vernon had no plans. It was a\njoy to him to be alone with the racing seas and the dancing winds, to\nscud past little headlands, pink and white with blossom, or to lie of a\nnight in some hidden bay beneath the thymy crags. It was his habit on\nhis journeys to discard the clothes of civilisation. In a blue jersey\nand old corduroy trousers, bareheaded and barefooted, he steered his\ncraft and waited on the passing of the hours. Like an acolyte before the\ntemple gate, he believed himself to be on the threshold of a new life.\n\nTrouble began under the snows of Pelion as they turned the north end of\nEuboea. On the morning of the first Monday in April the light west winds\ndied away, and sirocco blew harshly from the south. By midday it was\nhalf a gale, and in those yeasty shallow seas with an iron coast on the\nport the prospect looked doubtful. The nearest harbour was twenty miles\ndistant, and as no one of the crew had been there before it was a\nquestion if they could make it by nightfall. With the evening the gale\nincreased, and Constantine advised a retreat from the maze of rocky\nislands to the safer deeps of the \u00c6gean. It was a hard night for the\nthree, and there was no chance of sleep. More by luck than skill they\nescaped the butt of Skiathos, and the first light found them far to the\neast among the long seas of the North \u00c6gean, well on the way to Lemnos.\nBy eight o'clock the gale had blown itself out, and three soaked and\nchilly mortals relaxed their vigil. Soon bacon was frizzling on the\ncuddy-stove, and hot coffee and dry clothes restored them to comfort.\n\nThe sky cleared, and in bright sunlight, with the dregs of the gale\nbehind him, Vernon stood in for the mainland, where the white crest of\nOlympus hung in the northern heavens. In the late afternoon they came\ninto a little bay carved from the side of a high mountain. The slopes\nwere gay with flowers, yellow and white and scarlet, and the young green\nof crops showed in the clearings. Among the thyme a flock of goats was\nbrowsing, shepherded by a little girl in a saffron skirt, who sang\nshrilly in snatches. Midway in the bay and just above the anchorage rose\na great white building, which showed to seaward a blank white wall\npierced with a few narrow windows. At first sight Vernon took it for a\nmonastery, but a look through the glasses convinced him that its purpose\nwas not religious. Once it had been fortified, and even now a broad\ncauseway ran between it and the sea, which looked as if it had once held\nguns. The architecture was a jumble, showing here the enriched Gothic of\nVenice and there the straight lines and round arches of the East. It had\nonce, he conjectured, been the hold of some Venetian sea-king, then the\npalace of a Turkish conqueror, and now was, perhaps, the homely\nmanor-house of this pleasant domain.\n\nA fishing-boat was putting out from the shore. He hailed its occupant\nand asked who owned the castle.\n\nThe man crossed himself and spat overboard. \"Basilissa,\" he said, and\nturned his eyes seaward.\n\nVernon called Constantine from the bows and asked him what the word\nmight mean. The Epirote crossed himself also before he spoke. \"It is the\nLady of the Land,\" he said, in a hushed voice. \"It is the great witch\nwho is the Devil's bride. In old days in spring they made sacrifice to\nher, but they say her power is dying now. In my country we do not speak\nher name, but elsewhere they call her 'Queen.'\" The man's bluff sailorly\nassurance had disappeared, and as Vernon stared at him in bewilderment\nhe stammered and averted his eyes.\n\nBy supper-time he had recovered himself, and the weather-beaten three\nmade such a meal as befits those who have faced danger together.\nAfterwards Vernon, as was his custom, sat alone in the stern, smoking\nand thinking his thoughts. He wrote up his diary with a ship's lantern\nbeside him, while overhead the starless velvet sky seemed to hang low\nand soft like an awning. Little fires burned on the shore at which folk\nwere cooking food--he could hear their voices, and from the keep one\nsingle lit window made an eye in the night.\n\nHe had leisure now for the thought which had all day been at the back of\nhis mind. The night had passed and there had been no dream. The\nadventure for which he had prepared himself had vanished into the \u00c6gean\ntides. He told himself that it was a relief, that an old folly was over,\nbut he knew in his heart that he was bitterly disappointed. The fates\nhad prepared the stage and rung up the curtain without providing the\nplay. He had been fooled, and somehow the zest and savour of life had\ngone from him. No man can be strung high and then find his preparation\nidle without suffering a cruel recoil.\n\nAs he scribbled idly in his diary he found some trouble about dates.\nDown in his bunk was a sheaf of Greek papers bought at the Pir\u00e6us and\nstill unlooked at. He fetched them up and turned them over with a\ngrowing mystification. There was something very odd about the business.\nOne gets hazy about dates at sea, but he could have sworn that he had\nmade no mistake. Yet here it was down in black and white, for there was\nno question about the number of days since he left the Pir\u00e6us. The day\nwas not Tuesday, as he had believed, but Monday, the first Monday of\nApril.\n\nHe stood up with a beating heart and that sense of unseen hands which\ncomes to all men once or twice in their lives. The night was yet to\ncome, and with it the end of the dream. Suddenly he was glad, absurdly\nglad; he could almost have wept with the joy of it. And then he was\nconscious for the first time of the strangeness of the place in which he\nhad anchored. The night was dark over him like a shell, enclosing the\nhalf-moon of bay and its one lit dwelling. The great hills, unseen but\nfelt, ran up to snows, warding it off from a profane world. His nerves\ntingled with a joyful anticipation. Something, some wonderful thing, was\ncoming to him out of the darkness.\n\nUnder an impulse for which he could give no reason, he called\nConstantine and gave his orders. Let him be ready to sail at any\nmoment--a possible thing, for there was a light breeze off shore. Also\nlet the yacht's dinghy be ready in case he wanted it. Then Vernon sat\nhimself down again in the stern beside the lantern, and waited....\n\n\nHe was dreaming, and did not hear the sound of oars or the grating of a\nboat alongside. Suddenly he found a face looking at him in the ring of\nlamplight--an old bearded face curiously wrinkled. The eyes, which were\ngrave and penetrating, scanned him for a second or two, and then a voice\nspoke,--\n\n\"Will the Signor come with me? There is work for him to do this night.\"\n\nVernon rose obediently. He had waited for this call these many years,\nand he was there to answer it. He went below and put a loaded revolver\nin his trouser-pocket, and then dropped over the yacht's side into a\ncockleshell of a boat. The messenger took the oars and rowed for the\npoint of light on shore.\n\nA middle-aged woman stood on a rock above the tide, holding a small\nlantern. In its thin flicker he made out a person with the air and dress\nof a French maid. She cast one glance at Vernon, and then turned wearily\nto the other. \"Fool, Mitri!\" she said. \"You have brought a peasant.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the old man, \"he is no peasant. He is a Signor, and as I\njudge, a man of his hands.\"\n\nThe woman passed the light of her lantern over Vernon's form and face.\n\"His dress is a peasant's, but such clothes may be a nobleman's whim. I\nhave heard it of the English.\"\n\n\"I am English,\" said Vernon in French.\n\nShe turned on him with a quick movement of relief.\n\n\"You are English and a gentleman? But I know nothing of you, only that\nyou have come out of the sea. Up in the House we women are alone, and my\nmistress has death to face, or a worse than death. We have no claim on\nyou, and if you give us your service it means danger--oh, what danger!\nThe boat is waiting. You have time to go back and go away and forget\nthat you have seen this accursed place. But, O Monsieur, if you hope for\nHeaven and have pity on a defenceless angel, you will not leave us.\"\n\n\"I am ready,\" said Vernon.\n\n\"God's mercy,\" she sighed, and, seizing his arm, drew him up the steep\ncauseway, while the old man went ahead with the lantern. Now and then\nshe cast anxious glances to the right where the little fires of the\nfishers twinkled along the shore. Then came a point when the three\nentered a narrow uphill road, where rocky steps had been cut in a\ntamarisk thicket. She spoke low in French to Vernon's ear,--\n\n\"My mistress is the last of her line, you figure; a girl with a wild\nestate and a father long dead. She is good and gracious, as I who have\ntended her can witness, but she is young and cannot govern the wolves\nwho are the men of these parts. They have a long hatred of her house,\nand now they have it rumoured that she is a witch and blights the crops\nand slays the children. No one will look at her; the priest--for they\nare all in the plot--signs himself and crosses the road; the little ones\nrun screaming to their mothers. Once, twice, they have cursed our\nthreshold and made the blood mark on the door. For two years we have\nbeen prisoners in the House, and only Mitri is true. They name her\nBasilissa, meaning the Queen of Hell, whom the ancients called\nProserpine. There is no babe but will faint with fright if it casts eyes\non her, and she as mild and innocent as Mother Mary....\"\n\nThe woman stopped at a little door in a high wall of masonry. \"Nay, wait\nand hear me out. It is better that you hear the tale from me than from\nher. Mitri has the gossip of the place through his daughter's husband,\nand the word has gone round to burn the witch out. The winter in the\nhills has been cruel, and they blame their sorrow on her. The dark of\nthe moon in April is the time fixed, for they say that a witch has power\nonly in moonlight. This is the night, and down on the shore the fishers\nare gathered. The men from the hills are in the higher woods.\"\n\n\"Have they a leader?\" Vernon asked.\n\n\"A leader?\" her voice echoed shrilly. \"But that is the worst of our\nterrors. There is one Vlastos, a lord in the mountains, who saw my\nmistress a year ago as she looked from the balcony at the\nSwallow-singing, and was filled with a passion for her. He has\npersecuted her since with his desires. He is a king among these savages,\nbeing himself a very wolf in man's flesh. We have denied him, but he\npersists, and this night he announces that he comes for an answer. He\noffers to save her if she will trust him, but what is the honour of his\nkind? He is like a brute out of a cave. It were better for my lady to go\nto God in the fire than to meet all Hell in his arms. But this night we\nmust choose, unless you prove a saviour.\"\n\n\"Did you see my boat anchor in the bay?\" Vernon asked, though he\nalready knew the answer.\n\n\"But no,\" she said. \"We live only on the landward side of the House. My\nlady told me that God would send a man to our aid. And I bade Mitri\nfetch him.\"\n\nThe door was unlocked and the three climbed a staircase which seemed to\nfollow the wall of a round tower. Presently they came into a stone hall\nwith curious hangings like the old banners in a church. From the open\nflame of the lantern another was kindled, and the light showed a\ndesolate place with crumbling mosaics on the floor and plaster dropping\nfrom the cornices. Through another corridor they went, where the air\nblew warmer and there was that indefinable scent which comes from human\nhabitation. Then came a door which the woman held open for Vernon to\nenter. \"Wait there, Monsieur,\" she said, \"My mistress will come to you.\"\n\nIt was his own room, where annually he had waited with a fluttering\nheart since he was a child at Severns. A fire of wood--some resinous\nthing like juniper--burned on the hearth, and spirals of blue smoke\nescaped the stone chimney and filled the air with their pungent\nfragrance. On a Spanish cabinet stood an antique silver lamp, and there\nwas a great blue Chinese vase filled with spring flowers. Soft Turcoman\nrugs covered the wooden floor--Vernon noted every detail, for never\nbefore had he been able to see his room clearly. A woman had lived here,\nfor an embroidery frame lay on a table and there were silken cushions on\nthe low divans. And facing him in the other wall there was a door.\n\nIn the old days he had regarded it with vague terror in his soul. Now he\nlooked at it with the hungry gladness with which a traveller sees again\nthe familiar objects of home. The hour of his destiny had struck. The\nthing for which he had trained himself in body and spirit was about to\nreveal itself in that doorway....\n\nIt opened, and a girl entered. She was tall and very slim, and moved\nwith the free grace of a boy. She trod the floor like one walking in\nspring meadows. Her little head on the flower-like neck was bent\nsideways as if she were listening, and her eyes had the strange\ndisquieting innocence of a child's. Yet she was a grown woman, nobly\nmade, and lithe and supple as Artemis herself when she ranged with her\nmaidens through the moonlit glades. Her face had the delicate pallor of\npure health, and above it the masses of dark hair were bound with a\nthin gold circlet. She wore a gown of some soft white stuff, and had\nthrown over it a cloak of russet furs.\n\nFor a second--or so it seemed to Vernon--she looked at him as he stood\ntense and expectant like a runner at the start. Then the hesitation fled\nfrom her face. She ran to him with the confidence of a child who has\nwaited long for the coming of a friend and has grown lonely and fearful.\nShe gave him both her hands and in her tall pride looked him full in the\neyes. \"You have come,\" she sighed happily. \"I did not doubt it. They\ntold me there was no help, but, you see, they did not know about you.\nThat was my own secret. The Monster had nearly gobbled me, Perseus, but\nof course you could not come quicker. And now you will take me away with\nyou? See, I am ready. And Elise will come too, and old Mitri, for they\ncould not live without me. We must hurry, for the Monster is very near.\"\n\nIn that high moment of romance, when young love had burst upon him like\nspring, Vernon retained his odd discipline of soul. The adventure of the\ndream could not be satisfied by flight, even though his companion was a\ngoddess.\n\n\"We will go, Andromeda, but not yet. I have something to say to the\nMonster.\"\n\nShe broke into a ripple of laughter. \"Yes, that is the better way. Mitri\nwill admit him alone, and he will think to find us women. But you will\nbe here and you will speak to him.\" Then her eyes grew solemn. \"He is\nvery cruel, Perseus, and he is full of evil. He may devour us both. Let\nus be gone before he comes.\"\n\nIt was Vernon's turn to laugh. At the moment no enterprise seemed too\nformidable, and a price must be paid for this far-away princess. And\neven as he laughed the noise of a great bell clanged through the house.\n\nMitri stole in with a scared face, and it was from Vernon that he took\nhis orders. \"Speak them fair, but let one man enter and no more. Bring\nhim here, and see that the gate is barred behind him. After that make\nready for the road.\" Then to the girl: \"Take off your cloak and wait\nhere as if you were expecting him. I will stand behind the screen. Have\nno fear, for I will have him covered, and I will shoot him like a dog if\nhe lays a finger on you.\"\n\nFrom the shelter of the screen Vernon saw the door open and a man enter.\nHe was a big fellow of the common mountain type, gorgeously dressed in\na uniform of white and crimson, with boots of yellow untanned leather,\nand a beltful of weapons. He was handsome in a coarse way, but his\nslanting eyes and the heavy lips scarcely hidden by the curling\nmoustaches were ugly and sinister. He smiled, showing his white teeth,\nand spoke hurriedly in the guttural Greek of the north. The girl\nshivered at the sound of his voice, and to the watcher it seemed like\nPan pursuing one of Dian's nymphs.\n\n\"You have no choice, my Queen,\" he was saying. \"I have a hundred men at\nthe gate who will do my bidding, and protect you against those fools of\nvillagers till you are safe with me at Louko. But if you refuse me I\ncannot hold the people. They will burn the place over your head, and by\nto-morrow's morn these walls will be smouldering ashes with your fair\nbody in the midst of them.\"\n\nThen his wooing became rougher. The satyr awoke in his passionate eyes.\n\"Nay, you are mine, whether you will it or not. I and my folk will carry\nyou off when the trouble begins. Take your choice, my girl, whether you\nwill go with a good grace, or trussed up behind a servant. We have rough\nways in the hills with ungracious wenches.\"\n\n\"I am going away,\" she whispered, \"but not with you!\"\n\nThe man laughed. \"Have you fetched down friend Michael and his angels to\nhelp you? By Saint John the Hunter, I would I had a rival. I would carve\nhim prettily for the sake of your sweet flesh.\"\n\nVernon kicked aside the screen. \"You will have your chance,\" he said. \"I\nam ready.\"\n\nVlastos stepped back with his hand at his belt. \"Who in the devil's name\nare you?\" he asked.\n\n\"One who would dispute the lady with you,\" said Vernon.\n\nThe man had recovered his confidence. \"I know nothing of you or whence\nyou come, but to-night I am merciful. I give you ten seconds to\ndisappear. If not, I will spit you, my fine cock, and you will roast in\nthis oven.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless the lady goes with me,\" said Vernon, smiling.\n\nVlastos plucked a whistle from his belt, but before it reached his mouth\nhe was looking into the barrel of Vernon's revolver. \"Pitch that thing\non the floor,\" came the command. \"Not there! Behind me! Off with that\nbelt and give it to the lady. Quick, my friend.\"\n\nThe dancing grey eyes dominated the sombre black ones. Vlastos flung\ndown the whistle, and slowly removed the belt with its silver-mounted\npistols and its brace of knives.\n\n\"Put up your weapon,\" he muttered, \"and fight me for her, as a man\nshould.\"\n\n\"I ask nothing better,\" said Vernon, and he laid his revolver in the\ngirl's lap.\n\nHe had expected a fight with fists, and was not prepared for what\nfollowed. Vlastos sprang at him like a wild beast and clasped him round\nthe waist. He was swung off his feet in a grip that seemed more than\nhuman. For a second or two he swayed to and fro, recovered himself, and\nby a back-heel stroke forced his assailant to relax a little. Then,\nlocked together in the middle of the room, the struggle began. Dimly out\nof a corner of his eye he saw the girl pick up the silver lamp and stand\nby the door holding it high.\n\nVernon had learned the rudiments of wrestling among the dalesmen of the\nNorth, but now he was dealing with one who followed no ordinary methods.\nIt was a contest of sheer physical power. Vlastos was a stone or two\nheavier, and had an uncommon length of arm; but he was clumsily made,\nand flabby from gross living. Vernon was spare and hard and clean, but\nhe lacked one advantage--he had never striven with a man save in\nfriendly games, and the other was bred to kill. For a minute or two they\nswayed and stumbled, while Vernon strove for the old Westmorland \"inside\nclick.\" Every second brought him nearer to it, while the other's face\nwas pressed close to his shoulder.\n\nSuddenly he felt a sharp pain. Teeth met in his flesh, and there was the\njar and shiver of a torn muscle. The thing sickened him, and his grip\nslackened. In a moment Vlastos had swung him over in a strangle-hold,\nand had his neck bent almost to breaking.\n\nOn the sickness followed a revulsion of fierce anger. He was contending\nnot with a man, but with some shaggy beast from the thicket. The passion\nbrought out the extra power which is dormant in us all against the last\nextremity. Two years before he had been mauled by a leopard on the\nCongo, and had clutched its throat with his hand and torn the life out.\nSuch and no other was his antagonist. He was fighting with one who knew\nno code, and would gouge his eyes if he got the chance. The fear which\nhad sickened him was driven out by fury. This wolf should go the way of\nother wolves who dared to strive with man.\n\nBy a mighty effort he got his right arm free, and though his own neck\nwas in torture, he forced Vlastos' chin upward. It was a struggle of\nsheer endurance, till with a snarl the other slackened his pressure.\nVernon slipped from his grasp, gave back a step, and then leaped for the\nunder-grip. He seemed possessed with unholy strength, for the barrel of\nthe man gave in his embrace. A rib cracked, and as they swayed to the\nbreast-stroke, he felt the breath of his opponent coming in harsh gasps.\nIt was the end, for with a twist which unlocked his arms he swung him\nhigh, and hurled him towards the fireplace. The head crashed on the\nstone hearth, and the man lay stunned among the blue jets of wood-smoke.\n\nVernon turned dizzily to the girl. She stood, statue-like, with the lamp\nin her hand, and beside her huddled Mitri and Elise.\n\n\"Bring ropes,\" he cried to the servants. \"We will truss up this beast.\nThe other wolves will find him and learn a lesson.\" He bound his legs\nand arms and laid him on a divan.\n\nThe fire of battle was still in his eyes, but it faded when they fell\nupon the pale girl. A great pity and tenderness filled him. She swayed\nto his arms, and her head dropped on his shoulder. He picked her up\nlike a child, and followed the servants to the sea-stair.\n\nBut first he found Vlastos' whistle, and blew it shrilly. The answer was\na furious hammering at the castle door.\n\n\nFar out at sea, in the small hours, the yacht sped eastward with a\nfavouring wind. Behind in the vault of night at a great distance shone a\npoint of brightness, which flickered and fell as if from some mighty\nfire.\n\nThe two sat in the stern in that first rapture of comradeship which has\nno words to fit it. Her head lay in the crook of his arm, and she sighed\nhappily, like one awakened to a summer's dawn from a night of ill\ndreams. At last he spoke.\n\n\"Do you know that I have been looking for you for twenty years?\"\n\nShe nestled closer to him.\n\n\"And I,\" she said, \"have been waiting on you from the beginning of the\nworld.\"\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nDIVUS JOHNSTON\n\n\n     \"The Emperor assumed the title of _Divus_ or Divine, not of his own\n     desire, but because it was forced upon him by a credulous\n     people.\"--SUETONIUS, _Lives of the C\u00e6sars_.\n\n\nThis story, which you may believe or not as you like, was told me by my\nfriend Mr Peter Thomson of \"Jessieville,\" Maxwell Avenue, Strathbungo,\nwhom I believe to be a man incapable of mendacity, or, indeed, of\nimagination. He is a prosperous and retired ship's captain, dwelling in\nthe suburbs of Glasgow, who plays two rounds of golf every day of the\nweek, and goes twice every Sunday to a pink, new U. F. Church. You may\noften see his ample figure, splendidly habited in broadcloth and\nfinished off with one of those square felt hats which are the Scottish\nemblem of respectability, moving sedately by Mrs Thomson's side down the\navenue of \"Balmorals\" and \"Bellevues\" where dwell the aristocracy of\nStrathbungo. It was not there that I met him, however, but in a Clyde\nsteamboat going round the Mull, where I spent a comfortless night on my\nway to a Highland fishing. It was blowing what he called \"a wee bit o'\nwind,\" and I could not face the odorous bunks which opened on the\ndining-room. Seated abaft the funnel, in an atmosphere of ham-and-eggs,\nbilge, and fresh western breezes, he revealed his heart to me, and this\nI found in it.\n\n\n\"About the age of forty\"--said Mr Thomson--\"I was captain of the steamer\n_Archibald McKelvie_, 1,700 tons burthen, belonging to Brock, Rattray,\nand Linklater, of Greenock. We were principally engaged in the China\ntrade, but made odd trips into the Malay Archipelago and once or twice\nto Australia. She was a handy bit boat, and I'll not deny that I had\nmany mercies vouchsafed to me when I was her skipper. I raked in a bit\nof salvage now and then, and my trading commission, paid regularly into\nthe British Linen Bank at Maryhill, was mounting up to a fairish sum. I\nhad no objection to Eastern parts, for I had a good constitution and had\noutgrown the daftnesses of youth. The berth suited me well, I had a\ndecent lot for ship's company, and I would gladly have looked forward\nto spending the rest of my days by the _Archibald McKelvie_.\n\n\"Providence, however, thought otherwise, for He was preparing a judgment\nagainst that ship like the kind you read about in books. We were five\ndays out from Singapore shaping our course for the Philippines, where\nthe Americans were then fighting, when we ran into a queer lown sea. Not\na breath of air came out of the sky; if you kindled a match the flame\nwouldna leap, but smouldered like touchwood; and every man's body ran\nwith sweat like a mill-lade. I kenned fine we were in for the terrors of\nhell, but I hadna any kind of notion how terrible hell could be. First\ncame a wind that whipped away my funnel, like a potato peeling. We ran\nbefore it, and it was like the sweegee we used to play at when we were\nladdies. One moment the muckle sea would get up on its hinder end and\nlook at you, and the next you were looking at it as if you were on the\ntop of Ben Lomond looking down on Luss. Presently I saw land in a gap of\nthe water, a land with great blood-red mountains, and, thinks I to\nmyself, if we keep up the pace this boat of mine will not be hindered\nfrom ending two or three miles inland in somebody's kail-yard. I was\njust wondering how we would get the _Archibald McKelvie_ back to her\nnative element when she saved me the trouble; for she ran dunt on some\nkind of a rock, and went straight to the bottom.\n\n\"I was the only man saved alive, and if you ask me how it happened I\ndon't know. I felt myself choking in a whirlpool; then I was flung\nthrough the air and brought down with a smack into deep waters; then I\nwas in the air again, and this time I landed amongst sand and\ntree-trunks and got a bash on the head which dozened my senses.\n\n\"When I came to it was morning, and the storm had abated. I was lying\nabout half-way up a beach of fine white sand, for the wave that had\ncarried me landwards in its flow had brought me some of the road back in\nits ebb. All round me was a sort of free-coup--trees knocked to\nmatchwood, dead fish, and birds and beasts, and some boards which I\njaloused came from the _Archibald McKelvie_. I had a big bump on my\nhead, but otherwise I was well and clear in my wits, though empty in the\nstomach and very dowie in the heart. For I knew something about the\nislands, of which I supposed this to be one. They were either barren\nwastes, with neither food nor water, or else they were inhabited by the\nbloodiest cannibals of the archipelago. It looked as if my choice lay\nbetween having nothing to eat and being eaten myself.\n\n\"I got up, and, after returning thanks to my Maker, went for a walk in\nthe woods. They were full of queer painted birds, and it was an awful\njob climbing in and out of the fallen trees. By and by I came into an\nopen bit with a burn where I slockened my thirst. It cheered me up, and\nI was just beginning to think that this was not such a bad island, and\nlooking to see if I could find anything in the nature of cocoanuts, when\nI heard a whistle like a steam-syren. It was some sort of signal, for\nthe next I knew I was in the grip of a dozen savages, my arms and feet\nwere lashed together, and I was being carried swiftly through the\nforest.\n\n\"It was a rough journey, and the discomfort of that heathen handling\nkept me from reflecting upon my desperate position. After nearly three\nhours we stopped, and I saw that we had come to a city. The streets were\nnot much to look at, and the houses were mud and thatch, but on a\nhillock in the middle stood a muckle temple not unlike a Chinese pagoda.\nThere was a man blowing a horn, and a lot of folk shouting, but I paid\nno attention, for I was sore troubled with the cramp in my left leg.\nThey took me into one of the huts and made signs that I was to have it\nfor my habitation. They brought me water to wash, and a very respectable\ndinner, which included a hen and a vegetable not unlike greens. Then\nthey left me to myself, and I lay down and slept for a round of the\nclock.\n\n\"I was three days in that hut. I had plenty to eat and the folk were\nvery civil, but they wouldna let me outbye and there was no window to\nlook out of. I couldna make up my mind what they wanted with me. I was a\nprisoner, but they did not behave as if they bore any malice, and I\nmight have thought I was an honoured guest, but for the guards at the\ndoor. Time hung heavy on my hands, for I had nothing to read and no\nlight to read by. I said over all the chapters of the Bible and all the\nScots songs I could remember, and I tried to make a poem about my\nadventures, but I stuck at the fifth line, for I couldna find a rhyme to\n_McKelvie_.\n\n\"On the fourth morning I was awakened by the most deafening din. I saw\nthrough the door that the streets were full of folk in holiday clothes,\nmost of them with flowers in their hair and carrying palm branches in\ntheir hands. It was like something out of a Bible picture book. After I\nhad my breakfast four lads in long white gowns arrived, and in spite of\nall my protests they made a bonny spectacle of me. They took off my\nclothes, me blushing with shame, and rubbed me with a kind of oil that\nsmelt of cinnamon. Then they shaved my chin, and painted on my forehead\na mark like a freemason's. Then they put on me a kind of white nightgown\nwith a red sash round the middle, and they wouldna be hindered from\nclapping on my head a great wreath of hot-house flowers, as if I was a\nfuneral.\n\n\"And then like a thunder-clap I realised my horrible position. _I was_ a\nfuneral. I was to be offered up as a sacrifice to some heathen god--an\nawful fate for a Free-kirk elder in the prime of life.\n\n\"I was so paralytic with terror that I never tried to resist. Indeed, it\nwould have done me little good, for outside there were, maybe, two\nhundred savages, armed and drilled like soldiers. I was put into a sort\nof palanquin, and my bearers started on a trot with me up the hill to\nthe temple, the whole population of the city running alongside, and\nsinging songs about their god. I was sick with fear, and I durstna look\nup, for I did not know what awesome sight awaited me.\n\n\"At last I got my courage back. 'Peter,' I says to myself, 'be a man.\nRemember your sainted covenanting forefathers. You have been chosen to\ntestify for your religion, though it's no likely that yon savages will\nunderstand what you say.' So I shut my jaw and resolved before I died to\nmake a declaration of my religious principles, and to loosen some of the\nheathen's teeth with my fists.\n\n\"We stopped at the temple door and I was led through a court and into a\nmuckle great place like a barn, with bats flying about the ceiling. Here\nthere were nearly three thousand heathens sitting on their hunkers. They\nsang a hymn when they saw me, and I was just getting ready for action\nwhen my bearers carried me into another place, which I took to be the\nHoly of Holies. It was about half the size of the first, and at the end\nof it was a great curtain of leopards' skins hanging from roof to floor.\nMy bearers set me in the middle of the room, and then rolled about on\ntheir stomachs in adoration before the curtain. After a bit they\nfinished their prayers and crawled out backwards, and I was left alone\nin that fearsome place.\n\n\"It was the worst experience of my life. I believed that behind the\nskins there was a horrible idol, and that at any moment a priest with a\nknife would slip in to cut my throat. You may crack about courage, but I\ntell you that a man who can wait without a quiver on his murderers in\nthe middle of a gloomy kirk is more than human. I am not ashamed to\nconfess that the sweat ran over my brow, and my teeth were knocking in\nmy head.\n\n\"But nothing happened. Nothing, except that as I sat there I began to\nfeel a most remarkable smell. At first I thought the place was on fire.\nThen I thought it was the kind of stink called incense that they make in\nPopish kirks, for I once wandered into a cathedral in Santiago. But\nneither guess was right, and then I put my thumb on the proper\ndescription. It was nothing but the smell of the third-class carriages\non the Coatbridge train on a Saturday night after a football match--the\nsmell of plug tobacco smoked in clay pipes that were no just very clean.\nMy eyes were getting accustomed to the light, and I found the place no\nthat dark; and as I looked round to see what caused the smell, I spied\nsomething like smoke coming from beyond the top of the curtain.\n\n\"I noticed another thing. There was a hole in the curtain, about six\nfeet from the floor, and at that hole as I watched I saw an eye. My\nheart stood still, for, thinks I, that'll be the priest of Baal who\npresently will stick a knife into me. It was long ere I could screw up\ncourage to look again, but I did it. And then I saw that the eye was not\nthat of a savage, which would be black and blood-shot. It was a blue\neye, and, as I looked, it winked at me.\n\n\"And then a voice spoke out from behind the curtain, and this was what\nit said. It said, 'God sake, Peter, is it you? And how did ye leave them\na' at Maryhill?'\n\n\"And from behind the curtain walked a muckle man, dressed in a pink\nblanket, a great red-headed man, with a clay pipe in his mouth. It was\nthe god of the savages, and who do ye think it was? A man Johnston, who\nused to bide in the same close as me in Glasgow....\"\n\nMr Thomson's emotion overcame him, and he accepted a stiff drink from my\nflask. Wiping away a tear, which may have been of sentiment or of mirth,\nhe continued,--\n\n\"You may imagine that I was joyful and surprised to see him, and he, so\nto speak, fell on my neck like the father of the Prodigal Son. He hadna\nseen a Scotch face for four years. He raked up one or two high priests\nand gave instructions, and soon I was comfortably lodged in a part of\nthe temple close to his own rooms. Eh, man, it was a noble sight to see\nJohnston and the priests. He was a big, red-haired fellow, six feet\nfour, and as strong as a stot, with a voice like a north-easter, and yon\nnatives fair crawled like caterpillars in his presence. I never saw a\nman with such a natural talent for being a god. You would have thought\nhe had been bred to the job all his days, and yet I minded him keeping a\ngrocer's shop in the Dalmarnock Road.\n\n\"That night he told me his story. It seemed that he had got a post at\nShanghai in a trading house, and was coming out to it in one of those\nGod-forgotten German tramps that defile the China seas. Like me, he fell\nin with a hurricane, and, like me, his ship was doomed. He was a\npowerful swimmer, and managed to keep afloat until he found some\ndrifting wreckage, and after the wind had gone down he paddled ashore.\nThere he was captured by the savages, and taken, like me, to their city.\nThey were going to sacrifice him, but one chief, wiser than the rest,\ncalled attention to his size and strength, and pointed out that they\nwere at war with their neighbours, and that a big man would be of more\nuse in the fighting line than on an altar in the temple.\n\n\"So off went Johnston to the wars. He was a bonny fighter, and very soon\nthey made him captain of the royal bodyguard, and a fortnight later the\ngeneral commanding-in-chief over the whole army. He said he had never\nenjoyed himself so much in his life, and when he got back from his\nbattles the whole population of the city used to meet him with songs and\nflowers. Then an old priest found an ancient prophecy about a Red God\nwho would come out of the sea and lead the people to victory. Very soon\nthere was a strong party for making Johnston a god; and when, with the\nhelp of a few sticks of trade dynamite, he had blown up the capital of\nthe other side and brought back his army in triumph with a prisoner\napiece, popular feeling could not be restrained. Johnston was hailed as\ndivine. He hadna much grip of the language, and couldna explain the\nsituation, so he thought it best to submit.\n\n\"'Mind you,' he said to me, 'I've been a good god to these poor blind\nignorant folk.' He had stopped the worst of their habits and put down\nhuman sacrifices, and got a sort of town council appointed to keep the\ncity clean, and he had made the army the most efficient thing ever heard\nof in the islands. And now he was preparing to leave. This was what they\nexpected, for the prophecy had said that the Red God, after being the\nsaviour of his people, would depart as he had come across the sea. So,\nunder his directions, they had built him a kind of boat with which he\nhoped to reach Singapore. He had got together a considerable fortune,\ntoo, chiefly in rubies, for as a god he had plenty of opportunities of\nacquiring wealth honestly. He said there was a sort of greengrocer's and\nbutcher's shop before his altar every morning, and he got one of the\npriests, who had some business notions, to sell off the goods for him.\n\n\"There was just one thing that bothered Mr Johnston. He was a good\nChristian man and had been an elder in a kirk in the Cowcaddens, and he\nwas much in doubt whether he had not committed a mortal sin in accepting\nthe worship of these heathen islanders. Often I argued it out with him,\nbut I did not seem able to comfort him rightly. 'Ye see,' he used to say\nto me, 'if I have broken anything, it's the spirit and no the letter of\nthe Commandment. I havena set up a graven image, for ye canna call me a\ngraven image.'\n\n\"I mind that I quoted to him the conduct of Naaman, who was allowed to\nbow in the house of Rimmon, but he would not have it. 'No, no,' he\ncried, 'that has nothing to do with the point. It's no a question of my\nbowing in the house of Rimmon. I'm auld Rimmon himself.'\"\n\n\n\"That's a strange story, Mr Thomson,\" I said. \"Is it true?\"\n\n\"True as death. But you havena heard the end of it. We got away, and\nby-and-by we reached Singapore, and in course of time our native land.\nJohnston, he was a very rich man now, and I didna go without my portion;\nso the loss of the _Archibald McKelvie_ turned out the best piece of\nluck in my life. I bought a share in Brock's Line, but nothing would\ncontent Johnston but that he must be a gentleman. He got a big estate in\nAnnandale, where all the Johnstons came from long ago, and one way and\nanother he has spent an awful siller on it. Land will swallow up money\nquicker than the sea.\"\n\n\"And what about his conscience?\" I asked.\n\n\"It's keeping quieter,\" said Mr Thomson. \"He takes a great interest in\nForeign Missions, to which he subscribes largely, and they tell me that\nhe has given the funds to build several new kirks. Oh yes, and he's just\nbeen adopted as a prospective Liberal candidate. I had a letter from him\nno further back than yesterday. It's about his political career, as he\ncalls it. He told me, what didna need telling, that I must never mention\na word about his past. 'If discretion was necessary before,' he says,\n'it's far more necessary now, for how could the Party of Progress have\nany confidence in a man if they heard he had once been a god?'\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nTHE KING OF YPRES\n\n\nPrivate Peter Galbraith, of the 3rd Lennox Highlanders, awoke with a\nsplitting headache and the consciousness of an intolerable din. At first\nhe thought it was the whistle from the forge, which a year ago had\npulled him from his bed when he was a puddler in Motherwell. He\nscrambled to his feet, and nearly cracked his skull against a low roof.\nThat, and a sound which suggested that the heavens were made of canvas\nwhich a giant hand was rending, cleared his wits and recalled him to the\ndisagreeable present. He lit the dottle in his pipe, and began to piece\nout his whereabouts.\n\nLate the night before, the remnants of his battalion had been brought in\nfrom the Gheluvelt trenches to billets in Ypres. That last week he had\ngone clean off his sleep. He had not been dry for a fortnight, his\nputtees had rotted away, his greatcoat had disappeared in a mud-hole,\nand he had had no stomach for what food could be got. He had seen half\nhis battalion die before his eyes, and day and night the shells had\nburst round him till the place looked like the ironworks at Motherwell\non a foggy night. The worst of it was that he had never come to grips\nwith the Boches, which he had long decided was the one pleasure left to\nhim in life. He had got far beyond cursing, though he had once had a\ntalent that way. His mind was as sodden as his body, and his thoughts\nhad been focussed on the penetrating power of a bayonet when directed\nagainst a plump Teutonic chest. There had been a German barber in\nMotherwell called Schultz, and he imagined the enemy as a million\nSchultzes--large, round men who talked with the back of their throat.\n\nIn billets he had scraped off the worst part of the mud, and drunk half\na bottle of wine which a woman had given him. It tasted like red ink,\nbut anything liquid was better than food. Sleep was what he longed for,\nbut he could not get it. The Boches were shelling the town, and the room\nhe shared with six others seemed as noisy as the Gallowgate on a\nSaturday night. He wanted to get deep down into the earth where there\nwas no sound; so, while the others snored, he started out to look for a\ncellar. In the black darkness, while the house rocked to the shell\nreverberations, he had groped his way down the stairs, found a door\nwhich led to another flight, and, slipping and stumbling, had come to a\nnarrow, stuffy chamber which smelt of potatoes. There he had lain down\non some sacks and fallen into a frowsty slumber.\n\nHis head was spinning, but the hours of sleep had done him good. He felt\na slight appetite for breakfast, as well as an intolerable thirst. He\ngroped his way up the stairs, and came out in a dilapidated hall lit by\na dim November morning.\n\nThere was no sign of the packs which had been stacked there the night\nbefore. He looked for a Boche's helmet which he had brought in as a\nsouvenir, but that was gone. Then he found the room where he had been\nbilleted. It was empty, and only the stale smell of tobacco told of its\noccupants.\n\nLonely, disconsolate, and oppressed with thoughts of future punishment,\nhe moved towards the street door. Suddenly the door of a side room\nopened and a man came out, a furtive figure with a large, pasty face.\nHis pockets bulged, and in one hand was a silver candlestick. At the\nsight of Galbraith he jumped back and held up a pistol.\n\n\"Pit it down, man, and tell's what's come ower this place?\" said the\nsoldier. For answer, a bullet sang past his ear and shivered a plaster\nVenus.\n\nGalbraith gave his enemy the butt of his rifle and laid him out. From\nhis pockets he shook out a mixed collection of loot. He took possession\nof his pistol, and kicked him with some vehemence into a cupboard.\n\n\"That yin's a thief,\" was his spoken reflection. \"There's something\nmichty wrong wi' Wipers the day.\"\n\nHis head was clearing, and he was getting very wroth. His battalion had\ngone off and left him in a cellar, and miscreants were abroad. It was\ntime for a respectable man to be up and doing. Besides, he wanted his\nbreakfast. He fixed his bayonet, put the pistol in his pocket, and\nemerged into the November drizzle.\n\nThe streets suddenly were curiously still. The occasional shell-fire\ncame to his ears as if through layers of cotton-wool. He put this down\nto dizziness from lack of food, and made his way to what looked like an\n_estaminet_. The place was full of riotous people who were helping\nthemselves to drinks, while a distracted landlord wrung his hands. He\nflew to Galbraith, the tears running down his cheeks, and implored him\nin broken words.\n\n\"Vere ze Engleesh?\" he cried. \"Ze m\u00e9chants rob me. Zere is une \u00e9meute.\nVere ze officers?\"\n\n\"That's what I'm wantin' to ken mysel',\" said Galbraith.\n\n\"Zey are gone,\" wailed the innkeeper. \"Zere is no gendarme or anyzing,\nand I am rob.\"\n\n\"Where's the polis? Get the Provost, man. D'ye tell me there's no polis\nleft?\"\n\n\"I am rob,\" the wail continued. \"Ze m\u00e9chants rob ze magasins and ve vill\nbe assassin\u00e9s.\"\n\nLight was dawning upon Private Galbraith. The British troops had left\nYpres for some reason which he could not fathom, and there was no law or\norder in the little city. At other times he had hated the law as much as\nany man, and his relations with the police had often been strained. Now\nhe realised that he had done them an injustice. Disorder suddenly seemed\nto him the one thing intolerable. Here had he been undergoing a stiff\ndiscipline for weeks, and if that was his fate no civilian should be\nallowed on the loose. He was a British soldier--marooned here by no\nfault of his own--and it was his business to keep up the end of the\nBritish Army and impose the King's peace upon the unruly. His temper was\ngetting hot, but he was curiously happy. He marched into the\n_estaminet_. \"Oot o' here, ye scum!\" he bellowed. \"Sortez, ye cochons!\"\n\nThe revellers were silent before the apparition. Then one, drunker than\nthe rest, flung a bottle which grazed his right ear. That put the\nfinishing touch to his temper. Roaring like a bull, he was among them,\nprodding their hinder parts with his bayonet, and now and then reversing\nhis rifle to crack a head. He had not played centre-forward in the old\ndays at Celtic Park for nothing. The place emptied in a twinkling--all\nbut one man whose legs could not support him. Him Private Galbraith\nseized by the scruff and the slack of his trousers, and tossed into the\nstreet.\n\n\"Now I'll hae my breakfast,\" he said to the trembling landlord.\n\nPrivate Galbraith, much the better for his exercise, made a hearty meal\nof bread and cold ham, and quenched his thirst with two bottles of\nHazebrouck beer. He had also a little brandy, and pocketed the flask,\nfor which the landlord refused all payment. Then, feeling a giant\nrefreshed, he sallied into the street.\n\n\"I'm off to look for your Provost,\" he said. \"If ye have ony mair\ntrouble, ye'll find me at the Toun Hall.\"\n\nA shell had plumped into the middle of the causeway, and the place was\nempty. Private Galbraith, despising shells, swaggered up the open, his\ndisreputable kilt swinging about his putteeless legs, the remnant of a\nbonnet set well on the side of his shaggy red head, and the light of\nbattle in his eyes. For once he was arrayed on the side of the angels,\nand the thought encouraged him mightily. The brandy had fired his\nimagination.\n\nAdventure faced him at the next corner. A woman was struggling with two\nmen--a slim pale girl with dark hair. No sound came from her lips, but\nher eyes were bright with terror. Galbraith started to run, shouting\nsound British oaths. The men let the woman go, and turned to face him.\nOne had a pistol, and for the second time that day a bullet just missed\nits mark. An instant later a clean bayonet thrust had ended the mortal\ncareer of the marksman, and the other had taken to his heels.\n\n\"I'll learn thae lads to be sae free wi' their popguns,\" said the irate\nsoldier. \"Haud up, Mem. It's a' by wi' noo. Losh! The wumman's fentit!\"\n\nPrivate Galbraith was as shy of women as of his Commanding Officer, and\nhe had not bargained for this duty. She was clearly a lady from her\ndress and appearance, and this did not make it easier. He supported her\nmanfully, addressing to her the kind of encouragements which a groom\ngives to a horse. \"Canny now, Mem. Haud up! Ye've no cause to be\nfeared.\"\n\nThen he remembered the brandy in his pocket, and with much awkwardness\nmanaged to force some drops between her lips. To his vast relief she\nbegan to come to. Her eyes opened and stared uncomprehendingly at her\npreserver. Then she found her voice.\n\n\"Thank God, the British have come back!\" she said in excellent English.\n\n\"No, Mem; not yet. It's just me, Private Galbraith, 'C' Company, 3rd\nBattalion, Lennox Highlanders. Ye keep some bad lots in this toun.\"\n\n\"Alas! what can we do? The place is full of spies, and they will stir up\nthe dregs of the people and make Ypres a hell. Oh, why did the British\ngo? Our good men are all with the army, and there are only old folk and\nwastrels left.\"\n\n\"Rely upon me, Mem,\" said Galbraith stoutly. \"I was just settin' off to\nfind your Provost.\"\n\nShe puzzled at the word, and then understood.\n\n\"He has gone!\" she cried. \"The Maire went to Dunkirk a week ago, and\nthere is no authority in Ypres.\"\n\n\"Then we'll make yin. Here's the minister. We'll speir at him.\"\n\nAn old priest, with a lean, grave face, had come up.\n\n\"Ah, Mam'selle Om\u00e8rine,\" he cried, \"the devil in our city is unchained.\nWho is this soldier?\"\n\nThe two talked in French, while Galbraith whistled and looked at the\nsky. A shrapnel shell was bursting behind the cathedral, making a splash\nof colour in the November fog. Then the priest spoke in careful and\nconstrained English.\n\n\"There is yet a chance for a strong man. But he must be very strong.\nMam'selle will summon her father, Monsieur le Procureur, and we will\nmeet at the Mairie. I will guide you there, _mon brave_.\"\n\nThe Grande Place was deserted, and in the middle there was a new gaping\nshell-hole. At the door of a great building, which Galbraith assumed to\nbe the Town Hall, a feeble old porter was struggling with a man.\nGalbraith scragged the latter and pitched him into the shell-hole. There\nwas a riot going on in a caf\u00e9 on the far side which he itched to have a\nhand in, but he postponed that pleasure to a more convenient season.\n\nTwenty minutes later, in a noble room with frescoed and tapestried\nwalls, there was a strange conference. The priest was there, and\nGalbraith, and Mam'selle Om\u00e8rine, and her father, M. St Marais. There\nwas a doctor too, and three elderly citizens, and an old warrior who had\nleft an arm on the Yser. Galbraith took charge, with Mam'selle as his\ninterpreter, and in half an hour had constituted a Committee of Public\nSafety. He had nervous folk to deal with.\n\n\"The Germans may enter at any moment, and then we will all be hanged,\"\nsaid one.\n\n\"Nae doot,\" said Galbraith; \"but ye needna get your throats cut afore\nthey come.\"\n\n\"The city is full of the ill-disposed,\" said another. \"The Boches have\ntheir spies in every alley. We who are so few cannot control them.\"\n\n\"If it's spies,\" said Galbraith firmly, \"I'll take on the job my lone.\nD'ye think a terrier dowg's feared of a wheen rottens?\"[5]\n\nIn the end he had his way, with Mam'selle's help, and had put some\nconfidence into civic breasts. It took him the best part of the\nafternoon to collect his posse. He got every wounded Belgian that had\nthe use of his legs, some well-grown boys, one or two ancients, and\nseveral dozen robust women. There was no lack of weapons, and he armed\nthe lot with a strange collection of French and English rifles, giving\npistols to the section leaders. With the help of the Procureur, he\ndivided the city into beats and gave his followers instructions. They\nwere drastic orders, for the situation craved for violence.\n\nHe spent the evening of his life. So far as he remembered afterwards, he\nwas in seventeen different scraps. Strayed revellers were leniently\ndealt with--the canal was a cooling experience. Looters were rounded up,\nand, if they showed fight, summarily disposed of. One band of bullies\nmade a stout resistance, killed two of his guards, and lost half a dozen\ndead. He got a black eye, a pistol-bullet through his sleeve, a wipe on\nthe cheek from a carving-knife, and he lost the remnants of his bonnet.\nFifty-two prisoners spent the night in the cellars of the Mairie.\n\nAbout midnight he found himself in the tapestried chamber. \"We'll hae to\nget a Proclamation,\" he had announced; \"a gude strong yin, for we maun\nconduct this job according to the rules.\" So the Procureur had a\ndocument drawn up bidding all inhabitants of Ypres keep indoors except\nbetween the hours of 10 a. m. and noon, and 3 and 5 p. m.; forbidding\nthe sale of alcohol in all forms; and making theft and violence and the\ncarrying of arms punishable by death. There was a host of other\nprovisions which Galbraith imperfectly understood, but when the thing\nwas translated to him he approved its spirit. He signed the document in\nhis large sprawling hand--\"Peter Galbraith, 1473, Pte., 3rd Lennox\nHighlanders, Acting Provost of Wipers.\"\n\n\"Get that prentit,\" he said, \"and pit up copies at every street corner\nand on a' the public-hooses. And see that the doors o' the publics are\nboardit up. That'll do for the day. I'm feelin' verra like my bed.\"\n\nMam'selle Om\u00e8rine watched him with a smile. She caught his eye and\ndropped him a curtsey.\n\n\"Monsieur le Roi d'Ypres,\" she said.\n\nHe blushed hotly.\n\n\nFor the next few days Private Galbraith worked harder than ever before\nin his existence. For the first time he knew responsibility, and that\ntoil which brings honour with it. He tasted the sweets of office; and\nhe, whose aim in life had been to scrape through with the minimum of\nexertion, now found himself the inspirer of the maximum in others.\n\nAt first he scorned advice, being shy and nervous. Gradually, as he felt\nhis feet, he became glad of other people's wisdom. Especially he leaned\non two, Mam'selle Om\u00e8rine and her father. Likewise the priest, whom he\ncalled the minister.\n\nBy the second day the order in Ypres was remarkable. By the third day it\nwas phenomenal; and by the fourth a tyranny. The little city for the\nfirst time for seven hundred years fell under the sway of a despot. A\ncitizen had to be on his best behaviour, for the Acting Provost's eye\nwas on him. Never was seen so sober a place. Three permits for alcohol\nand no more were issued, and then only on the plea of medical\nnecessity. Peter handed over to the doctor the flask of brandy he had\ncarried off from the _estaminet_--Provosts must set an example.\n\nThe Draconian code promulgated the first night was not adhered to.\nLooters and violent fellows went to gaol instead of the gallows. But\nthree spies were taken and shot after a full trial. That trial was the\nmaster effort of Private Galbraith--based on his own regimental\nexperience and memories of a Sheriff Court in Lanarkshire, where he had\ntwice appeared for poaching. He was extraordinarily punctilious about\nforms, and the three criminals--their guilt was clear, and they were the\nscum of creation--had something more than justice. The Acting Provost\npronounced sentence, which the priest translated, and a file of\n_mutil\u00e9s_ in the yard did the rest.\n\n\"If the Boches get in here we'll pay for this day's work,\" said the\njudge cheerfully; \"but I'll gang easier to the grave for havin' got rid\no' thae swine.\"\n\nOn the fourth day he had a sudden sense of dignity. He examined his\napparel, and found it very bad. He needed a new bonnet, a new kilt, and\nputtees, and he would be the better of a new shirt. Being aware that\ncommandeering for personal use ill suited with his office, he put the\ncase before the Procureur, and a _Commission de Ravitaillement_ was\nappointed. Shirts and puttees were easily got, but the kilt and bonnet\nwere difficulties. But next morning Mam'selle Om\u00e8rine brought a gift. It\nwas a bonnet with such a dicing round the rim as no Jock ever wore, and\na skirt--it is the truest word--of that pattern which graces the persons\nof small girls in France. It was not the Lennox tartan, it was not any\nkind of tartan, but Private Galbraith did not laugh. He accepted the\ngarments with a stammer of thanks--\"They're awfu' braw, and I'm much\nobliged, Mem\"--and, what is more, he put them on. The Ypriotes saw his\nsplendour with approval. It was a proof of his new frame of mind that he\ndid not even trouble to reflect what his comrades would think of his\ncostume, and that he kissed the bonnet affectionately before he went to\nbed.\n\nThat night he had evil dreams. He suddenly saw the upshot of it\nall--himself degraded and shot as a deserter, and his brief glory\npricked like a bubble. Grim forebodings of court-martials assailed him.\nWhat would Mam'selle think of him when he was led away in disgrace--he\nwho for a little had been a king? He walked about the floor in a frenzy\nof disquiet, and stood long at the window peering over the Place, lit by\na sudden blink of moonlight. It could never be, he decided. Something\ndesperate would happen first. The crash of a shell a quarter of a mile\noff reminded him that he was in the midst of war--war with all its\nchances of cutting knots.\n\nNext morning no Procureur appeared. Then came the priest with a sad face\nand a sadder tale. Mam'selle had been out late the night before on an\nerrand of mercy, and a shell, crashing through a gable, had sent an\navalanche of masonry into the street. She was dead, without pain, said\nthe priest, and in the sure hope of Heaven.\n\nThe others wept, but Private Galbraith strode from the room, and in a\nvery little time was at the house of the Procureur. He saw his little\ncolleague laid out for death after the fashion of her Church, and his\nhead suddenly grew very clear and his heart hotter than fire.\n\n\"I maun resign this job,\" he told the Committee of Public Safety. \"I've\nbeen forgettin' that I'm a sodger and no a Provost. It's my duty to get\na nick at thae Boches.\"\n\nThey tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. His rule was over, and\nhe was going back to serve.\n\nBut he was not allowed to resign. For that afternoon, after a week's\nabsence, the British troops came again into Ypres.\n\nThey found a decorous little city, and many people who spoke of \"le\nRoi\"--which they assumed to signify the good King Albert. Also, in a\ncorner of the cathedral yard, sitting disconsolately on the edge of a\nfallen monument, Company Sergeant-Major Macvittie of the 3rd Lennox\nHighlanders found Private Peter Galbraith.\n\n\"Ma God, Galbraith, ye've done it this time! _You'll_ catch it in the\nneck! Absent for a week wi'out leave, and gettin' yoursel' up to look\nlike Harry Lauder! You come along wi' me!\"\n\n\"I'll come quiet,\" said Galbraith with strange meekness. He was\nwondering how to spell Om\u00e8rine St Marais in case he wanted to write it\nin his Bible.\n\nThe events of the next week were confusing to a plain man. Galbraith was\nvery silent, and made no reply to the chaff with which at first he was\ngreeted. Soon his fellows forbore to chaff him, regarding him as a\ndoomed man who had come well within the pale of the ultimate penalties.\n\nHe was examined by his Commanding Officer, and interviewed by still more\nexalted personages. The story he told was so bare as to be\nunintelligible. He asked for no mercy, and gave no explanations. But\nthere were other witnesses besides him--the priest, for example, and\nMonsieur St Marais, in a sober suit of black and very dark under the\neyes.\n\nBy-and-by the court gave its verdict. Private Peter Galbraith was found\nguilty of riding roughshod over the King's Regulations; he had absented\nhimself from his battalion without permission; he had neglected his own\nduties and usurped without authority a number of superior functions; he\nhad been the cause of the death or maltreatment of various persons who,\nwhatever their moral deficiencies, must be regarded for the purposes of\nthe case as civilian Allies. The Court, however, taking into\nconsideration the exceptional circumstances in which Private Galbraith\nhad been placed, inflicted no penalty and summarily discharged the\nprisoner.\n\nPrivately, his Commanding Officer and the still more exalted personages\nshook hands with him, and told him that he was a devilish good fellow\nand a credit to the British Army.\n\nBut Peter Galbraith cared for none of these things. As he sat again in\nthe trenches at St Eloi in six inches of water and a foot of mud, he\nasked his neighbour how many Germans were opposite them.\n\n\"I was hearin' that there was maybe fifty thoosand,\" was the answer.\n\nPrivate Galbraith was content. He thought that the whole fifty thousand\nwould scarcely atone for the death of one slim, dark-eyed girl.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[5] _Anglice_--rats.\n\n\nTHE END","title":"The Watcher by the Threshold","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":67411}