{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_75827/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_75827","id":"gutenberg_75827","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75827","summary":null,"tags":["American fiction","Category: Adventure","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Category: Short Stories","Horror tales, American","Short stories, American"],"text":"LUKUNDOO AND OTHER STORIES\n\n\n                          EDWARD LUCAS WHITE\n\n\n\n                               LUKUNDOO\n                          _AND OTHER STORIES_\n\n\n\n\n                                  BY\n                          EDWARD LUCAS WHITE\n\n\n                              _Author of_\n                   \u201cEL SUPREMO,\u201d \u201cANDIVIUS HEDULIO,\u201d\n                             \u201cHELEN,\u201d ETC.\n\n\n\n\n                        GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY\n                      ON MURRAY HILL : : NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n                     COPYRIGHT, 1906, 1925, 1927,\n                         BY EDWARD LUCAS WHITE\n\n\n\n                COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY THE BELLMAN COMPANY\n              COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY HENRY RIDDER, PUBLISHER\n\n\n\n\n                      LUKUNDOO AND OTHER STORIES\n                                 --A--\n                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA\n\n\n\n\n                               CONTENTS\n\n\n I LUKUNDOO,                                                   9\n\n II FLOKI\u2019S BLADE,                                            31\n\n III THE PICTURE PUZZLE,                                      75\n\n IV THE SNOUT,                                                97\n\n V ALFANDEGA 49A,                                            145\n\n VI THE MESSAGE ON THE SLATE,                                171\n\n VII AMINA,                                                  219\n\n VIII THE PIG-SKIN BELT,                                     237\n\n IX THE HOUSE OF THE NIGHTMARE,                              281\n\n X SORCERY ISLAND,                                           297\n\n AFTERWORD,                                                  327\n\n\n\n\n                               LUKUNDOO\n\n\n\n\n                               LUKUNDOO\n\n\nIT STANDS to reason,\u201d said Twombly, \u201cthat a man must accept the\nevidence of his own eyes, and when eyes and ears agree, there can be no\ndoubt. He has to believe what he has both seen and heard.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot always,\u201d put in Singleton, softly.\n\nEvery man turned toward Singleton. Twombly was standing on the\nhearth-rug, his back to the grate, his legs spread out, with his\nhabitual air of dominating the room. Singleton, as usual, was as much\nas possible effaced in a corner. But when Singleton spoke he said\nsomething. We faced him in that flattering spontaneity of expectant\nsilence which invites utterance.\n\n\u201cI was thinking,\u201d he said, after an interval, \u201cof something I both saw\nand heard in Africa.\u201d\n\nNow, if there was one thing we had found impossible it had been to\nelicit from Singleton anything definite about his African experiences.\nAs with the Alpinist in the story, who could tell only that he went\nup and came down, the sum of Singleton\u2019s revelations had been that he\nwent there and came away. His words now riveted our attention at once.\nTwombly faded from the hearth-rug, but not one of us could ever recall\nhaving seen him go. The room readjusted itself, focused on Singleton,\nand there was some hasty and furtive lighting of fresh cigars.\nSingleton lit one also, but it went out immediately, and he never relit\nit.\n\n\n                                   I\n\n\nWe were in the Great Forest, exploring for pigmies. Van Rieten had\na theory that the dwarfs found by Stanley and others were a mere\ncross-breed between ordinary negroes and the real pigmies. He hoped\nto discover a race of men three feet tall at most, or shorter. We had\nfound no trace of any such beings.\n\nNatives were few; game scarce; food, except game, there was none; and\nthe deepest, dankest, drippingest forest all about. We were the only\nnovelty in the country, no native we met had even seen a white man\nbefore, most had never heard of white men. All of a sudden, late one\nafternoon, there came into our camp an Englishman, and pretty well used\nup he was, too. We had heard no rumor of him; he had not only heard\nof us but had made an amazing five-day march to reach us. His guide\nand two bearers were nearly as done up as he. Even though he was in\ntatters and had five days\u2019 beard on, you could see he was naturally\ndapper and neat and the sort of man to shave daily. He was small, but\nwiry. His face was the sort of British face from which emotion has been\nso carefully banished that a foreigner is apt to think the wearer of\nthe face incapable of any sort of feeling; the kind of face which, if\nit has any expression at all, expresses principally the resolution to\ngo through the world decorously, without intruding upon or annoying\nanyone.\n\nHis name was Etcham. He introduced himself modestly, and ate with us so\ndeliberately that we should never have suspected, if our bearers had\nnot had it from his bearers, that he had had but three meals in the\nfive days, and those small. After we had lit up he told us why he had\ncome.\n\n\u201cMy chief is ve\u2019y seedy,\u201d he said between puffs. \u201cHe is bound to go out\nif he keeps this way. I thought perhaps....\u201d\n\nHe spoke quietly in a soft, even tone, but I could see little beads of\nsweat oozing out on his upper lip under his stubby mustache, and there\nwas a tingle of repressed emotion in his tone, a veiled eagerness in\nhis eye, a palpitating inward solicitude in his demeanor that moved me\nat once. Van Rieten had no sentiment in him; if he was moved he did\nnot show it. But he listened. I was surprised at that. He was just the\nman to refuse at once. But he listened to Etcham\u2019s halting, diffident\nhints. He even asked questions.\n\n\u201cWho is your chief?\u201d\n\n\u201cStone,\u201d Etcham lisped.\n\nThat electrified both of us.\n\n\u201cRalph Stone?\u201d we ejaculated together.\n\nEtcham nodded.\n\nFor some minutes Van Rieten and I were silent. Van Rieten had never\nseen him, but I had been a classmate of Stone\u2019s, and Van Rieten and I\nhad discussed him over many a camp-fire. We had heard of him two years\nbefore, south of Luebo in the Balunda country, which had been ringing\nwith his theatrical strife against a Balunda witch-doctor, ending in\nthe sorcerer\u2019s complete discomfiture and the abasement of his tribe\nbefore Stone. They had even broken the fetish-man\u2019s whistle and given\nStone the pieces. It had been like the triumph of Elijah over the\nprophets of Baal, only more real to the Balunda.\n\nWe had thought of Stone as far off, if still in Africa at all, and here\nhe turned up ahead of us and probably forestalling our quest.\n\n\n                                  II\n\n\nEtcham\u2019s naming of Stone brought back to us all his tantalizing\nstory, his fascinating parents, their tragic death; the brilliance\nof his college days; the dazzle of his millions; the promise of his\nyoung manhood; his wide notoriety, so nearly real fame; his romantic\nelopement with the meteoric authoress whose sudden cascade of fiction\nhad made her so great a name so young, whose beauty and charm were so\nmuch heralded; the frightful scandal of the breach-of-promise suit\nthat followed; his bride\u2019s devotion through it all; their sudden\nquarrel after it was all over; their divorce; the too much advertised\nannouncement of his approaching marriage to the plaintiff in the\nbreach-of-promise suit; his precipitate remarriage to his divorced\nbride; their second quarrel and second divorce; his departure from his\nnative land; his advent in the dark continent. The sense of all this\nrushed over me and I believe Van Rieten felt it, too, as he sat silent.\n\nThen he asked:\n\n\u201cWhere is Werner?\u201d\n\n\u201cDead,\u201d said Etcham. \u201cHe died before I joined Stone.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou were not with Stone above Luebo?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Etcham, \u201cI joined him at Stanley Falls.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is with him?\u201d Van Rieten asked.\n\n\u201cOnly his Zanzibar servants and the bearers,\u201d Etcham replied.\n\n\u201cWhat sort of bearers?\u201d Van Rieten demanded.\n\n\u201cMang-Battu men,\u201d Etcham responded simply.\n\nNow that impressed both Van Rieten and myself greatly. It bore out\nStone\u2019s reputation as a notable leader of men. For up to that time no\none had been able to use Mang-Battu as bearers outside of their own\ncountry, or to hold them for long or difficult expeditions.\n\n\u201cWere you long among the Mang-Battu?\u201d was Van Rieten\u2019s next question.\n\n\u201cSome weeks,\u201d said Etcham. \u201cStone was interested in them and made up a\nfair-sized vocabulary of their words and phrases. He had a theory that\nthey are an offshoot of the Balunda and he found much confirmation in\ntheir customs.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you live on?\u201d Van Rieten inquired.\n\n\u201cGame, mostly,\u201d Etcham lisped.\n\n\u201cHow long has Stone been laid up?\u201d Van Rieten next asked.\n\n\u201cMore than a month,\u201d Etcham answered.\n\n\u201cAnd you have been hunting for the camp!\u201d Van Rieten exclaimed.\n\nEtcham\u2019s face, burnt and flayed as it was, showed a flush.\n\n\u201cI missed some easy shots,\u201d he admitted ruefully. \u201cI\u2019ve not felt ve\u2019y\nfit myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with your chief?\u201d Van Rieten inquired.\n\n\u201cSomething like carbuncles,\u201d Etcham replied.\n\n\u201cHe ought to get over a carbuncle or two,\u201d Van Rieten declared.\n\n\u201cThey are not carbuncles,\u201d Etcham explained. \u201cNor one or two. He has\nhad dozens, sometimes five at once. If they had been carbuncles he\nwould have been dead long ago. But in some ways they are not so bad,\nthough in others they are worse.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you mean?\u201d Van Rieten queried.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d Etcham hesitated, \u201cthey do not seem to inflame so deep nor so\nwide as carbuncles, nor to be so painful, nor to cause so much fever.\nBut then they seem to be part of a disease that affects his mind. He\nlet me help him dress the first, but the others he has hidden most\ncarefully, from me and from the men. He keeps his tent when they puff\nup, and will not let me change the dressings or be with him at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you plenty of dressings?\u201d Van Rieten asked.\n\n\u201cWe have some,\u201d said Etcham doubtfully. \u201cBut he won\u2019t use them; he\nwashes out the dressings and uses them over and over.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is he treating the swellings?\u201d Van Rieten inquired.\n\n\u201cHe slices them off clear down to flesh level, with his razor.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d Van Rieten shouted.\n\nEtcham made no answer but looked him steadily in the eyes.\n\n\u201cI beg pardon,\u201d Van Rieten hastened to say. \u201cYou startled me. They\ncan\u2019t be carbuncles. He\u2019d have been dead long ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought I had said they are not carbuncles,\u201d Etcham lisped.\n\n\u201cBut the man must be crazy!\u201d Van Rieten exclaimed.\n\n\u201cJust so,\u201d said Etcham. \u201cHe is beyond my advice or control.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow many has he treated that way?\u201d Van Rieten demanded.\n\n\u201cTwo, to my knowledge,\u201d Etcham said.\n\n\u201cTwo?\u201d Van Rieten queried.\n\nEtcham flushed again.\n\n\u201cI saw him,\u201d he confessed, \u201cthrough a crack in the hut. I felt impelled\nto keep a watch on him, as if he was not responsible.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should think not,\u201d Van Rieten agreed. \u201cAnd you saw him do that\ntwice?\u201d\n\n\u201cI conjecture,\u201d said Etcham, \u201cthat he did the like with all the rest.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow many has he had?\u201d Van Rieten asked.\n\n\u201cDozens,\u201d Etcham lisped.\n\n\u201cDoes he eat?\u201d Van Rieten inquired.\n\n\u201cLike a wolf,\u201d said Etcham. \u201cMore than any two bearers.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan he walk?\u201d Van Rieten asked.\n\n\u201cHe crawls a bit, groaning,\u201d said Etcham simply.\n\n\u201cLittle fever, you say,\u201d Van Rieten ruminated.\n\n\u201cEnough and too much,\u201d Etcham declared.\n\n\u201cHas he been delirious?\u201d Van Rieten asked.\n\n\u201cOnly twice,\u201d Etcham replied; \u201conce when the first swelling broke, and\nonce later. He would not let anyone come near him then. But we could\nhear him talking, talking steadily, and it scared the natives.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas he talking their patter in delirium?\u201d Van Rieten demanded.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Etcham, \u201cbut he was talking some similar lingo. Hamed\nBurghash said he was talking Balunda. I know too little Balunda. I do\nnot learn languages readily. Stone learned more Mang-Battu in a week\nthan I could have learned in a year. But I seemed to hear words like\nMang-Battu words. Anyhow the Mang-Battu bearers were scared.\u201d\n\n\u201cScared?\u201d Van Rieten repeated, questioningly.\n\n\u201cSo were the Zanzibar men, even Hamed Burghash, and so was I,\u201d said\nEtcham, \u201conly for a different reason. He talked in two voices.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn two voices,\u201d Van Rieten reflected.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Etcham, more excitedly than he had yet spoken. \u201cIn two\nvoices, like a conversation. One was his own, one a small, thin, bleaty\nvoice like nothing I ever heard. I seemed to make out, among the\nsounds the deep voice made, something like Mang-Battu words I knew,\nas _nedru_, _metebaba_, and _nedo_, their terms for\n\u2018head,\u2019 \u2018shoulder,\u2019 \u2018thigh,\u2019 and perhaps _kudra_ and _nekere_\n(\u2018speak\u2019 and \u2018whistle\u2019); and among the noises of the shrill voice\n_matomipa_, _angunzi_, and _kamomami_ (\u2018kill,\u2019 \u2018death,\u2019\nand \u2018hate\u2019). Hamed Burghash said he also heard those words. He knew\nMang-Battu far better than I.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did the bearers say?\u201d Van Rieten asked.\n\n\u201cThey said, \u2018_Lukundoo, Lukundoo!_\u2019\u201d Etcham replied. \u201cI did not\nknow that word; Hamed Burghash said it was Mang-Battu for \u2018leopard.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s Mang-Battu for \u2018witchcraft,\u2019\u201d said Van Rieten.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t wonder they thought so,\u201d said Etcham. \u201cIt was enough to make\none believe in sorcery to listen to those two voices.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne voice answering the other?\u201d Van Rieten asked perfunctorily.\n\nEtcham\u2019s face went gray under his tan.\n\n\u201cSometimes both at once,\u201d he answered huskily.\n\n\u201cBoth at once!\u201d Van Rieten ejaculated.\n\n\u201cIt sounded that way to the men, too,\u201d said Etcham. \u201cAnd that was not\nall.\u201d\n\nHe stopped and looked helplessly at us for a moment.\n\n\u201cCould a man talk and whistle at the same time?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cHow do you mean?\u201d Van Rieten queried.\n\n\u201cWe could hear Stone talking away, his big, deep-chested baritone\nrumbling along, and through it all we could hear a high, shrill\nwhistle, the oddest, wheezy sound. You know, no matter how shrilly\na grown man may whistle, the note has a different quality from the\nwhistle of a boy or a woman or little girl. They sound more treble,\nsomehow. Well, if you can imagine the smallest girl who could whistle\nkeeping it up tunelessly right along, that whistle was like that, only\neven more piercing, and it sounded right through Stone\u2019s bass tones.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you didn\u2019t go to him?\u201d Van Rieten cried.\n\n\u201cHe is not given to threats,\u201d Etcham disclaimed. \u201cBut he had\nthreatened, not volubly, nor like a sick man, but quietly and firmly,\nthat if any man of us (he lumped me in with the men), came near him\nwhile he was in his trouble, that man should die. And it was not\nso much his words as his manner. It was like a monarch commanding\nrespected privacy for a death-bed. One simply could not transgress.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see,\u201d said Van Rieten shortly.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s ve\u2019y seedy,\u201d Etcham repeated helplessly. \u201cI thought perhaps....\u201d\n\nHis absorbing affection for Stone, his real love for him, shone out\nthrough his envelope of conventional training. Worship of Stone was\nplainly his master passion.\n\nLike many competent men, Van Rieten had a streak of hard selfishness\nin him. It came to the surface then. He said we carried our lives in\nour hands from day to day just as genuinely as Stone; that he did\nnot forget the ties of blood and calling between any two explorers,\nbut that there was no sense in imperiling one party for a very\nproblematical benefit to a man probably beyond any help; that it was\nenough of a task to hunt for one party; that if two were united,\nproviding food would be more than doubly difficult; that the risk\nof starvation was too great. Deflecting our march seven full days\u2019\njourney (he complimented Etcham on his marching powers) might ruin our\nexpedition entirely.\n\n\n                                  III\n\n\nVan Rieten had logic on his side and he had a way with him. Etcham sat\nthere apologetic and deferential, like a fourth-form schoolboy before a\nhead master. Van Rieten wound up.\n\n\u201cI am after pigmies, at the risk of my life. After pigmies I go.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps, then, these will interest you,\u201d said Etcham, very quietly.\n\nHe took two objects out of the sidepocket of his blouse, and handed\nthem to Van Rieten. They were round, bigger than big plums, and smaller\nthan small peaches, about the right size to enclose in an average\nhand. They were black, and at first I did not see what they were.\n\n\u201cPigmies!\u201d Van Rieten exclaimed. \u201cPigmies, indeed! Why, they wouldn\u2019t\nbe two feet high! Do you mean to claim that these are adult heads?\u201d\n\n\u201cI claim nothing,\u201d Etcham answered evenly. \u201cYou can see for yourself.\u201d\n\nVan Rieten passed one of the heads to me. The sun was just setting and\nI examined it closely. A dried head it was, perfectly preserved, and\nthe flesh as hard as Argentine jerked beef. A bit of a vertebra stuck\nout where the muscles of the vanished neck had shriveled into folds.\nThe puny chin was sharp on a projecting jaw, the minute teeth white and\neven between the retracted lips, the tiny nose was flat, the little\nforehead retreating, there were inconsiderable clumps of stunted wool\non the Lilliputian cranium. There was nothing babyish, childish or\nyouthful about the head, rather it was mature to senility.\n\n\u201cWhere did these come from?\u201d Van Rieten inquired.\n\n\u201cI do not know,\u201d Etcham replied precisely. \u201cI found them among Stone\u2019s\neffects while rummaging for medicines or drugs or anything that could\nhelp me to help him. I do not know where he got them. But I\u2019ll swear he\ndid not have them when we entered this district.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you sure?\u201d Van Rieten queried, his eyes big and fixed on Etcham\u2019s.\n\n\u201cVe\u2019y sure,\u201d lisped Etcham.\n\n\u201cBut how could he have come by them without your knowledge?\u201d Van Rieten\ndemurred.\n\n\u201cSometimes we were apart ten days at a time hunting,\u201d said Etcham.\n\u201cStone is not a talking man. He gave me no account of his doings and\nHamed Burghash keeps a still tongue and a tight hold on the men.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have examined these heads?\u201d Van Rieten asked.\n\n\u201cMinutely,\u201d said Etcham.\n\nVan Rieten took out his notebook. He was a methodical chap. He tore out\na leaf, folded it and divided it equally into three pieces. He gave one\nto me and one to Etcham.\n\n\u201cJust for a test of my impressions,\u201d he said, \u201cI want each of us to\nwrite separately just what he is most reminded of by these heads. Then\nI want to compare the writings.\u201d\n\nI handed Etcham a pencil and he wrote. Then he handed the pencil back\nto me and I wrote.\n\n\u201cRead the three,\u201d said Van Rieten, handing me his piece.\n\nVan Rieten had written:\n\n\u201cAn old Balunda witch-doctor.\u201d\n\nEtcham had written:\n\n\u201cAn old Mang-Battu fetish-man.\u201d\n\nI had written:\n\n\u201cAn old Katongo magician.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere!\u201d Van Rieten exclaimed. \u201cLook at that! There is nothing Wagabi\nor Batwa or Wambuttu or Wabotu about these heads. Nor anything pigmy\neither.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought as much,\u201d said Etcham.\n\n\u201cAnd you say he did not have them before?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo a certainty he did not,\u201d Etcham asserted.\n\n\u201cIt is worth following up,\u201d said Van Rieten. \u201cI\u2019ll go with you. And\nfirst of all, I\u2019ll do my best to save Stone.\u201d\n\nHe put out his hand and Etcham clasped it silently. He was grateful all\nover.\n\n\n                                  IV\n\n\nNothing but Etcham\u2019s fever of solicitude could have taken him in five\ndays over the track. It took him eight days to retrace with full\nknowledge of it and our party to help. We could not have done it in\nseven, and Etcham urged us on, in a repressed fury of anxiety, no mere\nfever of duty to his chief, but a real ardor of devotion, a glow of\npersonal adoration for Stone which blazed under his dry conventional\nexterior and showed in spite of him.\n\nWe found Stone well cared for. Etcham had seen to a good, high thorn\n_zareeba_ round the camp, the huts were well built and thatched\nand Stone\u2019s was as good as their resources would permit. Hamed Burghash\nwas not named after two Seyyids for nothing. He had in him the making\nof a sultan. He had kept the Mang-Battu together, not a man had slipped\noff, and he had kept them in order. Also he was a deft nurse and a\nfaithful servant.\n\nThe two other Zanzabaris had done some creditable hunting. Though all\nwere hungry, the camp was far from starvation.\n\nStone was on a canvas cot and there was a sort of collapsible\ncamp-stool-table, like a Turkish tabouret, by the cot. It had a\nwater-bottle and some vials on it and Stone\u2019s watch, also his razor in\nits case.\n\nStone was clean and not emaciated, but he was far gone; not\nunconscious, but in a daze; past commanding or resisting anyone.\nHe did not seem to see us enter or to know we were there. I should\nhave recognized him anywhere. His boyish dash and grace had vanished\nutterly, of course. But his head was even more leonine; his hair was\nstill abundant, yellow and wavy; the close, crisped blond beard he had\ngrown during his illness did not alter him. He was big and big-chested\nyet. His eyes were dull and he mumbled and babbled mere meaningless\nsyllables, not words.\n\nEtcham helped Van Rieten to uncover him and look him over. He was in\ngood muscle for a man so long bedridden. There were no scars on him\nexcept about his knees, shoulders and chest. On each knee and above\nit he had a full score of roundish cicatrices, and a dozen or more on\neach shoulder, all in front. Two or three were open wounds and four or\nfive barely healed. He had no fresh swellings except two, one on each\nside, on his pectoral muscles, the one on the left being higher up and\nfarther out than the other. They did not look like boils or carbuncles,\nbut as if something blunt and hard were being pushed up through the\nfairly healthy flesh and skin, not much inflamed.\n\n\u201cI should not lance those,\u201d said Van Rieten, and Etcham assented.\n\nThey made Stone as comfortable as they could, and just before sunset we\nlooked in at him again. He was lying on his back, and his chest showed\nbig and massive yet, but he lay as if in a stupor. We left Etcham with\nhim and went into the next hut, which Etcham had resigned to us. The\njungle noises were no different there than anywhere else for months\npast, and I was soon fast asleep.\n\n\n                                   V\n\n\nSometime in the pitch dark I found myself awake and listening. I could\nhear two voices, one Stone\u2019s, the other sibilant and wheezy. I knew\nStone\u2019s voice after all the years that had passed since I heard it\nlast. The other was like nothing I remembered. It had less volume than\nthe wail of a new-born baby, yet there was an insistent carrying power\nto it, like the shrilling of an insect. As I listened I heard Van\nRieten breathing near me in the dark, then he heard me and realized\nthat I was listening, too. Like Etcham I knew little Balunda, but I\ncould make out a word or two. The voices alternated with intervals of\nsilence between.\n\nThen suddenly both sounded at once and fast, Stone\u2019s baritone basso,\nfull as if he were in perfect health, and that incredibly stridulous\nfalsetto, both jabbering at once like the voices of two people\nquarreling and trying to talk each other down.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t stand this,\u201d said Van Rieten. \u201cLet\u2019s have a look at him.\u201d\n\nHe had one of those cylindrical electric night-candles. He fumbled\nabout for it, touched the button and beckoned me to come with him.\nOutside of the hut he motioned me to stand still, and instinctively\nturned off the light, as if seeing made listening difficult.\n\nExcept for a faint glow from the embers of the bearers\u2019 fire we were in\ncomplete darkness, little starlight struggled through the trees, the\nriver made but a faint murmur. We could hear the two voices together\nand then suddenly the creaking voice changed into a razor-edged,\nslicing whistle, indescribably cutting, continuing right through\nStone\u2019s grumbling torrent of croaking words.\n\n\u201cGood God!\u201d exclaimed Van Rieten.\n\nAbruptly he turned on the light.\n\nWe found Etcham utterly asleep, exhausted by his long anxiety and the\nexertions of his phenomenal march and relaxed completely now that the\nload was in a sense shifted from his shoulders to Van Rieten\u2019s. Even\nthe light on his face did not wake him.\n\nThe whistle had ceased and the two voices now sounded together. Both\ncame from Stone\u2019s cot, where the concentrated white ray showed him\nlying just as we had left him, except that he had tossed his arms above\nhis head and had torn the coverings and bandages from his chest.\n\nThe swelling on his right breast had broken. Van Rieten aimed the\ncenter line of the light at it and we saw it plainly. From his flesh,\ngrown out of it, there protruded a head, such a head as the dried\nspecimens Etcham had shown us, as if it were a miniature of the head\nof a Balunda fetish-man. It was black, shining black as the blackest\nAfrican skin; it rolled the whites of its wicked, wee eyes and showed\nits microscopic teeth between lips repulsively negroid in their red\nfullness, even in so diminutive a face. It had crisp, fuzzy wool on its\nminikin skull, it turned malignantly from side to side and chittered\nincessantly in that inconceivable falsetto. Stone babbled brokenly\nagainst its patter.\n\nVan Rieten turned from Stone and waked Etcham, with some difficulty.\nWhen he was awake and saw it all, Etcham stared and said not one word.\n\n\u201cYou saw him slice off two swellings?\u201d Van Rieten asked.\n\nEtcham nodded, chokingly.\n\n\u201cDid he bleed much?\u201d Van Rieten demanded.\n\n\u201cVe\u2019y little,\u201d Etcham replied.\n\n\u201cYou hold his arms,\u201d said Van Rieten to Etcham.\n\nHe took up Stone\u2019s razor and handed me the light. Stone showed no sign\nof seeing the light or of knowing we were there. But the little head\nmewled and screeched at us.\n\nVan Rieten\u2019s hand was steady, and the sweep of the razor even and true.\nStone bled amazingly little and Van Rieten dressed the wound as if it\nhad been a bruise or scrape.\n\nStone had stopped talking the instant the excrescent head was severed.\nVan Rieten did all that could be done for Stone and then fairly grabbed\nthe light from me. Snatching up a gun he scanned the ground by the cot\nand brought the butt down once and twice, viciously.\n\nWe went back to our hut, but I doubt if I slept.\n\n\n                                  VI\n\n\nNext day, near noon, in broad daylight, we heard the two voices from\nStone\u2019s hut. We found Etcham dropped asleep by his charge. The swelling\non the left had broken, and just such another head was there miauling\nand spluttering. Etcham woke up and the three of us stood there and\nglared. Stone interjected hoarse vocables into the tinkling gurgle of\nthe portent\u2019s utterance.\n\nVan Rieten stepped forward, took up Stone\u2019s razor and knelt down by the\ncot. The atomy of a head squealed a wheezy snarl at him.\n\nThen suddenly Stone spoke English.\n\n\u201cWho are you with my razor?\u201d\n\nVan Rieten started back and stood up.\n\nStone\u2019s eyes were clear now and bright, they roved about the hut.\n\n\u201cThe end,\u201d he said; \u201cI recognize the end. I seem to see Etcham, as if\nin life. But Singleton! Ah, Singleton! Ghosts of my boyhood come to\nwatch me pass! And you, strange specter with the black beard, and my\nrazor! Aroint ye all!\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no ghost, Stone,\u201d I managed to say. \u201cI\u2019m alive. So are Etcham and\nVan Rieten. We are here to help you.\u201d\n\n\u201cVan Rieten!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cMy work passes on to a better man. Luck go\nwith you, Van Rieten.\u201d\n\nVan Rieten went nearer to him.\n\n\u201cJust hold still a moment, old man,\u201d he said soothingly. \u201cIt will be\nonly one twinge.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve held still for many such twinges,\u201d Stone answered quite\ndistinctly. \u201cLet me be. Let me die my own way. The hydra was nothing to\nthis. You can cut off ten, a hundred, a thousand heads, but the curse\nyou can not cut off, or take off. What\u2019s soaked into the bone won\u2019t\ncome out of the flesh, any more than what\u2019s bred there. Don\u2019t hack me\nany more. Promise!\u201d\n\nHis voice had all the old commanding tone of his boyhood and it swayed\nVan Rieten as it always had swayed everybody.\n\n\u201cI promise,\u201d said Van Rieten.\n\nAlmost as he said the word Stone\u2019s eyes filmed again.\n\nThen we three sat about Stone and watched that hideous, gibbering\nprodigy grow up out of Stone\u2019s flesh, till two horrid, spindling little\nblack arms disengaged themselves. The infinitesimal nails were perfect\nto the barely perceptible moon at the quick, the pink spot on the palm\nwas horridly natural. These arms gesticulated and the right plucked\ntoward Stone\u2019s blond beard.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t stand this,\u201d Van Rieten exclaimed and took up the razor again.\n\nInstantly Stone\u2019s eyes opened, hard and glittering.\n\n\u201cVan Rieten break his word?\u201d he enunciated slowly. \u201cNever!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we must help you,\u201d Van Rieten gasped.\n\n\u201cI am past all help and all hurting,\u201d said Stone. \u201cThis is my hour.\nThis curse is not put on me; it grew out of me, like this horror here.\nEven now I go.\u201d\n\nHis eyes closed and we stood helpless, the adherent figure spouting\nshrill sentences.\n\nIn a moment Stone spoke again.\n\n\u201cYou speak all tongues?\u201d he asked thickly.\n\nAnd the emergent minikin replied in sudden English:\n\n\u201cYea, verily, all that you speak,\u201d putting out its microscopic tongue,\nwrithing its lips and wagging its head from side to side. We could see\nthe thready ribs on its exiguous flanks heave as if the thing breathed.\n\n\u201cHas she forgiven me?\u201d Stone asked in a muffled strangle.\n\n\u201cNot while the moss hangs from the cypresses,\u201d the head squeaked. \u201cNot\nwhile the stars shine on Lake Pontchartrain will she forgive.\u201d\n\nAnd then Stone, all with one motion, wrenched himself over on his side.\nThe next instant he was dead.\n\nWhen Singleton\u2019s voice ceased the room was hushed for a space. We could\nhear each other breathing. Twombly, the tactless, broke the silence.\n\n\u201cI presume,\u201d he said, \u201cyou cut off the little minikin and brought it\nhome in alcohol.\u201d\n\nSingleton turned on him a stern countenance.\n\n\u201cWe buried Stone,\u201d he said, \u201cunmutilated as he died.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said the unconscionable Twombly, \u201cthe whole thing is incredible.\u201d\n\nSingleton stiffened.\n\n\u201cI did not expect you to believe it,\u201d he said; \u201cI began by saying that\nalthough I heard and saw it, when I look back on it I cannot credit it\nmyself.\u201d\n\n                                                                   1907\n\n\n\n\n                             FLOKI\u2019S BLADE\n\n\n\n\n                             FLOKI\u2019S BLADE\n\n\n                                   I\n\n\nTHORKELL VILGERDSON was not only reputed the handsomest youth in all\nNorway, but was famous as a redoubtable champion, who had unfailingly\nkilled his man in every combat, and who was so skillful with weapons\nthat he had never been seriously wounded in any of the countless\naffrays in which he had taken part. Therefore, although every one of\nthe thirty-nine other men on the Sea-Raven hated him venomously, not\none challenged him, or provoked him, or affronted him in any way, but\nall were most scrupulously civil.\n\nThey all hated him. The three chieftains, Halfdan Ingolfson, Kollgrim\nErlendson, and Lodbrok Isleifson, who owned the ship and had planned\nthe adventure, hated him because, to their incredulous amazement, they\nfound themselves indubitably afraid of him. Their six thralls, Vifill,\nUlf, Hundi, Kepp, Sokholf and Erp, hated him, even more than they hated\ntheir own masters, for his air of ineffable superiority. The twenty-six\nother Vikings hated him because they felt themselves his inferiors and\nwere unwilling to acknowledge it, even in their thoughts. Most of all\nhis four perfidious sham friends, Hrodmar Finngerdson, Sigurd Atlison,\nGellir Kollskeggson and Bodvar Egilson, who had hatched the plot to\nlure him to his doom and put him out of the way, and had enticed him to\njoin the expedition, hated him for his beauty, his grace, his jaunty\ndemeanor and his vivacious wit. Attack him they dared not, and, sulking\ninwardly, they bided their time, outwardly suave and smiling, but with\nfurtive winks at each other.\n\nTheir opportunity came after a storm which drove them, they knew not\nwhere or whither, for, in those times, stars were the mariners\u2019 only\nguides. Throughout three nights and three days they saw neither star\nnor sun; in fact, could see barely two ships\u2019 lengths through the\ndriving scud and sluicing rain; and all that time they dared not set so\nmuch as a rag of sail, but, taking turns, every man of them, thralls,\nwarriors and chieftains alike, with but brief snatches of uneasy\nsleep, labored mightily at the oars, to keep the ship head to gale,\nor bailed furiously to keep her afloat. So terrific was the tempest\nthat Kollgrim, their acknowledged leader, was unwilling to relinquish\nthe helm and clung to it until exhaustion compelled him to rest. Even\nwhen he signalled for a relief neither Halfdan nor Lodbrok showed\nany alacrity for undertaking his momentous task. As they hesitated,\nalthough only for an instant, Thorkell seized the tiller just as\nKollgrim\u2019s grasp loosened. So well did he steer, so completely did\nhe justify his reputation as a seaman, that thereafter it was rather\nKollgrim who acted as relief to him than he to Kollgrim: every man of\nthem all, Kollgrim included, felt safer with Thorkell at the helm.\n\nAn hour or two before sunset of the long northern day the storm blew\nitself out, the sky cleared, and the wind slackened and shifted to a\nfair breeze. They stepped their mast, hoisted their yard, set a full\nsail, and, Halfdan at the tiller, and Lodbrok on lookout at the prow,\nthe rest feasted. Champing and munching unhurriedly they despatched a\nvast quantity of food, washed down with copious drafts of mead. When no\none could swallow another mouthful, Sigurd took the helm and Bodvar the\nlookout\u2019s place, and, while Halfdan and Lodbrok ate, the rest disposed\nthemselves to sleep, most of them to larboard, on the spare oars and\ncoils of rope, under the rowing-benches.\n\nDuring the brief northern night Sigurd and Bodvar set the Sea-Raven\non a true course by a whole skyful of brilliant constellations,\nbut, before dawn, they saw the stars hidden all round the horizon\nand gradually higher up, until only a few showed blurredly directly\noverhead; so that, when the sleepers waked, they found themselves\nenveloped in dense fog, and, soon after dawn, the wind slackened until\nthey had to man the oars to keep headway on the ship. The weary thralls\nand Kollgrim roused last. After Kollgrim waked Thorkell was the only\nsleeper and he slept heavily, exhausted by his overexertion at the\ntiller.\n\nEyeing him as he lay on a coil of rope, Hrodmar and Gellir beckoned\nSigurd and Bodvar. They resigned their posts to willing reliefs and\npicked their way amidships over and among the resting men and toiling\nrowers. Kollgrim, Lodbrok and Halfdan joined them and the seven\nconferred. All conned Thorkell and all agreed that he was fast asleep\nand far from rousing. Then the three chieftains beckoned their six\nthralls and instructed them. Erp and Ulf took convenient lengths of\nratline and knotted in each a clean-running noose. Vifill paired with\nHundi and Sokholf with Kepp, each pair choosing a length of light rope,\nthicker than a big man\u2019s thumb. Cautiously the six crawled towards\nThorkell, every man aboard, except a few sleepers and such oarsmen\nas were abaft of Thorkell\u2019s position, watching their approach with\nmalicious relish. Hundi and Vifill slipped their rope under Thorkell\u2019s\nknees; Kepp and Sokholf took a turn with theirs round his ankles,\nUlf and Erp each noosed a wrist: when all six were ready they looked\ntowards Kollgrim, and, at his nod, the two nooses tightened and the\nropes were knotted fast round Thorkell\u2019s knees and ankles. Even that\ndid not waken him and, as Erp and Ulf pulled their cords and dragged\nhis arms wide, his four pretended friends sprang on him, turned him\non his face, and, after a violent struggle, for, even with knees and\nankles lashed, Thorkell fought like a wildcat, they pinioned his arms\nbehind him and turned him once more face upward, trussed and helpless.\n\nThen they gloated over him, told him what they really thought of\nhim, and insulted him to their hearts\u2019 content. Halfdan, who was an\nacclaimed skald, composed and chanted over him an impromptu drapa of\ntriumph. Even the thralls expressed their envious malignity. Gellir\nproposed to run him through and Bodvar to throw him overboard. But\nKollgrim demurred. The thirty-four freemen had taken oath to a pledge\nof mutual fellowship, as was customary in all Viking voyages, and he\npointed out that they were bound, all of them, by their oath and must\nkeep its letter, if not its spirit.\n\nLodbrok thereupon suggested that they set him adrift, bound as he was,\nin their smallest boat, which had been half stove during the storm\nand was presumably leaky; putting into it with him a small hide flask\nof water and one smoked fish. Then they could accuse him of wilful\ndesertion.\n\nBy then it was nearer noon than sunrise, but no sight of the sun had\nthey had, nor could any man, in that fog, conjecture the sun\u2019s place in\nthe sky. Their outlook was all gray mist and smooth groundswell, for\nthere was not a catspaw of breeze.\n\nFrom the boat they took its sail, mast and oars; but they did not\nsearch it carefully. In it they laid a leather flask of water and two\nlittle smoked fish. In it they laid Thorkell, trussed as he was, but,\nas they launched the boat, Kollgrim cut the ropes at his knees and\nankles.\n\nAs boat and ship drifted apart his enemies mocked him, their grinning\nfaces peering between and over the shields which lined the low rail.\n\n\u201cHoist your sail!\u201d Bodvar jeered at him, \u201cand make for Norway or\nIceland, as you prefer. You are about as far from the one as from the\nother. You have no worse or better chance, either way.\u201d\n\n\u201cHope you relish your provender!\u201d Gellir called.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll need both oars soon,\u201d Hrodmar shrilled, \u201cand I don\u2019t see\neither.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you wish you had a bailer!\u201d Sigurd shouted.\n\nSoon he saw only fog.\n\nHe eyed the dirty water sloshing about in the dory\u2019s bilge. The boat\nwas not leaking rapidly, but it was leaking. No water had lapped\nover the gunwales and the big groundswells were long and smooth. Of\nair there was not a breath. For the time being he had only the leaks\nto fear. And, in the bow, jammed under the tiny fore-thwart in the\ntriangular cubby-hole, he saw a small wooden scoop-bailer. It meant\nmore to him than the two little fish and the leather water-bottle under\nthe after thwart.\n\nHe conned the edges of the gunwales and thwarts. He saw two sharp\nsplinters. The larger and sharper was where he could not use it; but,\npainfully and with great exertion, he wriggled, hunched and wrenched\nhimself until he brought the cords which bound his wrists against\nthe other splinter. With efforts distressing at once, and not long\nafterwards agonizing, he sawed the rope against the splinter. Panting,\na jelly of exhaustion, shivering and sweating, he all but fainted; but\nhe found fresh energy every time he glanced at the bilge-water.\n\nAt last, just as hope and strength together were failing him, the cord\nparted. A few jerks and twists of his arms and hands and they were\nfree. He shook himself, beat his arms against his chest and sprang\nupon the bailer. To his great satisfaction it was not long before no\ndeftness could scoop it up half full; the boat was not leaking too fast\nfor him.\n\nAs the dense fog and breathless calm continued to brood over the waters\nand the slow groundswell even abated, his cockleshell kept afloat not\nonly all that day and night, but throughout the two following days\nand nights. But the third night after he had been set adrift found\nhim near exhaustion. More than half his time was occupied in bailing\nand his muscles ached. He was afraid to sleep for fear of foundering\nbefore he woke. Once, in spite of himself, he fell deeply asleep and\nroused to find the gunwales almost awash, so that the most desperate\nfury of bailing barely sufficed to save him. In the flurry of effort\nhis remaining fish went overboard in a scoopful of water, unheeded. His\nflask he had emptied by dusk of the second day, control himself all he\ncould.\n\nAs the slow dawn whitened the fog after the short arctic night he\nthought he was delirious, for he seemed to hear the roar of surf on\nrocks and not far off.\n\nThen, suddenly, all at once, the fog thinned, sunrays lanced the\nlast wisps of it, the air cleared, he saw the sun plain, saw the sky\ncloudless, saw the horizon all round and beheld, close to him and\nopposite the just-risen sun, a rocky coast.\n\nInstantly he realized that his enemies had been vastly in error as to\nthe position of the Sea-Raven and had set him adrift only a few leagues\neast of Iceland. In spite of his buzzing head, his parched mouth, his\nshivering and trembling limbs, his general faintness, he felt new vigor\ninfused all through him. With his pitiful beechen scoop he alternately\nbailed and paddled. The current, he felt, was drawing him towards the\ncliffs. He saw a headland close. With his bailer he strove to guide the\nskiff towards it. The currents were kind and towards that headland he\ndrifted. He saw no beach, but many flat-topped rocks just awash, some\nhardly wet by the lazy surges. Between them and him he saw no broken\nwater. If his boat dashed into or scraped against a rock he might leap\nto it without a ducking.\n\nActually he had the luck to achieve just that and saw his boat stove\nand smashed after he had firm footing on almost dry basalt.\n\nHe stood in his doublet, hose and brogues, with only his inner girdle,\nwithout belt, mantle, sword, dagger, or even belt-knife. Everything on\nhim was damp from the fog and the splashing of his long bailing; but,\nthough his teeth chattered in the chilly morning air, doubly chilly to\nhim after the milder temperature out at sea, he was not the half-frozen\nwaif he would have been if he had had to swim ashore.\n\nTo his left, to southwards, the cliffs seemed beaten by the surf.\nBefore him, to westwards, he thought he espied a bit of beach not far\nahead. To his right, northwards, he seemed to descry a headland afar\nacross a fiord. He walked westwards, swaying, tottering, stumbling,\neven staggering, but keeping his feet. Gulls and other sea-fowl\nwheeled and screamed above and about him. Not a hundred paces from his\nlanding-place he came upon a little rill trickling down a nook in the\ncliff. He knelt and scooped up a handful of icy water. Then he lay\nbeside the rivulet and counted a slow hundred between each handful of\nthe water and the next. Before his thirst was entirely quenched he\nstood up.\n\nThen he scanned the rocks for birds\u2019 nests. He saw many; but, of the\nscores of eggs he broke, but one was eatable. This he sipped and slowly\nswallowed its contents. He felt new life all over him.\n\nNot stumbling now he stepped heedfully forward. He felt strangely large\nand light and whatever he gazed at looked dim and vague. But he felt\nreally able to walk. He rounded a jutting elbow of the cliff.\n\nBefore him, irradiated by the slant sunrays, he saw three handsome\nyoung noblewomen, walking arm in arm. All were bareheaded, each with\na forehead-ribbon round her flowing hair. The middlemost was tall,\nfull-contoured, with very black locks. She was enveloped in a crimson\nmantle. The girl on her right was of medium height, slender, with\nglossy brown tresses and wore a mantle of dark blue. The third was\nsmall and very lovely, her hair golden, her cheeks pink, her eyes blue,\nall set off by a mantle of bright grass-green.\n\nThorkell thought them norns come to escort him to Valhalla. A cloud,\ngray and then inky black, swept between him and his outlook. He felt\nhimself topple.\n\n\n                                  II\n\n\nWhen Thorkell came to himself he was in bed in the pitch dark. He felt\nabout him and found that he was in a sort of bunk, a wall on his right\nhand and, on his left, a polished board. He ran his hand along its\nupper edge. He was rather deep down in his berth and under him was an\ninfinity of yielding feather-bed. He was well covered with warm quilts.\nHe tried to stretch, but the space was too short for him. He composed\nhimself and slept again.\n\nWhen he woke the second time it was daylight and he saw by his bunk a\ntall, spare, elderly noblewoman, severe-looking, hatchet-faced, with a\nlean and stringy neck and gray hair. She was clad in garments of undyed\nwool of the usual rusty brown.\n\n\u201cSon,\u201d she warned him, \u201cyou must not try to speak. Drink this slowly.\u201d\n\nAnd, as he weakly tried to raise himself in the wall-bed, she supported\nhim with her right arm, at the same time holding to his lips with\nher left hand a silver goblet. Thorkell tasted a delicious posset,\ncompounded of milk, mead, honey, barley-meal, and of other ingredients\nunknown to him. He swallowed most of it, fell back among his down\npillows and slept again at once.\n\nHis third waking was again in full daylight. He felt more like himself.\nHe saw that his bed occupied most of one side of a fair-sized room,\nwainscoted in dark wood and with a low ceiling, similarly panelled.\nOpposite his bunk stood a high, narrow table. In the wall by the foot\nof his bunk was a low doorway, its door shut. In the opposite wall\nwas a window, whose contracted casements had small panes of fish-gut\nmembrane, stretched across wooden lattices. The panes were bright with\nthe glare of brilliant sunshine full on them and much light filtered\nthrough, so that the room was well-lighted. By his bed, facing the\nwindow, in one of the two chairs, sat a tall, magnificently dignified,\nelderly man, gray-haired, ruddy of complexion, broad-shouldered,\nwrapped in a reddish-brown mantle of fine wool. He wore a gold\nneck-chain from which hung a large, flat, oval gold amulet-case.\n\n\u201cSon,\u201d he said, \u201cyou must not yet attempt to speak. Hearken and\nremember. You are housed at Hofstadir, on Revdarfiord, by Faskrudness,\non the east coast of Iceland. I, Thorstein Vilgerdson, am master of\nHofstadir. We know nothing of you except that my daughter and my two\nnieces found you early in the morning, day before yesterday, on the\nstrand by Faskrudness. My wife has been caring for you and she now\ntells me that you will soon be able to be up and about. Only after you\nare well and strong will I permit you to tell your story. Meanwhile you\nare our guest. Do as I bid you. Be silent, compose your mind, repose\nyourself, and help my wife to restore you to strength and vigor. When\nyou are yourself we shall talk again. Now sleep.\u201d\n\nThorkell was compliantly mute and his host rose and left him.\n\nTwo mornings later Thorkell woke to find Thorstein again seated by his\nbed. And he saw, on the table opposite his bed, a tray with a goblet\nand a hunch of bread on it.\n\n\u201cSon,\u201d the old man queried, \u201care you entirely awake?\u201d\n\nAfter Thorkell\u2019s affirmation Thorstein said:\n\n\u201cMy wife judges that you are now sufficiently recovered to tell your\nstory. But you had best first fortify yourself with some food.\u201d\n\nAnd he himself rose and fetched the tray from the table. Thorkell\nacquiesced and swallowed a few mouthfuls. Then he settled himself back\non his pillows, his host resumed his armchair, and Thorkell began his\nstory by naming himself.\n\n\u201cA Vilgerdson!\u201d the old man exclaimed, \u201cand from Rogaland! We must be\ncousins, however distant. In my long life I have never known or heard\nof any Norwegian Vilgerdsons; as far as my knowledge goes our family\nhas long been wholly Icelandic. We are descended from Floki Vilgerdson,\nof Rogaland, the first voyager who ever wintered in Iceland. A hundred\nand thirty-six years ago he sailed past the headlands of Faxafloi and\nwintered in the Breidifiord. But he and his associates were so carried\naway by the abundance of fish and the ease of catching them that\nthey neglected to cure enough hay and their live-stock all perished.\nTherefore he sailed home next spring. But, twenty and more years\nlater, when past middle age, after most of the west and north of\nIceland had already been settled, Floki returned and chose a home here\nin the east on this very spot. I am his great-great-great-grandson and\nheir to him and all his.\u201d\n\n\u201cI,\u201d said Thorkell, \u201cam great-great-great-great-grandson to Snorri\nVilgerdson, younger brother to Floki the Viking and settler. For both\nwere sons of Vilgerd Vilgerdson of Rogaland.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d said his host, \u201cyou are a fourth cousin to my children and they\nare your fourth cousins. You are one of us. And now tell me your story.\u201d\n\nWhen Thorkell had said his say and had answered all his host\u2019s\nquestions the old man said:\n\n\u201cMy wife opines that it will now benefit you to be out of bed and in\nthe open air. My younger sons, Thorgils and Thorbrand, will help you to\ndress and will assist you to walk about, for, although you may resent\nthe suggestion, you are not yet strong enough for it to be well for you\nto attempt walking unassisted.\u201d\n\nAnd he called his sons, handsome youths, who clasped hands with\nThorkell, called him \u201ccousin\u201d after their father\u2019s explanation, and,\nwhen the old man had gone out, assisted him to rise. He found he\nneeded assistance. They helped him to don a shirt of the finest linen,\nknitted hose of soft wool, noblemen\u2019s shoes, a doublet of the best\nwoolen cloth, and a fine crimson mantle of wool delightful to feel and\nhandle. They girded him with an outer belt, but there was no sign of\nsword-belt, sword, poniard or knife. Each of them wore a belt-knife\nwith a staghorn heft, and a dagger and sword, with steel guards and\nhilts of walrus ivory, pommelled with gold.\n\nOne on each side of him they supported him as he strove to stand and\nthey guided him through the doorway into a spacious, plank-floored,\nhigh-raftered hall, lighted by many small windows placed high up in\nthe tall gable-ends; low, narrow doors were all down both long sides,\nwith an ample fireplace in a big chimney-piece midway of one side; at\none end was the main doorway, at the other a door almost as large.\nHis helpers conducted him out through the main doorway and to a bench\nin the sunlight where they seated him. Thorbrand sat by him, Thorgils\nwalked away.\n\nThorkell found the cool, soft breeze invigorating and yet mild, for\nit was near midsummer and as genial as it ever is in Iceland. The\nslant sunrays warmed him. He basked and gazed about him. He saw\nclose by a strongly built storehouse of stone and great ash beams,\nhigh-gabled, though its roof was not as steep and tall as that of the\nmansion. Further away he made out a big sheepfold, with sheds, a large\ncattle-byre, an ample stable and two very large barns. In whatever\ndirection he looked the extensive level space in which the buildings\nwere grouped was bounded by a stone wall, breast-high, and not of\nboulders, but of roughly squared blocks.\n\nSome two hundred yards or more distant, topping a low hill, was\na temple; for, with its great size, its high and steep roof, its\nscalloped shingles, its horse-head and fish-tail ornaments at the\nridge-pole ends and eave-ends, its carven gable-ends, it could be\nnothing else.\n\nSome of the thralls were busy about the buildings and several\nmaid-servants passed in and out. Thorkell saw no men-at-arms, nor any\nof the family except the two brothers. Thorbrand sat smiling, but\nmute. Thorkell kept mute and basked. After a time Thorgils came back\nand Thorbrand strolled away. When Thorbrand returned he said:\n\n\u201cMother thinks that you were best back in your bed.\u201d\n\nThorkell acquiesced and suffered himself to be escorted indoors. In bed\nhe ate some food brought by a tow-headed serving-maid. Soon he slept.\n\nHe woke near dusk of the long northern day and again ate what the same\nmaid brought him and was again soon asleep.\n\nNext morning Thorstein was again sitting by him when he woke. As before\nhe enquired how he felt and himself served him with food and drink.\nWhen he had reset the tray on the table and reseated himself he said:\n\n\u201cYoung man, I and my family have talked over you and your story. I and\nmy daughter and my nieces believe you. But all five of my sons, my two\ndaughters-in-law, my accountant, my seneschal, my skald and everyone\nof my men-at-arms are convinced that you are not a castaway from any\nship, though likely enough a Norwegian and no Icelander. They are\nunanimously of the opinion that you are a spy craftily insinuated into\nour community by our enemies. They point out that your clothing was dry\nwhen you were carried in here: that neither it nor your hair showed any\nsigns of your having been swimming; that such a marvel as your having\nleapt ashore from a ship\u2019s-boat drifting without sail, oars or rudder\nis too improbable for them to believe it other than a clumsy invention.\nThey all insist that I would imperil myself and all my household if\nI were to accept your story and keep you here as a guest. My word is\nlaw here, but I feel that it would be unwise for me to disregard so\nunanimous, so insistent and so clamorous a dissent from my views.\n\n\u201cNow, young man, if you have in fact been sent here by the\nMiofifirthers or the Seydisfirthers you had best admit it at once and\nmake a clean breast of the whole matter. You shall not be harmed in any\nway. I will have you fed and cared for until you are fit for a short\njourney, and then I will equip you with flint and steel, a belt-knife,\na dagger, a sword and sword-belt, a horseman\u2019s cloak, a good horse,\nwell bitted, saddled and girthed, and a supply of food; and I will\nsend a thrall to guide you round the head of Revdarfiord and to speed\nyou on your way. But if you are what you assert you are and claim our\nprotection and hospitality as the dues of a castaway, you must convince\nall my household of the truth of your tale.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am Thorkell Vilgerdson of Rogaland in Norway,\u201d he replied. \u201cI know\nnothing of any Miofifirthers or Seydisfirthers or of any foes of yours.\nI never set foot on Iceland until I leapt ashore from my drifting boat\nsoon after sunrise of the morning on which I encountered your daughter\nand nieces. I have never, in Iceland, set eyes on any Icelanders except\nmembers of your household. What I have told you is true in every\nparticular. But how may I convince you of its truth?\u201d\n\n\u201cAs you must know from my name and my sons\u2019 names,\u201d Thorstein answered,\n\u201cwe are steadfast adherents of the old faith. Those who suspect you,\nand my wife, the most embittered of those against you, in particular,\nwould be at once convinced if you take formal oath to the truth of\nyour statements, an oath sworn upon your own blood and the sacred\nring of our holy temple, calling Thor and Odin to witness. If you are\nwilling to take oath, as I suggest, no one here will any longer doubt\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am entirely willing,\u201d Thorkell declared. \u201cI am more than willing,\nI am eager. The suspicions of your household are natural, if you have\ncrafty enemies near at hand and live under threat of being raided. I\nwill swear as you suggest.\u201d\n\n\u201cI infer,\u201d said Thorstein, \u201cthat you also, then, like all here at\nHofstadir, are a firm believer in the gods of our fathers.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am indeed,\u201d Thorkell affirmed.\n\n\u201cHave you met Christians?\u201d his host queried.\n\n\u201cToo many,\u201d said Thorkell, \u201ctoo many by far.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you talked with any about their beliefs?\u201d the old man inquired.\n\n\u201cWith many,\u201d Thorkell said.\n\n\u201cAnd what do you think of them?\u201d Thorstein pressed him.\n\n\u201cIt seems to me,\u201d said Thorkell, \u201cthat they claim to have a system\nof sorcery and magic far more efficacious and far cheaper than ours.\nThat is about all I can gather from their talk. Their religion costs\nfar less than ours because they hold that no blood-sacrifices are\nnecessary, stating that one man, hundreds of years ago, achieved one\nsacrifice by which all men may benefit forever, no other being required\nafter that one. How this could be or can be I cannot conceive. But such\nappears to be their view. Then they seem to think that priests can be\nlargely dispensed with: certainly they have far fewer than we and their\npriests are cheaper to maintain than ours, as they require less in\nthe way of ornaments, raiment, food and servants. Then, though no one\nof them has conveyed to me what they mean, they all allege that their\ninvocations win surer and more effective responses than those which\nwe receive from our deities. That is all I can make out about their\nnovelties.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour impressions,\u201d Thorstein said, \u201ctally with mine. Christians are\nutterly incomprehensible to me. In particular, they all rant about\npeace on earth and good-will to men. Yet, since they became Christians,\nthe Miofifirthers and the Seydisfirthers are just as implacably hostile\nto us here as before. My father repeatedly made overtures to them\nproposing conferences to negotiate for a reconciliation, for mutual\nconcessions, for laying our differences and the damage done to each\nside before the Althing for reference to the courts and for a decision\nand settlement, for a termination of the feud and the establishment of\nharmony and amity. I have made similar proffers. But they have been\ninexorably hostile. In fact, since they became Christians, they seem,\nif possible, even more ferocious, rancorous and blood-thirsty than\nbefore.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d said Thorkell, \u201cis just about the attitude towards us heathen\nof all the Christians I have ever met or heard of. Their idea of peace\nis unqualified submission or total extermination for us, and complete\ntriumph and unquestioned domination for themselves. Not one will listen\nto proposals of compromise, accommodation or mutual forbearance. They\nseem to me opinionated, bigoted, fanatical, overbearing and arrogant.\nWe must fight or perish, there appears to be no other way.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou speak sensibly, my son, it seems to me,\u201d the old man said. \u201cYou\nhave convinced me that you are sincere. Your oath in the temple will\nconvince all my household and all my retainers.\u201d\n\nThen he rose and went out.\n\n\n                                  III\n\n\nAgain Thorgils and Thorbrand entered the bedroom and helped Thorkill\nto dress. This time he needed little assistance. And this time they\ngirt him with a sword-belt, and equipped him with a handy belt-knife,\na fine dagger and a sword in a decorated scabbard. Out they escorted\nhim, Thorkell now walking easily and unaided. In the open he found\nawaiting him Thorstein, his three elder sons, Thorfinn, Thorgeir and\nThord; a handsome and very blond young giant who was presented to\nhim as \u201cFinnvard Sigurdson, of Faskrudsfiord, my future son-in-law,\u201d\nThorstein\u2019s house-skald, Olmod Borkson; and his seneschal, Ari Gormson.\nThere were a score of men-at-arms lounging about.\n\nAfter the presentations they set off towards the temple, Thorstein\nlinking arms with Thorkell and leading the way.\n\n\u201cI myself,\u201d he said, \u201cam Gothi of this temple, which my grandfather,\nThorleif Vilgerdson, built with timber fetched from Norway.\u201d\n\nThe temple, Thorkell judged, was a full hundred feet long. Temple\nfashion the end under the gable which they approached was doorless. The\nside-wall had two ample doorways, each near an end. They passed in by\nthat nearest them towards the right end of the side-wall, and turned\nto their left. In behind them straggled the men-at-arms, who had\ntrooped after them. Thorkell could feel the reverential awe with which\nthe great, hulking, burly, truculent spearmen entered the holy place.\nMidway of the opposite long-wall they passed the High-Seat, between the\ntall pillars, each with its three consecrated bolts of gilded bronze.\nThey were visible even in the dim light afforded by the small latticed\nwindows, gut-paned, high up in the gable ends. Towards the end of the\ntemple they entered the oval, defined by a ring of thin slabs of stone\nset on edge. Inside the oval, near the end of it towards the further\ngable of the building, was an altar of the customary form, a great\nthick slab of dressed stone, full three ells square, supported by four\nstone posts, squared, carved with runes, and set deep in the beaten\nearth floor. The slab of the altar was also carved with runes. On it\nlay the great holy ring, of solid silver, weighing full thirty pounds.\n\nThorstein lifted the great ring and slid it up his right arm to the\nshoulder. There Thorfinn tied it with a crimson wool ribbon, slipped\nunder his father\u2019s left arm-pit and crossed on his left shoulder;\nso that the ring would not slide down the arm. Then, standing on\nThorstein\u2019s right, Thorkell unsheathed his dagger and with its\npoint lightly slashed the back of his left hand, tilting it till\nthe dagger-blade ran with blood. Then, placing his left hand on the\ntemple-ring and holding the dagger point down over the center of the\naltar, he swore:\n\n\u201cAs my blood drips upon this altar from the point of this dirk, so may\nmy blood and the heart\u2019s blood of all my kin, of any wife I may wed, of\nany children I may have, of all those dear to me, be spilt upon the\nearth, if my oath is not truthful. I swear by my own blood, by the holy\nring which I grasp, by this altar, by the pillars of the High Seat, by\ntheir sacred bolts, before Thor and Odin, that I am Thorkell Vilgerdson\nof Rogaland in Norway, and that I am newly castaway on the coast of\nIceland and have never, in Iceland, seen or spoken with any Icelander\nexcepting dwellers here at Hofstadir.\n\n\u201cIf my oath is false may my heart\u2019s blood and the blood of all those\ndear to me be spilt upon the earth as my blood now drips from the point\nof my dirk. Before Odin and Thor I have sworn.\u201d\n\nThereafter Thorfinn removed the Gothi\u2019s ring from his father\u2019s arm and\nhe and Thorstein laid it in its place midway of the altar-slab.\n\nOutside the temple Thorgils dressed the slash on the back of Thorkell\u2019s\nleft hand. Then Thorstein first and after him his sons in the order of\ntheir ages, clasped hands with Thorkell, each uttering the formula:\n\n\u201cYou are our dear and trusted cousin.\u201d\n\nFinnvard followed. Then Ari, Olmod and the men-at-arms saluted\nThorkell, crying:\n\n\u201cWe are brothers in arms.\u201d\n\nFrom the temple Thorstein led Thorkell into the storehouse and into\nthat part of it which was used as an armory.\n\n\u201cLook over these weapons,\u201d he said, \u201cand select a sword, poniard and\nbelt-knife to your mind. Try first those you now have; if they suit\nyou, keep them. But be sure that the balance of the sword is precisely\nwhat you prefer and that you are armed as you desire.\u201d\n\nOutside, in the mild sunshine of a day unusually mellow for Iceland,\nthey sat on the benches flanking the doorway and chatted until after\nmidday. Then Thorstein cautioned Thorkell that a man who had been\nexposed and exhausted as he had had best lie down an hour or so before\nhis first heavy meal after his privations.\n\nWhen Thorgils wakened and summoned him he found in the great hall\na numerous assemblage. He was presented by Thorstein to Thorkatla\nhis wife, to his daughter Thorgerd and his two nieces Thorarna and\nThordis, whom he had encountered on the beach. Thorarna was the tall,\nfull-contoured, black-tressed beauty, and Thordis the exquisite blonde\nwhom he had thought the most beautiful of the three. Thorfinn\u2019s wife\nArnora and Thord\u2019s wife Valdis were personable young women.\n\nThorstein occupied the High Seat, facing the fireplace. To the left and\nright of him sat his family, on benches ranged along that side of the\nhall, but far enough from the wall to leave space for anyone to walk\nbehind them and to pass in or out of any door. On the opposite side of\nthe hall, flanking the chimney-piece, was a similar row of benches,\noccupied by the men-at-arms, more than forty together. Towards the ends\nof the hall sat such dependents and thralls as were not busy serving\nthe feast. The servitors carried in more than eighty light, collapsible\ntables, each in three parts, a square top and two trestles. One was\nplaced before each diner. The fare was varied and abundant, but notably\ncharacteristic of Iceland. There were unlimited supplies of fresh\nwhey in jars, pitchers and bowls; bowls of curd; platters heaped with\nslices of cheese, both new and aged; there was even an overabundance\nof smoked and fresh fish, cooked in every known manner; plenty of\ntender fat mutton, beef and veal, and, each borne in by two brawny\nthralls, two great platters, one piled with convenient cuts of stewed\nhorseflesh, the other with similar collops of horseflesh roasted. There\nwas a moderate supply of manchets of excellent rye, barley and wheaten\nbread, handed along in smallish flat osier baskets or on similar trays.\nMaids continually passed and repassed proffering basins of warm water\nand towels; for, in those days, forks were unknown, and, besides plates\nand spoons of beechwood from Norway and belt knives, fingers were the\nonly table implements, and frequent washing of the hands was necessary\nfor comfort.\n\nThorgils and Thorbrand, between whom Thorkell sat, plied him with\nofferings of every viand brought in and saw that his goblet was kept\nfull of well-aged, fragrant mead. Even more than the large household\nand lavish fare Thorkill was impressed by the chimney-piece, which\nfaced him on his left, and by its fireplace, not aglow with smouldering\npeat, but ablaze with a generous heap of crackling driftwood. He\ncommented on this to Thorbrand.\n\n\u201cI have never seen any other chimney or fireplace except ours,\u201d was his\nreply. \u201cIt is said that two halls in the river-valleys about Faxafloi\nhave chimney fireplaces, and that there is another in a mansion on\nBreidifiord. But none of us have seen any. My great grandfather had\nthis built of native stone, for there is much fire-resisting rock on\nour island.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis,\u201d Thorkell said, \u201cis the only chimney fireplace I have myself\never seen. My home, like every other hall I have ever entered till\nnow, has only a fireplace midway of its floor, so that the smoke\nblackens the rafters before it finds the hole in the roof.\u201d\n\nAfter the feast Thorstein called for silence.\n\n\u201cWe have with us,\u201d he said, \u201cwhat is almost as good as a visiting\nskald, a guest who has had marvellous adventures. All of us will now\nlisten to Thorkell Vilgerdson of Rogaland in Norway, if he will be so\ngood as to accede to my request that he tell us of his dangers and of\nhis escape.\u201d\n\nThorkell blushed, but was encouraged by the smiling, eager faces turned\ntowards him. He took courage, stood up, and told his tale, haltingly at\nfirst, later more fluently.\n\nAfter he had finished and sat down Olmod twanged his harp and recited\na drapa describing and praising the exploits of Floki Vilgerdson the\nviking and settler. When he ceased the company dispersed to bed.\n\nDuring the ensuing days Thorkell became well acquainted with Hofstadir,\nits denizens and its neighborhood. As soon as he felt his full strength\nand vigor return he spent his mornings with Thorgir, Thorbrand,\nThorgils and Finnvard at fencing, target practice with spears or\narrows, wrestling, and other such manly exercises. At all of these\nhe excelled, yet his genial demeanor was so winsome that his easy\nvictories gave no offence to his companions.\n\nThey also went swimming together, and fishing, both in the many nearby\nstreams, and offshore in a very handy small boat, heavily built, blunt\nbowed, yet a good sailor. Thorkell was amazed at the numbers of fish\nand at the rapidity with which they could be caught. A hook thrown\ninto the water was taken almost at once.\n\nThey rode about the neighborhood on fine mounts, for, in those early\ndays, Icelandic horses were still fully equal to Norwegian horses, as\nthe breed was kept up by constant importations of tall, strong, speedy\nand spirited stallions.\n\nAfter not many days Thorkell learned the country further afield, for\nhe was invited to accompany Thorstein on a tour of inspection of his\ndistrict; for he was not only Gothi, that is, priest, of the temple at\nHofstadir, but also Gothi, that is, magistrate, of a district called a\ngothorth, all Iceland being divided into gothorths. Thorstein made his\ntour attended by his five sons; by several cousins, among whom were\nThorlak Vilgerdson of Thelmark and Thorvald Vilgerdson of Husavik;\nby many thingmen, dependents and yeomen; and by a strong guard of\nwell-horsed spearmen.\n\nThorkell was much edified by Thorstein\u2019s promptness at settling\ncontroversies and redressing grievances. The old man displayed an\nuncanny intuition and seemed to know all his vassals\u2019 thoughts,\nmotives, wants, desires and needs without being told.\n\nAfter the tour was over, at a moment when Thorstein was at ease,\nThorkell ventured to express his admiration.\n\nHis host smiled.\n\n\u201cA chieftain,\u201d he said, \u201cmust possess the faculty of seeing into his\nvassals\u2019 hearts and of knowing their thoughts without question asked\nand answer given; even without any uttered word. A man who cannot\ndivine the unspoken thoughts of his dependents will not long retain\nthe prestige vital for a Gothi, or for any sort of chieftainship.\nNecessarily, I know much without being told, with hardly even a glance.\nMostly for instance, I can foresee months in advance, sometimes even\nyears in advance, what girl each youth will woo for his wife, what\nmaiden each lad desires, even what lad finds favor in each maiden\u2019s\neyes. Such must any chieftain divine.\u201d\n\nAt Hofstadir Thorkell was soon at home among the buildings. Not less\nthan by the chimney, inset fireplace and lavish wood fire was he\nimpressed by the fortifications of the homestead. It was protected all\nround with a dry moat, the earth from which, thrown up on the inner\nside, formed a considerable rampart, topped on all four sides of the\nenclosure by a solid wall of large, roughly squared blocks of stone.\nAt the corners were jutting, bulging circular bastions well stockaded\nwith birch logs, set deep in the earth, butt up and touching each\nother, everyone fully three spans broad at the upturned butt, for, in\nthose early days, the primeval woods of Iceland furnished logs much\nlarger than any now obtainable on the island. The stockades, like the\nwalls, were breast-high. Thorkell had never seen a bastion before, nor\nheard of one, and was much impressed by the novelty, originality and\nmanifest adequacy of the device. The idea of a bastion, that it affords\ndefenders of a fortification an opportunity of shooting sideways at an\nassailant crossing the fosse or scaling the parapet, appears so obvious\nto us that we can scarcely realize that there ever was a time when\nit was unknown. Yet, hundreds, even thousands of years after it was\ncommon and a matter of course in the Mediterranean countries, it had\nnot yet penetrated the ruder northern lands. In fact, in all parts of\nthe world, men were not quick to conceive the idea, and, as with other\ndevices, very slow to adopt it from foemen.\n\nAlmost as much was Thorkell impressed by the bath-house, a small\nstructure, one might say a hut, built of sod and stone, with a low\ndoor and only one very tiny window. Inside there was room for only one\nperson and a pail of water beside a very small stone stove. This was\nheated almost red-hot and then the bather, with a dipper, poured on\nit water which at once filled the hut with steam, both cleansing and\nrefreshing.\n\nOn either side of the chimney-piece in the great hall was a sort of\ntrophy of spears, shields and swords arranged in a pattern like a\nsix-pointed star; six short pikes crossed and lashed to pegs, six small\nround shields set between the radiating spears, and twelve swords, two\nby each shield. Above the fireplace was another, of six long swords,\ntheir points together, their hilts apart, with shields between.\n\nThorkell, inquiring about these, was told that they had been placed\nthere by Thorstein\u2019s grandfather, Thorleif Vilgerdson, who had built\nthe hall and temple. The spears and swords forming the two flanking\ntrophies were fine and valued weapons of former Vilgerdsons: the trophy\nover the fireplace was formed of the very sword worn all his life by\nFloki Vilgerdson the Viking and settler, and of five cunningly exact\nreplicas of it, made at Thorleif Vilgerdson\u2019s command by Hoskuld\nVestarson, a famous smith.\n\n\u201cI do not myself know,\u201d said Thorstein, \u201cwhich is Floki\u2019s blade. My\nfather told me that he did not know. No one knows. No man has used\nany one of those six swords since before I was born. It is told that\nFloki\u2019s blade is enchanted, that no one except a Vilgerdson could\nwield it, that to anyone not a Vilgerdson it would be heavier than\na thick bar of iron; but that, in time of peril to Floki\u2019s heirs\nor kin, it is magical to infuse into its wielder superhuman valor,\nswiftness, dexterity and strength. It is also told of Floki\u2019s blade\nthat it knows friend from foe and will not smite a friend, no matter\nhow frenziedly its wielder believes him a foe, nor yet will it fail to\nsmite a treacherous foe, no matter how implicitly its wielder trusts\nthe traitor. We have come to regard these swords as almost as holy as\nthe bolts in the pillars by the High Seat in our temple, as almost as\nsacred as the temple ring itself. Their presence in our hall we regard\nas a protection and safeguard to us all, as a sort of talisman for\nHofstadir. We all and all my men-at-arms and thingmen and retainers\nreverence and treasure them.\u201d\n\nThorkell could see that they were very handsome swords.\n\nHe learned that Thorstein never had fewer than sixty men-at-arms on\nduty, but not all of them were ever at Hofstadir itself. Some were on\nwatch along the cliffs, on the lookout for an attack from seaward.\nThere were always two or more patrol-boats on the offing conning the\nsea northwards. The lookouts on the cliffs also watched the fiord for\nsigns of an attempt to attack in boats from its northern shore. And\nsome men-at-arms were always scattered about at the farmsteads of\nThorstein\u2019s thingmen and other dependents, especially towards the head\nof Revdarfiord, round which must come any attack in force by land.\n\nThorkatla he found kind-hearted, but taciturn, sharp-tongued when\nshe did speak, and of a very stern, harsh and austere disposition.\nThorgerd, staid, astute and shrewd, was yet, by nature, trustful,\nunsuspicious, confiding, artless and unaffected. She gave Thorkell an\nexperience entirely novel to him. For she displayed for him a warm\nsisterly interest, as to which she was entirely frank and open, while\nindubitably ardently in love with her handsome Finnvard.\n\nThorarna and Thordis he greatly admired and liked. He could not make\nout at first which he liked better. That both were manifestly deeply\nin love with him he took as a matter of course. He had long become\nhabituated to having attractive maidens fall in love with him on short\nacquaintance and show it.\n\nThe immemorial usages of Scandinavian life made it absolutely\nunthinkable, in the Iceland of those days, that a young man and a young\nwoman should ever be alone together, even for a moment. But, on the\nother hand, life in Iceland was so free, open, frank, spontaneous,\nunconventional and inartificial that not only were lads and lasses\nconstantly encountering each other about the dwellings, but that not\nmerely was chatting a matter of course and unremarked, but that such\nyoung folk as Thorkell, Thorarna and Thordis might and did walk about\ntogether out of doors, and sit together side by side conversing for\nhours in the hall, in full sight of those about them, unnoticed and\nleft to themselves.\n\nIn this way Thorkell became rapidly well-acquainted with both his\nhost\u2019s nieces and heard from each her story; stories very much alike\nand of a kind far too common in Iceland at that period, and for\ncenturies later. The envenomed and unremitting enmity between the\nRevdarfirthers and their neighbors the Miofifirthers and Seydisfirthers\nhad resulted in recurrent reprisals.\n\nThorarna was the only survivor of an overwhelmingly successful assault\nupon her father\u2019s homestead. Her father, Thorstein\u2019s brother Thorleik,\nhad been killed in the fighting, and, when the buildings were set on\nfire by the victorious assailants, all the family had perished in the\nflames except Thorarna, who, a child of three, had been saved by her\nfaithful nurse.\n\nThordis, the only daughter of Thorstein\u2019s brother Thorgest, was the\nsurvivor of a similar massacre.\n\nMuch of the evening leisure at Hofstadir was taken up with tales of\nsuch atrocities as these and of like assaults on homesteads, some by\none side, some by the other; some craftily planned, artfully delivered\nand overwhelmingly successful; others resulting in drawn battles and\nleaving the homestead in mourning for some of its defenders, but\nunpillaged and unburnt; yet others unplanned, impulsive, foolhardy,\nundermanned or bungled in delivery and resulting in the utter\ndiscomfiture of the assailants. Thorkell sat in silence and listened\nto many long tales of this kind from Olmod the house-skald, from\nThorstein himself and from his elder sons. From them also he listened\nto even longer tales of complaints against one or the other side before\nthe Althing at Thingvellir, nearly every year at the two-weeks summer\nmeeting of this national assembly. They told in great detail of the\nimpassioned accusations of the plaintiffs, of the indignant rejoinders\nof the defendants, of the citations of the respondents before the\nhigh court of justice, of the evidence of the witnesses for each side,\nof the arguments of the lawmen, of the disagreements of the judges,\nof their occasional agreement, of their verdicts and judgments and of\nthe indemnities they assessed upon the convicted aggressors. In almost\nevery case Thorkell heard of the ignoring or flouting of the court\u2019s\ndecision and of yet further reprisals, duels, forays and outrages.\nWhat astonished him most was that, in all these tales of duels,\nmurders, treacheries, ambushes, pillagings, outrages, butcheries,\nmassacres and arson and of their consequences, the narrators talked\nas if the Althing were an efficient legislature with power to see to\nit that its enactments be observed as the law of the island; as if\nthe courts had the authority they assumed to have and could enforce\ntheir judgments, verdicts, decrees and penalties; as if, in truth,\nlaw and justice did exist in Iceland: whereas, in fact, it appeared\nfrom every tale he listened to, from every detail of every narrative,\nthat their vaunted Althing was merely a turbulent yearly social\ngathering, accomplishing nothing except the waste of time in futile\nwrangling, making a vain show of counterfeiting a sham legislature,\nwhich empty pretense all Icelanders kept up with a curious mingling of\nunconscious self-deception and shamefaced effrontery; that the courts,\nwhile generally spoken of with respect, were in fact derided by all\nmalefactors, and unable to give effect to their decrees, judgments\nand verdicts, to enforce their penalties or to exact the indemnities\nthey granted, so that they were, on the whole, a costly, time-wasting,\nexhausting and pitiable farce.\n\nIt was plain to Thorkell that the Icelanders, if his host and his\nhousehold were fair samples, had somehow duped themselves into fancying\nthat they had courts which dispensed justice and a government which\nmaintained law and order; whereas it was manifest that they lived in\na condition of utter anarchy, where there was no protection for life\nor property except the fighting prowess of the men of a homestead as\nconcerned themselves, their folk and their possessions; or of the\nmen-at-arms of a chieftain for him and his. It was plain that beautiful\nThordis, magnificent Thorarna, lovely Thorgerd, fair Arnora, dainty\nValdis and stern Thorkatla were living in daily peril of a horrible\ndeath and were safe only in so far as their men could protect them. Yet\nthey, like their men, boasted of the noble freedom of life in Iceland,\npitied the servile condition of Norwegians under their tyrannical king,\nvaunted their island institutions, and lauded the system of local\ngothorths, yearly elections, yearly assemblies at Thingvellir of their\nunwieldy and ineffective Althing, and the complex, lengthy, laborious\nand fruitless procedure of their fatuous courts. Local pride seemed\na passion which blinded them to the most glaring imperfections of\nanything Icelandic.\n\n\n                                  IV\n\n\nBut it mattered very little what was the subject or the nature of the\nconversation, Thorkell found himself more than contented with any\nlength of time which he might spend with either Thorarna or Thordis.\nYet, after not many days, he was aware of a difference in his feelings\nfor the two and of theirs for him. Thordis never avoided him, but\nnever put herself in his way. If everything was favorable and they\nhappened to be thrown together accidentally, she frankly enjoyed being\nwith him, but never did anything to prolong a chat or to bring one\nabout. Thorarna, on the contrary, was most ingenious in postponing the\ntermination of a colloquy, and was most fertile in clever, adroit, and\nunobtrusive devices which resulted in their being together.\n\nBefore many days life at Hofstadir, for Thorkell, consisted chiefly\nof endeavoring to be with Thordis. Once, when he was basking in her\nsmiles, her face suddenly clouded and she said:\n\n\u201cThere! Thorarna has gone! Please, please try to spend more of your\ntime with her and less with me. From childhood she and I have been\nhappy together, and nothing has ever blurred our love for each other\nand our unreserved mutual confidence until she began to grow jealous\nof me. Since she fell in love with you we have become alienated; she\nis chilly to me, distant, reticent, even unfriendly. I grieve that we\nare estranged. I love her and I want her to love me. I do not want\nher to hate me. Please do all you can to placate her. She keeps her\ncountenance and is always outwardly serene, sedate and stately. But she\nrages inwardly and is so infuriated when you talk to me that I dread\nher. Please avoid me and propitiate her all you can. Please promise me\nthat you will do as I ask.\u201d\n\nThorkell promised, and, for some days, barely greeted Thordis and\nhad no converse with her whatever, whereas he spent long hours with\nThorarna, and, to his amazement, found that he enjoyed her society\nkeenly; yet, even more to his amazement, felt that, when he was not\nwith Thorarna, he longed for Thordis so acutely that he could hardly\nrestrain himself from seeking her out and telling her how much he loved\nher.\n\nThe long spell of clear, mild weather merged into weather decidedly\nwarm, weather which would have been warm even for Scotland or England.\nThorstein, with a large retinue of spearmen, rode out to visit and\ninspect the outlying fringe of farms tenanted by his dependents or\nthingmen. It was a very fair day and they had expected an easy jaunt\nand an early return to Hofstadir. So it turned out for Thorstein and\nmost of his company. But, early in the day, they heard a report, hardly\nmore than a rumor, of distress at a farmstead isolated among uplands\nat the extreme southwestern point of Thorstein\u2019s gothorth, very much\nout of their way. Thorbrand offered to ride there and investigate\nand Thorkell volunteered to go with him. He demurred to his father\u2019s\nsuggestion that he take some of the men-at-arms, declaring that he and\nThorkell could make better time alone. Off they set. Their errand was\neasily accomplished and the rumor found untrue and everyone safe and\nwell at Mossfell. But, on their return, they encountered conditions\npeculiar to Iceland. There it frequently happens during a prolonged\nspell of warm weather that great quantities of snow are melted high up\non the plateaus or in hollows among the upper foot-hills, and, very\noccasionally, that the waters are dammed back by ice accumulated in\nsome valley, ravine, gorge or glen, and, if the hot weather lasts on,\nare suddenly released by the crumbling of the ice-dam. Such a sudden\nand terrific freshet roared across their homeward way and presented a\ntorrent of deep water not only unfordable, but impossible to swim. They\nwere, perforce, compelled to await the ebbing of the transitory flood\nand so did not reach Hofstadir until the gradual twilight, insensible\ngloaming and lingering dusk had melted into semi-darkness.\n\nThorbrand, sedulously careful of their weary mounts, bade Thorkell go\nat once into the hall. Between the stable and the mansion, out of sight\nof either behind the storehouse, he encountered Thordis.\n\nShe burst into tears; crying:\n\n\u201cOh! My Love! My Love! Ref and Karli rode in after sunset on lathered\nhorses reporting that you and Thorbrand had been ambushed and killed.\nOh! My Love! My Love!\u201d\n\nThorkell caught her in his arms and they clung together, she sobbing,\nher head on his breast, he with one arm about her, his other hand\nstroking her hair, whispering:\n\n\u201cMy Darling! My Darling!\u201d\n\nSuddenly her arms relaxed, she pulled away from him, pushed him from\nher, and cried, in a strangled whisper:\n\n\u201cLet me go! Thorarna might see us! Be careful! Thorarna must not see us\ntogether! Let me go! Avoid me! Keep away from me, hardly speak to me!\nShe must not see us together! Let me go!\u201d\n\nAnd she sprang away and vanished like a frightened hare.\n\nThe weather, for two days afterwards, was not merely warm, but hot,\nweather which would have been hot anywhere; an occurrence very unusual\nfor Iceland, but not unknown, especially on the east coast. On account\nof the heat the fire in the hall was allowed to go out entirely, and,\nat the evening meal, two of the benches of the men-at-arms were set\nacross the fireplace, close against the stone work of the chimney-piece.\n\nDuring these two days Thorkell spent as much time with Thorarna as he\ncould arrange, and found her fascinating, but moody, high-strung and\ncapricious. He sedulously avoided Thordis. Only for one moment did they\nhave an opportunity to exchange a few words. Then Thordis, on the verge\nof tears and gasping, said:\n\n\u201cOh! I am so afraid of Thorarna. I don\u2019t know what I dread, but I am in\nthe most fearful dread of her. She is very suspicious of you. I think\nshe conjectures that you and I love each other. You are too distant\nwith her for her peace of mind. Thorarna, like all her mother\u2019s family,\nis petulant, choleric, touchy, irascible, hot-tempered, acrimonious,\nvindictive, impulsive, precipitate and hot-headed. Oh, I am so afraid\nof her!\u201d\n\nThorkell tried to calm her, but could not.\n\nEarly the third morning, just after dawn had brightened into day, the\nlookouts gave the alarm.\n\nAnd too late!\n\nFor, when the garrison of Hofstadir had barely armed and were not\nyet all at their posts, there fell upon them three simultaneous and\nperfectly coordinated assaults; from the west along the strand, from\nthe south down the slope, and from the north, from across the fiord by\na party which had made an unopposed landing on the shore.\n\nThorkell was among the defenders of the western side of the enclosure,\nand, despite the hard fight he and his companions put up, their\nassailants succeeded in crossing the trench and scaling the wall. But\nthereupon they were beaten back by a desperate rally of the denizens,\nin which Thorkell played more than his part, for he, single-handed,\nsuccessively slew five formidable antagonists. As their foemen wavered\nhe sprang at a sixth, parried his thrust and got home a deadly stroke\non his helmet.\n\nThe sword snapped!\n\nAs his adversary was half stunned and wholly dazed by the force of the\nblow Thorkell whirled about and made a dash for the hall. There he\nleapt upon one of the benches set across the fireplace, seized the hilt\nof one of the six identical swords, wrenched it from its fastenings,\nand, waving it, dashed out.\n\nAs he cleared the doorway he heard elated shouts and an exultant cheer.\nGlancing to his right he saw men in chain-mail hauberks vaulting the\neastern wall of the enclosure. He recognized, in the lead, Lodbrok\nand Halfdan, the chiefs, Gellir, Sigurd and Bodvar, his treacherous\nfriends, and others from the crew of the Sea-Raven. He instantly\ndivined that they had blundered into Miofifiord or Seydisfiord, had\nfraternized with the Seydisfirthers and Miofifirthers and had readily\nagreed, for their share in the prospective loot, to take part in\ncapturing and sacking the richest homestead in eastern Iceland.\n\nOn fire with his chance of revenge he flew at Lodbrok, and, as he\ncharged, it seemed to him that never had he run so swiftly, never\nhad he felt so strong, so capable, so eager for a fray, so sure of\nsuccess. He beat back Lodbrok\u2019s guard and swung a full-arm sweep of\nhis blade at his head. The sword went up like a feather and came down\nlike a battle-axe. As if through cheese it clove helm, skull, jaw and\nchin down into the breast-bone. Lodbrok fell like a pole-axed ox, and,\nas Thorkell saw him go down, almost in two halves, he realized that he\nwas wielding Floki\u2019s blade.\n\nHe whirled on Gellir and the sweep of the sword cut clean through\nnot only both forearms between wrist and elbow, but also through the\nstout ash shaft of the pike he wielded. Behind Gellir was Halfdan,\nno mean adversary, truculent, wary and skilled. He held his bright,\nround, arabesqued shield close against his left shoulder and lunged\ncunningly and viciously. Barely parrying his thrust Thorkell swung his\ngreat sword, and, lo! it shore clean through shield, gorget, hauberk,\nshoulder and arm, so that his left forequarter fell clear of Halfdan\nand he was dead before he crumpled on the earth.\n\nSimilarly Thorkell slew Bodvar, Sigurd and Hrodmar. Two the sharp sword\nbeheaded at a single sweep; one it cleft under the sword-arm, through\nhis ribs, into his liver; of the fourth its point pierced his heart\nthrough shield and hauberk.\n\nInstinct made Thorkell spin round and he faced Kollgrim Erlendson,\nleader of the Vikings and most redoubtable of them all. Their swords\nclashed and Kollgrim\u2019s failed, snapped before the hilt, so that\nThorkell\u2019s blade shore off his right shoulder, slicing through the\nrings of his chain-mail hauberk as if it had been of hemp, and he died\nas his fellow chieftain Halfdan Ingolfson had died.\n\nAlthough their chiefs were all dead the Vikings, descrying but one\ndefender before them, were swarming over the wall. Among them Thorkell\ndashed and at each stroke of Floki\u2019s blade a foeman died. Yet Thorkell\nmust have been overwhelmed by mere numbers if some of the Vilgerdsons\nand their men-at-arms, now victorious to north and south, had not\nflocked to his aid, amazed to see that Hofstadir had been saved by his\nunaided valor and spurred on by admiration of him.\n\nThorkell at their head they drove the survivors of the Sea-Raven\u2019s crew\nin headlong flight across the wall and trench, and Thorkell beheld in\nthe distance the thralls Erp, Ulf, Hundi, Kepp, Sokholf and Vifill,\nstanding ready with spare shields, spears, bows and quivers, cast away\ntheir burdens and turn in flight before the foremost of the fleeing\nVikings reached them.\n\nThe fight was over. The assailants were everywhere beaten and routed.\nThorstein forbade pursuit on foot, and only some twenty of the\nmen-at-arms found horses ready, mounted and sped out of the main\ngateway of the enclosure to complete the rout of the assailants, who\nleft more than forty corpses behind them.\n\nOf the victors twelve spearmen had fallen and with them seven of\nThorstein\u2019s dependent yeomen, four of his thingmen, and two cousins,\nThorberg Vilgerdson of Snowfell and Thorod Vilgerdson of Gelsbank.\nThorkell, Thorstein himself and Thorfinn were the only unwounded\nwarriors among the defenders. All the rest of the family, all the\ncousins, thingmen, yeomen, and men-at-arms had suffered one or more\nwounds; but, of the family, only Thord was wounded seriously. His\nwounds were at once bound up and the blood staunched.\n\nThen, with one accord, every warrior of them all acclaimed Thorkell\nas their savior. They cheered him and saluted him as \u201chero.\u201d Thorfinn\nand Thorgeir seized him by the elbows, and, following their father and\nfollowed by the cheering throng, marched him into the great hall and up\nto the High Seat. There Thorstein stood aside and motioned Thorkell to\nmount the dais and occupy the High Seat. Before his dazed astonishment\ncould protest, Thorfinn and Thorgeir had gently forced him into it.\nThere he sat, Floki\u2019s blade, still red, point down between his knees,\nhis hands crossed on the pommel of the upright hilt.\n\nThorstein shouted:\n\n\u201cMead for the hero! Not a man of us shall touch horn or bowl to lip\nuntil the hero has had his fill of my best mead. Mead for the hero!\u201d\n\nAt the call Thorarna appeared from the kitchen through the rear\ndoorway carrying with both hands a great bowl high before her. Down\nthe hall she came, her face lit with a triumphant smile, magnificent\nand stately. Before the High Seat she knelt and offered the bowl to\nThorkell. The fighters cheered again.\n\nAs Thorarna held up the bowl, Thorkell, to his horror, felt his right\nhand grasp the sword-hilt with a grip he could not loosen, felt\nthe sword raise itself and his arm till the blade swung high above\nThorarna, felt the magic of the sword drag down his arm in a deadly\nsweep, felt and saw the blow descend, felt and saw the blade shear\nthrough Thorarna\u2019s left shoulder, shoulder-blade, collar-bone and\nribs, cleaving her to the very heart.\n\nShe crumpled in a horrid welter of spilt mead, gushing blood,\ndisordered raiment and huddled flesh.\n\nThe onlookers stood, frozen mute.\n\nInto the hall rushed Thordis and Thorgerd, screaming:\n\n\u201cDo not drink! The mead is poisoned! Do not drink! The mead is\npoisoned!\u201d\n\nAt sight of the High Seat, Thorkell on it and what lay before him,\nThordis collapsed in a faint. Thorgerd was at once absorbed in tending\nher cousin.\n\nThorstein shouted for his thralls.\n\n\u201cRef! Karli! Mar! Odd! Remove that carrion! Cleanse the dais!\u201d\n\nAnd, when his orders had been obeyed and the dais and hall were again\nseemly, he called once more:\n\n\u201cMead for the hero!\u201d\n\nThordis, now restored, though tottering, her golden-haired,\npink-cheeked, blue-eyed loveliness amazing even in her confusion,\nherself carried to Thorkell a horn.\n\nHe took it, quaffed it as he sat and handed it back to her. Then\nThorstein shouted:\n\n\u201cMead for all of us, and more mead for the hero!\u201d\n\nMaid servants flocked in with bowls, horns and goblets and behind them\nthralls with pails of mead to replenish those drained. All drank,\nThorkell too, a second horn offered him by Thordis. From her knees he\nraised her and made her stand beside the High Seat.\n\nThen Thorstein shouted:\n\n\u201cHail the hero!\u201d\n\nWhereupon all the warriors cheered Thorkell until they were hoarse.\n\nInto the ensuing silence Thorstein spoke clearly and gravely:\n\n\u201cTo-morrow we shall revel in honor of our deliverance, victory and\nsafety. And the banquet shall be the wedding feast of my niece Thordis\nand of her bridegroom, my cousin, Thorkell Vilgerdson of Rogaland in\nNorway, our hero!\u201d\n\n                                                                   1924\n\n\n\n\n                          THE PICTURE PUZZLE\n\n\n\n\n                          THE PICTURE PUZZLE\n\n\n                                   I\n\n\nOF course the instinct of the police and detectives was to run down\ntheir game. That was natural. They seemed astonished and contemptuous\nwhen I urged that all I wanted was my baby; whether the kidnappers\nwere ever caught or not made no difference to me. They kept arguing\nthat unless precautions were taken the criminals would escape and\nI kept arguing that if they became suspicious of a trap they would\nkeep away and my only chance to recover our little girl would be gone\nforever. They finally agreed and I believe they kept their promise to\nme. Helen always felt the other way and maintained that their watchers\nfrightened off whoever was to meet me. Anyhow I waited in vain, waited\nfor hours, waited again the next day and the next and the next. We put\nadvertisements in countless papers, offering rewards and immunity, but\nnever heard anything more.\n\nI pulled myself together in a sort of a way and tried to do my work. My\npartner and clerks were very kind. I don\u2019t believe I ever did anything\nproperly in those days, but no one ever brought any blunder to my\nattention. If they came across any they set it right for me. And at the\noffice it was not so bad. Trying to work was good for me. It was worse\nat home and worse at night. I slept hardly at all.\n\nHelen, if possible, slept less than I. And she had terrible spasms of\nsobs that shook the bed. She would try to choke them down, thinking I\nwas asleep and she might wake me. But she never went through a night\nwithout at least one frightful paroxysm of tears.\n\nIn the daylight she controlled herself better, made a heart-breaking\nand yet heart-warming effort at her normal cheeriness over the\nbreakfast things, and greeted me beautifully when I came home. But the\nmoment we were alone for the evening she would break down.\n\nI don\u2019t know how many days that sort of thing kept up. I sympathized\nin silence. It was Helen herself who suggested that we must force\nourselves to be diverted, somehow. The theater was out of the question.\nNot merely the sight of a four-year-old girl with yellow locks threw\nHelen into a passion of uncontrollable sobbing, but all sorts of\nunexpected trifles reminded her of Amy and affected her almost as much.\nConfined to our home we tried cards, chess and everything else we could\nthink of. They helped her as little as they helped me.\n\nThen one afternoon Helen did not come to greet me. Instead as I came in\nI heard her call, quite in her natural voice.\n\n\u201cOh, I\u2019m so glad that is you. Come and help me.\u201d\n\nI found her seated at the library table, her back to the door. She had\non a pink wrapper and her shoulders had no despondent droop, but a\ngirlish alertness. She barely turned her head as I entered, but her\nprofile showed no signs of recent weeping. Her face was its natural\ncolor.\n\n\u201cCome and help me,\u201d she repeated. \u201cI can\u2019t find the other piece of the\nboat.\u201d\n\nShe was absorbed, positively absorbed in a picture puzzle.\n\nIn forty seconds I was absorbed too. It must have been six minutes\nbefore we identified the last piece of the boat. And then we went on\nwith the sky and were still at it when the butler announced dinner.\n\n\u201cWhere did you get it?\u201d I asked, over the soup, which Helen really ate.\n\n\u201cMrs. Allstone brought it,\u201d Helen replied, \u201cjust before lunch.\u201d\n\nI blessed Mrs. Allstone.\n\nReally it seems absurd, but those idiotic jig-saw puzzles were our\nsalvation. They actually took our minds off everything else. At first\nI dreaded finishing one. No sooner was the last piece in place than I\nfelt a sudden revulsion, a booming of blood in my ears, and the sense\nof loss and misery rushed over me like a wave of scalding water. And I\nknew it was worse for Helen.\n\nBut after some days each seemed not merely a respite from pain, but\na sedative as well. After a two hours\u2019 struggle with a fascinating\ntangle of shapes and colors, we seemed numb to our bereavement and the\nbitterness of the smart seemed blunted.\n\nWe grew fastidious as to manufacture and finish; learned to avoid crude\nand clumsy products as bores; developed a pronounced taste for pictures\nneither too soft nor too plain in color-masses; and became connoisseurs\nas to cutting, utterly above the obvious and entirely disenchanted\nwith the painfully difficult. We evolved into adepts, quick to recoil\nfrom fragments barren of any clue of shape or markings and equally\nprompt to reject those whose meaning was too definite and insistent.\nWe trod delicately the middle way among segments not one of which was\nwithout some clue of outline or tint, and not one of which imparted its\nmessage without interrogation, inference and reflection.\n\nHelen used to time herself and try the same puzzle over and over on\nsuccessive days until she could do it in less than half an hour. She\ndeclared that a really good puzzle was interesting the fourth or fifth\ntime and that an especially fine puzzle was diverting if turned face\ndown and put together from the shapes merely, after it had been well\nlearned the other way. I did not enter into the craze to that extent,\nbut sometimes tried her methods for variety.\n\nWe really slept, and Helen, though worn and thin, was not abject, not\nagonized. Her nights passed, if not wholly without tears, yet with only\nthose soft and silent tears, which are more a relief than suffering.\nWith me she was nearly her old self and very brave and patient. She\ngreeted me naturally and we seemed able to go on living.\n\nThen one day she was not at the door to welcome me. I had hardly shut\nit before I heard her sobbing. I found her again at the library table\nand over a puzzle. But this time she had just finished it and was bowed\nover it on the table, shaken all over by her grief.\n\nShe lifted her head from her crossed arms, pointed and buried her face\nin her hands. I understood. The picture I remembered from a magazine of\nthe year before: a Christmas tree with a bevy of children about it and\none (we had remarked it at the time) a perfect likeness of our Amy.\n\nAs she rocked back and forth, her hands over her eyes, I swept the\npieces into their box and put on the lid.\n\nPresently Helen dried her eyes and looked at the table.\n\n\u201cOh! why did you touch it,\u201d she wailed. \u201cIt was such a comfort to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou did not seem comforted,\u201d I retorted. \u201cI thought the contrast:...\u201d\nI stopped.\n\n\u201cYou mean the contrast between the Christmas we expected and the\nChristmas we are going to have?\u201d she queried. \u201cYou mean you thought\nthat was too much for me?\u201d\n\nI nodded.\n\n\u201cIt wasn\u2019t that at all,\u201d she averred. \u201cI was crying for joy. That\npicture was a sign.\u201d\n\n\u201cA sign?\u201d I repeated.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she declared, \u201ca sign that we shall get her back in time for\nChristmas. I\u2019m going to start and get ready right away.\u201d\n\nAt first I was glad of the diversion. Helen had the nursery put in\norder as if she expected Amy the next day, hauled over all the child\u2019s\nclothes and was in a bustling state of happy expectancy. She went\nvigorously about her preparation for a Christmas celebration, planned\na Christmas Eve dinner for our brothers and sisters and their husbands\nand wives, and a children\u2019s party afterwards with a big tree and a\nprofusion of goodies and gifts.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d she explained, \u201ceveryone will want their own Christmas at\nhome. So shall we, for we\u2019ll just want to gloat over Amy all day. We\nwon\u2019t want them on Christmas any more than they\u2019ll want us. But this\nway we can all be together and celebrate and rejoice over our good\nluck.\u201d\n\nShe was as elated and convinced as if it was a certainty. For a while\nher occupation with preparations was good for her, but she was so\nforehanded that she was ready a week ahead of time and had not a detail\nleft to arrange. I dreaded a reaction, but her artificial exaltation\ncontinued unabated. All the more I feared the inevitable disappointment\nand was genuinely concerned for her reason. The fixed idea that that\naccidental coincidence was a prophecy and a guarantee dominated her\ntotally. I was really afraid that the shock of the reality might kill\nher. I did not want to dissipate her happy delusion, but I could not\nbut try to prepare her for the certain blow. I talked cautiously in\nwide circles around what I wanted and I did not want to say.\n\n\n                                  II\n\n\nOn December 22nd, I came home early, just after lunch, in fact. Helen\nmet me, at the door, with such a demeanor of suppressed high spirits,\nhappy secrecy and tingling anticipation that for one moment I was\ncertain Amy had been found and was then in the house.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve something wonderful to show you,\u201d Helen declared, and led me to\nthe library.\n\nThere on the table was a picture-puzzle fitted together.\n\nShe stood and pointed to it with the air of exhibiting a marvel.\n\nI looked at it but could not conjecture the cause of her excitement.\nThe pieces seemed too large, too clumsy and too uniform in outline. It\nlooked a crude and clumsy puzzle, beneath her notice.\n\n\u201cWhy did you buy it?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cI met a peddler on the street,\u201d she answered, \u201cand he was so\nwretched-looking, I was sorry for him. He was young and thin and looked\nhaggard and consumptive. I looked at him and I suppose I showed my\nfeelings. He said:\n\n\u201cLady, buy a puzzle. It will help you to your heart\u2019s desire.\u201d\n\n\u201cHis words were so odd I bought it, and now just look at what it is.\u201d\n\nI was groping for some foothold upon which to rally my thoughts.\n\n\u201cLet me see the box in which it came,\u201d I asked.\n\nShe produced it and I read on the top:\n\n                     \u201cGUGGENHEIM\u2019S DOUBLE PICTURE\n                                PUZZLE.\n                              TWO IN ONE.\n                          MOST FOR THE MONEY.\n                         ASK FOR GUGGENHEIM\u2019S\u201d\n\nAnd on the end--\n\n                               \u201cASTRAY.\n                           A BREATH OF AIR.\n                              50 CENTS.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s queer,\u201d Helen remarked. \u201cBut it is not a double puzzle at all,\nthough the pieces have the same paper on both sides. One side is blank.\nI suppose this is ASTRAY. Don\u2019t you think so?\u201d\n\n\u201cAstray?\u201d I queried, puzzled.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d she cried, in a disappointed, disheartened, almost querulous\ntone. \u201cI thought you would be so much struck with the resemblance. You\ndon\u2019t seem to notice it at all. Why even the dress is identical!\u201d\n\n\u201cThe dress?\u201d I repeated. \u201cHow many times have you done this?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly this once,\u201d she said. \u201cI had just finished it when I heard your\nkey in the lock.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should have thought,\u201d I commented, \u201cthat it would have been more\ninteresting to do it face up first.\u201d\n\n\u201cFace up!\u201d She cried. \u201cIt is face up.\u201d\n\nHer air of scornful superiority completely shook me out of my sedulous\nconsideration of a moment before.\n\n\u201cNonsense,\u201d I said, \u201cthat\u2019s the back of the puzzle. There are no colors\nthere. It\u2019s all pink.\u201d\n\n\u201cPink!\u201d she exclaimed pointing. \u201cDo you call that pink!\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly it\u2019s pink,\u201d I asserted.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you see there the white of the old man\u2019s beard,\u201d she queried,\npointing again. \u201cAnd there the black of his boots? And there the red of\nthe little girl\u2019s dress?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I declared. \u201cI don\u2019t see anything of the kind. It\u2019s all pink.\nThere isn\u2019t any picture there at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo picture!\u201d she cried. \u201cDon\u2019t you see the old man leading the child\nby the hand?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I said harshly, \u201cI don\u2019t see any picture and you know I don\u2019t.\nThere isn\u2019t any picture there. I can\u2019t make out what you are driving\nat. It seems a senseless joke.\u201d\n\n\u201cJoke! I joke!\u201d Helen half whispered. The tears came into her eyes.\n\n\u201cYou are cruel,\u201d she said, \u201cand I thought you would be struck by the\nresemblance.\u201d\n\nI was overwhelmed by a pang of self-reproach, solicitude and terror.\n\n\u201cResemblance to what?\u201d I asked gently.\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t you see it?\u201d she insisted.\n\n\u201cTell me,\u201d I pleaded. \u201cShow me just what you want me to notice most.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe child,\u201d she said pointing, \u201cis just exactly Amy and the dress is\nthe very red suit she had on when----\u201d\n\n\u201cDear,\u201d I said, \u201ctry to collect yourself. Indeed you only imagine what\nyou tell me. There is no picture on this side of the sections. The\nwhole thing is pink. That is the back of the puzzle.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see how you can say such a thing,\u201d she raged at me. \u201cI can\u2019t\nmake out why you should. What sort of a test are you putting me\nthrough? What does it all mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you let me prove to you that this is the back of the puzzle?\u201d I\nasked.\n\n\u201cIf you can,\u201d she said shortly.\n\nI turned the pieces of the puzzle over, keeping them together as much\nas possible. I succeeded pretty well with the outer pieces and soon had\nthe rectangle in place. The inner pieces were a good deal mixed up, but\neven before I had fitted them I exclaimed:\n\n\u201cThere look at that!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d she asked. \u201cWhat do you expect me to see?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you see?\u201d I asked in turn.\n\n\u201cI see the back of a puzzle,\u201d she answered.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you see those front steps?\u201d I demanded, pointing.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see anything,\u201d she asserted, \u201cexcept green.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you call that green?\u201d I queried pointing.\n\n\u201cI do,\u201d she declared.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you see the brick-work front of the house?\u201d I insisted, \u201cand the\nlower part of a window and part of a door. Yes and those front-steps in\nthe corner?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see anything of the kind,\u201d she asseverated. \u201cAny more than you\ndo. What I see is just what you see. It\u2019s the back of the puzzle, all\npale green.\u201d\n\nI had been feverishly putting together the last pieces as she spoke. I\ncould not believe my eyes and, as the last piece fitted in, was struck\nwith amazement.\n\nThe picture showed an old red-brick house, with brown blinds, all\nopen. The top of the front steps was included in the lower right hand\ncorner, most of the front door above them, all of one window on its\nlevel, and the side of another. Above appeared all of one of the second\nfloor windows, and parts of those to right and left of it. The other\nwindows were closed, but the sash of the middle one was raised and from\nit leaned a little girl, a child with frowzy hair, a dirty face and\nwearing a blue and white check frock. The child was a perfect likeness\nof our lost Amy, supposing she had been starved and neglected. I was so\naffected that I was afraid I should faint. I was positively husky when\nI asked:\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you see that?\u201d\n\n\u201cI see Nile green,\u201d she maintained. \u201cThe same as you see.\u201d\n\nI swept the pieces into the box.\n\n\u201cWe are neither of us well,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cI should think you must be deranged to behave so,\u201d she snapped, \u201cand\nit is no wonder I am not well the way you treat me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow could I know what you wanted me to see?\u201d I began.\n\n\u201cWanted you to see!\u201d she cried. \u201cYou keep it up? You pretend you didn\u2019t\nsee it, after all? Oh! I have no patience with you.\u201d\n\nShe burst into tears, fled upstairs and I heard her slam and lock our\nbedroom door.\n\nI put that puzzle together again and the likeness of that hungry,\nfilthy child in the picture to our Amy made my heart ache.\n\nI found a stout box, cut two pieces of straw-board just the shape of\nthe puzzle and a trifle larger, laid one on top of it and slid the\nother under it. Then I tied it together with string and wrapped it in\npaper and tied the whole.\n\nI put the box in my overcoat pocket and went out carrying the flat\nparcel.\n\nI walked round to MacIntyre\u2019s.\n\nI told him the whole story and showed him the puzzle.\n\n\u201cDo you want the truth?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cJust that,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he reported. \u201cYou are as overstrung as she is and the same way.\nThere is absolutely no picture on either side of this. One side is\nsolid green and the other solid pink.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow about the coincidence of the names on the box?\u201d I interjected.\n\u201cOne suited what I saw, one what she said she saw.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet\u2019s look at the box,\u201d he suggested.\n\nHe looked at it on all sides.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s not a letter on it,\u201d he announced. \u201cExcept \u2018picture puzzle\u2019 on\ntop and \u201850 cents\u2019 on the end.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t feel insane,\u201d I declared.\n\n\u201cYou aren\u2019t,\u201d he reassured me. \u201cNor in any danger of being insane. Let\nme look you over.\u201d\n\nHe felt my pulse, looked at my tongue, examined both eyes with his\nophthalmoscope, and took a drop of my blood.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll report further,\u201d he said, \u201cin confirmation to-morrow. You\u2019re all\nright, or nearly so, and you\u2019ll soon be really all right. All you need\nis a little rest. Don\u2019t worry about this idea of your wife\u2019s, humor\nher. There won\u2019t be any terrible consequences. After Christmas go to\nFlorida or somewhere for a week or so. And don\u2019t exert yourself from\nnow till after that change.\u201d\n\nWhen I reached home, I went down into the cellar, threw that puzzle and\nits box into the furnace and stood and watched it burn to ashes.\n\n\n                                  III\n\n\nWhen I came upstairs from the furnace Helen met me as if nothing had\nhappened. By one of her sudden revulsions of mood she was even more\ngracious than usual, and was at dinner altogether charming. She did not\nrefer to our quarrel or to the puzzle.\n\nThe next morning over our breakfast we were both opening our mail. I\nhad told her that I should not go to the office until after Christmas\nand that I wanted her to arrange for a little tour that would please\nher. I had phoned to the office not to expect me until after New Year\u2019s.\n\nMy mail contained nothing of moment.\n\nHelen looked up from hers with an expression curiously mingled of\ndisappointment, concern and a pleased smile.\n\n\u201cIt is so fortunate you have nothing to do,\u201d she said. \u201cI spent four\nwhole days choosing toys and favors and found most of those I selected\nat Bleich\u2019s. They were to have been delivered day before yesterday but\nthey did not come. I telephoned yesterday and they said they would try\nto trace them. Here is a letter saying that the whole lot was missent\nout to Roundwood. You noticed that Roundwood station burned Monday\nnight. They were all burnt up. Now I\u2019ll have to go and find more like\nthem. You can go with me.\u201d\n\nI went.\n\nThe two days were a strange mixture of sensations and emotions.\n\nHelen had picked over Bleich\u2019s stock pretty carefully and could\nduplicate from it few of the burned articles, could find acceptable\nsubstitutes for fewer. There followed an exhausting pursuit of\nthe unattainable through a bewildering series of toy-shops and\ndepartment-stores. We spent most of our time at counters and much of\nthe remainder in a taxicab.\n\nIn a way it was very trying. I did not mind the smells and bad air and\nother mere physical discomforts. But the mental strain continually\nintensified. Helen\u2019s confidence that Amy would be restored to us was\nsteadily waning and her outward exhibition of it was becoming more\nand more artificial, and consciously sustained, and more and more\nof an effort. She was coming to foresee, in spite of herself, that\nour Christmas celebration would be a most terrible mockery of our\nbereavement. She was forcing herself not to confess it to herself and\nnot to show it to me. The strain told on her. It told on me to watch\nit, to see the inevitable crash coming nearer and nearer and to try to\nput away from myself the pictures of her collapse, of her probable loss\nof reason, of her possible death, which my imagination kept thrusting\nbefore me.\n\nOn the other hand Helen was to all appearance, if one had no prevision\nby which to read her, her most charming self. Her manner to shop-girls\nand other sales-people was a delight to watch. Her little speeches to\nme were full of her girlish whimsicality and unexpectedness. Her good\nwill towards all the world, her resolution that everything must come\nright and would come right haloed her in a sort of aureole of romance.\nOur lunches were ideal hours, full of the atmosphere of courtship, of\nlovemaking, of exquisite companionship. In spite of my forebodings, I\ncaught the contagion of the Christmas shopping crowds; in spite of her\nself-deception Helen revelled in it. The purpose to make as many people\nas possible as happy as might be irradiated Helen with the light of\nfairyland; her resolve to be happy herself in spite of everything made\nher a sort of fairy queen. I found myself less and less anxious and\nmore and more almost expectant. I knew Helen was looking for Amy every\ninstant. I found myself in the same state of mind.\n\nOur lunch on Christmas Eve was a strange blend of artificiality and\ngenuine exhilaration. After it we had but one purchase to make.\n\n\u201cWe are in no hurry,\u201d Helen said. \u201cLet\u2019s take a horse-hansom for old\nsake\u2019s sake.\u201d\n\nIn it we were like boy and girl together until the jeweler\u2019s was\nreached.\n\nThere gloom, in spite of us, settled down over our hopes and feelings.\nHelen walked to the hansom like a gray ghost. Like the whisper of some\nfar-off stranger I heard myself order the driver to take us home.\n\nIn the hansom we sat silent, looking straight in front of us at\nnothing. I stole a glance at Helen and saw a tear in the corner of her\neye. I sat choking.\n\nAll at once she seized my hand.\n\n\u201cLook!\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cLook!\u201d\n\nI looked where she pointed, but discerned nothing to account for her\nexcitement.\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d I queried.\n\n\u201cThe old man!\u201d she exclaimed.\n\n\u201cWhat old man?\u201d I asked bewildered.\n\n\u201cThe old man on the puzzle,\u201d she told me. \u201cThe old man who was leading\nAmy.\u201d\n\nThen I was sure she was demented. To humor her I asked:\n\n\u201cThe old man with the brown coat?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she said eagerly. \u201cThe old man with the long gray hair over his\ncollar.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith the walking stick?\u201d I inquired.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she answered. \u201cWith the crooked walking stick.\u201d\n\nI saw him too! This was no figment of Helen\u2019s imagination.\n\nIt was absurd of course, but my eagerness caught fire from hers. I\ncredited the absurdity. In what sort of vision it mattered not she had\nseen an old man like this leading our lost Amy.\n\nI spoke to the driver, pointed out to him the old man, told him to\nfollow him without attracting his attention and offered him anything he\nasked to keep him in sight.\n\nHelen became possessed with the idea that we should lose sight of the\nold man in the crowds. Nothing would do but we must get out and follow\nhim on foot. I remonstrated that we were much more likely to lose sight\nof him that way, and still more likely to attract his notice, which\nwould be worse than losing him. She insisted and I told the man to keep\nus in view.\n\nA weary walk we had, though most of it was mere strolling after a\ntottering figure or loitering about shops he entered.\n\nIt was near dusk and full time for us to be at home when he began to\nwalk fast. So fast he drew away from us in spite of us. He turned a\ncorner a half a square ahead of us. When we turned into that street he\nwas nowhere to be seen.\n\nHelen was ready to faint with disappointment. With no hope of helping\nher, but some instinctive idea of postponing the evil moment I urged\nher to walk on, saying that perhaps we might see him. About the middle\nof the square I suddenly stood still.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter?\u201d Helen asked.\n\n\u201cThe house!\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cWhat house?\u201d she queried.\n\n\u201cThe house in the puzzle picture,\u201d I explained. \u201cThe house where I saw\nAmy at the window.\u201d\n\nOf course she had not seen any house on the puzzle, but she caught at\nthe last straw of hope.\n\nIt was a poor neighborhood of crowded tenements, not quite a slum, yet\ndirty and unkempt and full of poor folks.\n\nThe house door was shut, I could find no sign of any bell. I knocked.\nNo one answered. I tried the door. It was not fastened and we entered\na dirty hallway, cold and damp and smelling repulsively. A fat woman\nstuck her head out of a door and jabbered at us in an unknown tongue.\nA man with a fez on his greasy black hair came from the back of the\nhallway and was equally unintelligible.\n\n\u201cDoes nobody here speak English?\u201d I asked.\n\nThe answer was as incomprehensible as before.\n\nI made to go up the stairs.\n\nThe man, and the woman, who was now standing before her door, both\nchattered at once, but neither made any attempt to stop me. They waved\nvaguely explanatory, deprecating hands towards the blackness of the\nstairway. We went up.\n\nOn the second floor landing we saw just the old man we had been\nfollowing.\n\nHe stared at us when I spoke to him.\n\n\u201cSon-in-law,\u201d he said, \u201cson-in-law.\u201d\n\nHe called and a door opened. An oldish woman answered him in apparently\nthe same jargon. Behind was a young woman holding a baby.\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d she asked with a great deal of accent but intelligibly.\n\nThree or four children held on by her skirts.\n\nBehind her I saw a little girl in a blue-check dress.\n\nHelen screamed.\n\n\n                                  IV\n\n\nThe people turned out to be refugees from the settlement about the\nsacked German Mission at Dehkhargan near Tabriz, Christianized\nPersians, such stupid villagers that they had never thought or had been\nincapable of reporting their find to the police, so ignorant that they\nknew nothing of rewards or advertisements, such simple-hearted folk\nthat they had shared their narrow quarters and scanty fare with the\nunknown waif their grandfather had found wandering alone, after dark,\nmonths before.\n\nAmy, when we had leisure to ask questions and hear her experiences,\ndeclared they had treated her as they treated their own children. She\ncould give no description of her kidnappers except that the woman had\non a hat with roses in it and the man had a little yellow mustache. She\ncould not tell how long they had kept her nor why they had left her to\nwander in the streets at night.\n\nIt needed no common language, far less any legal proof, to convince\nAmy\u2019s hosts that she belonged to us. I had a pocket full of Christmas\nmoney, new five and ten dollar gold pieces and bright silver quarters\nfor the servants and children. I filled the old grandfather\u2019s hands\nand plainly overwhelmed him. They all jabbered at us, blessings, if I\njudged the tone right. I tried to tell the young woman we should see\nthem again in a day or two and I gave her a card to make sure.\n\nI told the cabman to stop the first taxicab he should see empty. In the\nhansom we hugged Amy alternately and hugged each other.\n\nOnce in the taxicab we were home in half an hour; more, much more than\nhalf an hour late. Helen whisked Amy in by the servants\u2019 door and flew\nupstairs with her by the back way. I faced a perturbed and anxious\nparlorful of interrogative relatives and in-laws.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll know before many minutes,\u201d I said, \u201cwhy we were both out and\nare in late. Helen will want to surprise you and I\u2019ll say nothing to\nspoil the effect.\u201d\n\nNothing I could have said would have spoiled the effect because they\nwould not have believed me. As it was Helen came in sooner than I could\nhave thought possible, looking her best and accurately playing the\nformal hostess with a feeble attempt at a surprise in store.\n\nThe dinner was a great success, with much laughter and high spirits,\neverybody carried away by Helen\u2019s sallies and everybody amazed that she\ncould be so gay.\n\n\u201cI cannot understand,\u201d Paul\u2019s wife whispered to me, \u201chow she can ever\nget through the party. It would kill me in her place.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt won\u2019t kill her,\u201d I said confidently. \u201cYou may be sure of that.\u201d\n\nThe children had arrived to the number of more than thirty and only the\ninevitably late Amstelhuysens had not come. Helen announced that she\nwould not wait for them.\n\n\u201cThe tree is lighted,\u201d she said. \u201cWe\u2019ll have the doors thrown open and\ngo in.\u201d\n\nWe were all gathered in the front parlor. The twins panted in at\nthe last instant. The grown-ups were pulling motto-crackers and the\nchildren were throwing confetti. The doors opened, the tree filled all\nthe back of the room. The candles blazed and twinkled. And in front of\nit, in a simple little white dress, with a fairy\u2019s wand in her hand,\ntipped with a silver star, clean, healthy-looking and full of spirits\nwas Amy, the fairy of the hour.\n\n                                                                   1909\n\n\n\n\n                               THE SNOUT\n\n\n\n\n                               THE SNOUT\n\n\n                                   I\n\n\nI WAS not so much conning the specimens in the Zo\u00f6logical Garden as\nidly basking in the agreeable morning sunshine and relishing at leisure\nthe perfect weather. So I saw him the instant he turned the corner of\nthe building. At first, I thought I recognized him, then I hesitated.\nAt first he seemed to know me and to be just about to greet me; then\nhe saw past me into the cage. His eyes bulged; his mouth opened into\na long egg-shaped oval, till you might almost have said that his jaw\ndropped; he made an inarticulate sound, partly a grunt, partly the\nghost of a howl, and collapsed in a limp heap on the gravel. I had not\nseen a human being since I passed the gate, some distance away. No one\ncame when I called. So I dragged him to the grass by a bench, untied\nhis faded, shiny cravat, took off his frayed collar and unbuttoned his\nsoiled neckband. Then I peeled his coat off him, rolled it up, and put\nit under his knees as he lay on his back. I tried to find some water,\nbut could see none. So I sat down on the bench near him. There he lay,\nhis legs and body on the grass, his head in the dry gutter, his arms on\nthe pebbles of the path. I was sure I knew him, but I could not recall\nwhen or where we had encountered each other before. Presently he\nanswered to my rough and ready treatment and opened his eyes, blinking\nat me heavily. He drew up his arms to his shoulders and sighed.\n\n\u201cQueer,\u201d he muttered, \u201cI come here because of you and I meet you.\u201d\n\nStill I could not remember him and he had revived enough to read my\nface. He sat up.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t try to stand up!\u201d I warned him.\n\nHe did not need the admonition, but clung to the end of the bench, his\nhead bowed wagglingly over his arms.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you remember,\u201d he asked thickly. \u201cYou said I had a pretty good\nsmattering of an education on everything except Natural History and\nAncient History. I\u2019m hoping for a job in a few days, and I thought I\u2019d\nput in the time and keep out of mischief brushing up. So I started on\nNatural History first and----\u201d\n\nHe broke off and glared up at me. I remembered him now. I should have\nrecognized him the moment I saw him, for he was daily in my mind.\nBut his luxuriant hair, his tanned skin and above all his changed\nexpression, a sort of look of acquired cosmopolitanism, had baffled me.\n\n\u201cNatural History!\u201d he repeated, in a hoarse whisper. His fingers\ndigging in the slats of the bench he wrenched himself round to face the\ncage.\n\n\u201cHell!\u201d he screamed. \u201cThere it is yet!\u201d\n\nHe held on by the end iron-arm of the bench, shaking, almost sobbing.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with you?\u201d I queried. \u201cWhat do think you see in that\ncage?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you see anything in that cage?\u201d he demanded in reply.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d I told him.\n\n\u201cThen for God\u2019s sake,\u201d he pleaded. \u201cWhat do you see?\u201d\n\nI told him briefly.\n\n\u201cGood Lord,\u201d he ejaculated. \u201cAre we both crazy?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing crazy about either of us,\u201d I assured him. \u201cWhat we see in the\ncage is what is in the cage.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there such a critter as that, honest?\u201d he pressed me.\n\nI gave him a pretty full account of the animal, its habits and\nrelationships.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he said, weakly, \u201cI suppose you\u2019re telling the truth. If there\nis such a critter let\u2019s get where I can\u2019t see it.\u201d\n\nI helped him to his feet and assisted him to a bench altogether out of\nsight of that building. He put on his collar and knotted his cravat.\nWhile I had held it I had noticed that, through its greasy condition,\nit showed plainly having been a very expensive cravat. His clothes I\nremarked were seedy, but had been of the very best when new.\n\n\u201cLet\u2019s find a drinking fountain,\u201d he suggested, \u201cI can walk now.\u201d\n\nWe found one not far away and at no great distance from it a shaded\nbench facing an agreeable view. I offered him a cigarette and we\nsmoked. I meant to let him do most of the talking.\n\n\u201cDo you know,\u201d he began presently. \u201cThings you said to me run in my\nhead more than anything anybody ever said to me. I suppose it\u2019s because\nyou\u2019re a sort of philosopher and student of human nature and what you\nsay is true. For instance, you said that criminals would get off clear\nthree times out of four, if they just kept their mouths shut, but they\nhave to confide in some one, even against all reason. That\u2019s just the\nway with me now.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou aren\u2019t a criminal,\u201d I interrupted him. \u201cYou lost your temper and\nmade a fool of yourself just once. If you\u2019d been a criminal and had\ndone what you did, you\u2019d have likely enough got off, because you\u2019d have\ncalculated how to do it. As it was you put yourself in a position where\neverything was against you and you had no chance. We were all sorry for\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou most of all,\u201d he amplified. \u201cYou treated me bully.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we were all sorry for you,\u201d I repeated, \u201cand all the jury too, and\nthe judge. You\u2019re no criminal.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you know,\u201d he demanded defiantly, \u201cwhat I have done since I got\nout?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve grown a pretty good head of hair,\u201d I commented.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve had time,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve been all over the world and blown in\nten thousand dollars.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd never seen----\u201d I began.\n\nHe interrupted me at the third word.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t say it,\u201d he shuddered. \u201cI never had, nor heard of one. But\nI wasn\u2019t after caged animals while I had any money left. I didn\u2019t\nremember your advice and your other talk till I was broke. Now, it\u2019s\njust as you said, I\u2019ve just got to tell you. That\u2019s the criminal in me,\nI suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re no criminal,\u201d I repeated soothingly.\n\n\u201cHell,\u201d he snarled, \u201ca year in the pen makes a man a criminal, if he\nnever was before.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot necessarily,\u201d I encouraged him.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s pretty sure to,\u201d he sighed. \u201cThey treated me mighty well and put\nme to bookkeeping, and I got my full good-conduct allowance. But I met\nprofessionals, and they never forget a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow it don\u2019t make any difference what I did when I got out, nor what I\ntried to do nor how I met Rivvin, nor how he put Thwaite after me. No,\nnor how Thwaite got hold of me, nor what he said to me, nor anything,\nright up to the very night, till after we had started.\u201d\n\nHe looked me in the eye. His attitude became alert. I could see him\nwarming to his narrative. In fact, when after very little rumination\nhe began it, his early self dropped from him with his boyhood dialect\nand the jargon of his late associates. He was all the easy cosmopolitan\ntelling his tale with conscious zest.\n\n\n                                  II\n\n\nAs if it had been broad day Thwaite drove the car at a terrific pace\nfor nearly an hour. Then he stopped it while Rivvin put out every lamp.\nWe had not met or overtaken anything, but when we started again through\nthe moist, starless blackness it was too much for my nerves. Thwaite\nwas as cool as if he could see. I could not so much as guess at him in\nfront of me, but I could feel his self-confidence in every quiver of\nthe car. It was one of those super-expensive makes which are, on any\ngear, at any speed, on any grade, as noiseless as a puma. Thwaite never\nhesitated in the gloom; he kept straight or swerved, crept or darted,\nwhizzed or crawled for nearly an hour more. Then he turned sharp to\nthe left and uphill. I could feel and smell the soaked, hanging boughs\nclose above and about me, the wet foliage on them, and the deep sodden\nearth mold that squelched under the tires. We climbed steeply, came to\na level and then backed and went forward a length or so a half dozen\ntimes, turning. Then we stopped dead. Thwaite moved things that clicked\nor thumped and presently said:\n\n\u201cNow I\u2019ll demonstrate how a man can fill his gasoline tank in the pitch\ndark if he knows the touch system.\u201d\n\nAfter some more time he said:\n\n\u201cRivvin, go bury this.\u201d\n\nRivvin swore, but went. Thwaite climbed in beside me. When Rivvin\nreturned he climbed in on the other side of me. He lit his pipe,\nThwaite lit a cigar and looked at his watch. After I had lit too,\nThwaite said:\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ve plenty of time to talk here and all you have to do is to listen.\nI\u2019ll begin at the beginning. When old Hiram Eversleigh died----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t mean----\u201d I interrupted him.\n\n\u201cShut up!\u201d he snapped, \u201cand keep your mouth shut. You\u2019ll have your say\nwhen I\u2019ve done.\u201d\n\nI shut up.\n\n\u201cWhen old man Eversleigh died,\u201d he resumed, \u201cthe income of the fortune\nwas divided equally among his sons. You know what the others did with\ntheir shares: palaces in New York and London and Paris, chateaux on\nthe Breton Coast, deer and grouse moors in Scotland, steam yachts and\nall the rest of it, the same as they have kept it up ever since. At\nfirst Vortigern Eversleigh went in for all that sort of thing harder\nthan any one of his brothers. But when his wife died, more than forty\nyears ago, he stopped all that at once. He sold everything else,\nbought this place, put the wall round it and built that infinity of\nstructures inside. You\u2019ve seen the pinnacles and roofs of them, and\nthat\u2019s all anybody I ever talked to has ever seen of them since they\nwere finished about five years after his wife\u2019s death. You\u2019ve seen\nthe two gate-houses and you know each is big even for a millionaire\u2019s\nmansion. You can judge of the size and extent of the complication of\nbuildings that make up the castle or mansion-house or whatever you\nchoose to call it. There Vortigern Eversleigh lived. Not once did he\never leave it that I can learn of. There he died. Since his death, full\ntwenty years ago, his share of the Eversleigh income has been paid\nto his heir. No one has ever seen that heir. From what I\u2019ll tell you\npresently you\u2019ll see as I have that the heir is probably not a woman.\nBut nobody knows anything about him, he has never been outside these\nmiles of wall. Yet not one of the greedy, selfish Eversleigh grandsons\nand grand-daughters, and sons-in-law and daughters-in-law, has ever\nobjected to the payment to that heir of the full entire portion of\nVortigern Eversleigh, and that portion has been two hundred thousand\ndollars a month, paid in gold on the first banking day of each month.\nI found that out for sure, for there have been disputes about the\ndivision of Wulfstan Eversleigh\u2019s share and of Cedric Eversleigh\u2019s\nshare and I made certain from the papers in the suits. All that money,\nor the value of it, has been either reinvested or spent inside that\npark wall. Not much has been reinvested. I got on the track of the\nheir\u2019s purchases. He buys musical instruments any quantity and at\nany price. Those were the first things I made sure of. And artists\u2019\nmaterials, paints, brushes, canvas, tools, woods, clay, marble, tons\nof clay and great blocks of superfine-grained marble. He\u2019s no magpie\ncollecting expensive trash for a whim; he knows what he wants and why;\nhe has taste. He buys horses and saddlery and carriages, furniture and\ncarpets and tapestries, pictures, all landscapes, never any figure\npictures, he buys photographs of pictures by the ten thousand, and he\nbuys fine porcelains, rare vases, table silver, ornaments of Venetian\nglass, silver and gold filigree, jewelry, watches, chains, gems,\npearls, rubies, emeralds and--diamonds; diamonds!\u201d\n\nThwaite\u2019s voice shook with excitement, though he kept it soft and even.\n\n\u201cOh, I did two years investigating,\u201d he went on, \u201cI know. People\nblabbed. But not any of the servants or grooms or gardeners. Not a\nword could I get, at first or second or third hand, from them or any\nof their relatives or friends. They keep dumb. They know which side\ntheir bread is buttered on. But some of the discharged tradesmen\u2019s\nassistants told all I wanted to know and I got it straight, though not\ndirect. No one from outside ever gets into that place beyond the big\npaved courtyards of the gate-houses. Every bit of supplies for all that\nregiment of servants goes into the brownstone gate-house. The outer\ngates open and the wagon or whatever it is drives under the archway.\nThere it halts. The outer gates shut and the inner gates open. It\ndrives into the courtyard. Then the Major-domo (I suppose that wouldn\u2019t\nbe too big a name for him) makes his selections. The inner gates of the\nother gateway open and the wagon drives under the archway and halts.\nThe inner gates close fast and the outer gates open. That\u2019s the way\nwith every wagon and only one enters at a time. Everything is carried\nthrough the gate-house to the smaller inner courtyard and loaded on the\nwagons of the estate to be driven up to the mansion.\n\n\u201cEverything like furniture, for instance, comes into the courtyard\nof the green-stone gate-house. There a sort of auditor verifies the\ninventory and receipts for the goods before two witnesses from the\ndealers and two for the estate. The consignment may be kept a day or\na month; it may be returned intact or kept entire; any difference is\nsettled for at once upon return of what is rejected. So with jewelry.\nI had luck. I found out for certain that more than a million dollars\nworth of diamonds alone have gone into this place in the last ten years\nand stayed there.\u201d\n\nThwaite paused dramatically. I never said a word and we sat there in\nthe rear seat of that stationary auto, the leather creaking as we\nbreathed, Rivvin sucking at his pipe, and the leaves dripping above us;\nnot another sound.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all in there,\u201d Thwaite began again. \u201cThe biggest stack of loot in\nNorth America. And this is going to be the biggest and most successful\nburglary ever perpetrated on this continent. And no one will ever be\nconvicted for it or so much as suspected of it. Mark my words.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do,\u201d I broke in, \u201cand I don\u2019t feel a bit better than when we\nstarted. You promised to explain and you said I\u2019d be as eager and\nconfident as you and Rivvin. I acknowledge the bait, admitting all\nyou say is true, and it doesn\u2019t seem likely. But do you suppose any\nrecluse millionaire eccentric is going to live unguarded? If he is\ncareless himself his household are the reverse. By what you tell of\nthe gate-houses there are precautions enough. Diamonds are tempting if\nyou like, but so is the bullion in the mint. By your account all this\naccumulation of treasure you imagine is as safe where it is as the gold\nreserve in the United States Treasury. You scare me, you don\u2019t reassure\nme.\u201d\n\n\u201cKeep your head,\u201d Thwaite interrupted. \u201cI\u2019m no fool. I\u2019ve spent years\non this scheme. After I was sure of the prize I made sure of the means.\nThere are precautions a-many, but not enough. How simple to put a\nwatchman\u2019s cottage every hundred yards on the other side of the road\nacross from the wall? They haven\u2019t done it. How simple to light the\nroad and the outside of the wall? They haven\u2019t done that. Nor have they\nthought of any one of the twenty other simple outside precautions.\nThe park\u2019s big enough to be lonely. And outside the wall is all dark,\nlonely road and unfenced, empty woods like this. They\u2019re overconfident.\nThey think their wall and their gate-houses are enough. And they are\nnot. They think their outside precautions are perfect. They are not. I\nknow. I\u2019ve been over that wall ten times, twenty times, fifty times.\nI\u2019ve risked it and I have risked man-traps and spring guns and alarm\nwires. There aren\u2019t any. There isn\u2019t any night patrol, nor any regular\nday patrol, only casual gardeners and such. I know. I made sure of it\nby crawling all over the place on my belly like an Iroquois Indian in\none of Cooper\u2019s novels. They are so confident of the potency of their\nwall that they haven\u2019t so much as a watch dog, nor any dog of any\nkind.\u201d\n\nI was certainly startled.\n\n\u201cNo dog!\u201d I exclaimed. \u201cAre you sure?\u201d\n\n\u201cDead sure!\u201d Thwaite returned, triumphantly, \u201cAnd sure there never has\nbeen a dog on the place.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow could you be sure of that?\u201d I cavilled.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m coming to that,\u201d Thwaite went on, \u201cI could not get anybody that\never belonged to the place to talk, but I managed to arrange to\noverhear two of them talking to each other; and more than once, too.\nMost of what they said was no use to me, but I overheard scraps I could\npiece together. There\u2019s a cross-wall that divides the park. In the\nsmaller division, into which the lodge gates lead, are the homes of all\nthe caretakers and servants, of the overseers and manager and of the\nestate doctor; for there is an estate doctor. He has two assistants,\nyoung men, frequently changed. He is married like most of the retinue.\nThere is a sort of village of them inside the outer wall, outside the\ninner cross-wall. Some of them have been there thirty-five years. When\nthey get too old they are pensioned off and sent away, somewhere; far\noff, for I could not get a clue to any pensioner.\n\n\u201cThe valets or keepers, whichever they are, and there are many of them,\nto relieve each other, are all unmarried except two or three of the\nmost trusted. The rest are all brought over from England and shipped\nback usually after four or five years of service. The men I overheard\nwere two of these, an old hand soon to finish his enlistment, as he\ncalled it, and go home, and the lad he was training to take his place.\nAll these specials have plenty of time off to spend outside. They\u2019d\nsit over their beer for two or three hours at a time, chatting on,\nAppleshaw giving points to Kitworth or Kitworth asking questions. I\nlearnt from them about the cross-wall.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever\u2019s been a woman t\u2019 other side of it since it was built,\u201d\nAppleshaw said.\n\n\u201cI shouldn\u2019t have thought it,\u201d Kitworth ruminated.\n\n\u201cCan you imagine a woman,\u201d Appleshaw asked, \u201cstandin\u2019 him?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d Kitworth admitted, \u201cI hardly can. But some women\u2019ll stand more\u2019n\na man.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnyhow,\u201d Appleshaw added, \u201che can\u2019t abide the sight of a woman.\u201d\n\n\u201cOdd,\u201d said Kitworth, \u201cI\u2019ve heard his kind are all the other way.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are, as we know,\u201d Appleshaw replied, \u201chavin\u2019 watched \u2019em; but he\nain\u2019t. He can\u2019t endure \u2019em.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose it\u2019s the same way about dogs,\u201d Kitworth reflected.\n\n\u201cNo dog\u2019d ever get used to him,\u201d Appleshaw agreed, \u201cand he\u2019s that\nafraid of dogs, they\u2019re not allowed inside the place anywhere. Never\u2019s\nbeen one here since he was born, I\u2019m told. No, nor any cat, either, not\none even.\u201d\n\nAnother time I heard Appleshaw say:\n\n\u201cHe built the museums, and the pavilion and the towers, the rest was\nbuilt before he grew up.\u201d\n\nGenerally I could not hear much of Kitworth\u2019s utterances, he talked so\nlow. I once heard Appleshaw reply:\n\nSometimes nights and nights he\u2019ll be quiet as anybody, lights out early\nand sleep sound for all we know. Again he\u2019ll be up all night, every\nwindow blazin\u2019, or up late, till after midnight. Whoever\u2019s on duty\nsees the night out, nobody else\u2019s business, unless they send an alarm\nfor help, and that ain\u2019t often; not twice a year. Mostly he\u2019s as quiet\nas you or me, as long as he\u2019s obeyed.\n\n\u201cHis temper\u2019s short though. Now he\u2019ll fly into a rage if he\u2019s not\nanswered quick; again he\u2019ll storm if the watchers come near him\nuncalled.\u201d\n\nOf long inaudible whispers I caught fragments.\n\nOnce:\n\n\u201cOh, then he\u2019ll have no one near. You can hear him sobbing like a\nchild. When he\u2019s worst you\u2019ll hear him, still nights, howlin\u2019 and\nscreamin\u2019 like a lost soul.\u201d\n\nAgain:\n\n\u201cClean-fleshed as a child and no more hairy than you or me.\u201d\n\nAgain:\n\n\u201cFiddle? No violinist can beat him. I\u2019ve listened hours. It makes you\nthink of your sins. An\u2019 then it\u2019ll change an\u2019 you remember your first\nsweetheart, an\u2019 spring rains and flowers, an\u2019 when you was a child on\nyour mother\u2019s knee. It tears your heart out.\u201d\n\nThe two phrases that seemed to mean most were:\n\n\u201cHe won\u2019t stan\u2019 any interference.\u201d\n\nAnd:\n\n\u201cNever a lock touched till daylight after he\u2019s once locked in.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow what do you think?\u201d Thwaite asked me.\n\n\u201cIt sounds,\u201d I said, \u201cas if the place were a one-patient asylum for a\nlunatic with long lucid intervals.\u201d\n\n\u201cSomething like that,\u201d Thwaite answered, \u201cbut there seems to be more in\nit than that. I can\u2019t make all the things I hear fit. Appleshaw said\none thing that runs in my head:\n\n\u201cSeein\u2019 him in the suds give me a turn.\u201d\n\nAnd Kitworth said once:\n\n\u201cIt was the bright colors alongside of it that made my blood run cold.\u201d\n\nAnd Appleshaw said more than once, in varying words, but always with\nthe same meaning tone:\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll never get over bein\u2019 afraid of him. But you\u2019ll respect him more\nand more, you\u2019ll almost love him. You won\u2019t fear him for his looks, but\nfor his awful wisdom. He\u2019s that wise, no man is more so.\u201d\n\nOnce Kitworth answered:\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t envy Sturry locked in there with him.\u201d\n\n\u201cSturry nor none of us that\u2019s his most trusted man for the time bein\u2019\nis not to be envied,\u201d Appleshaw agreed. \u201cBut you\u2019ll come to it, as I\nhave, if you\u2019re the man I take you for.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s about all I got from listening,\u201d Thwaite went on, \u201cthe rest\nI got from watching and scouting. I made sure of the building they\ncall the Pavilion, that\u2019s his usual home. But sometimes he spends his\nnights in one or the other of the towers, they stand all by themselves.\nSometimes the lights are all out after ten o\u2019clock or even nine; then\nagain they\u2019re on till after midnight. Sometimes they come on late, two\no\u2019clock or three. I have heard music too, violin music, as Appleshaw\ndescribed it, and organ music, too; but no howling. He is certainly a\nlunatic, judging by the statuary.\u201d\n\n\u201cStatuary?\u201d I queried.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d Thwaite said, \u201cstatuary. Big figures and groups, all crazy\nmen with heads like elephants or American eagles, perfectly crazy\nstatuary. But all well-done. They stand all about the park. The little,\nsquare building between the Pavilion and the green tower is his\nsculpture studio.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou seem to know the place mighty well,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cI do,\u201d Thwaite assented, \u201cI\u2019ve gotten to know it well. At first I\ntried nights like this. Then I dared starlight. Then I dared even\nmoonlight. I\u2019ve never had a scare. I\u2019ve sat on the front steps of the\nPavilion at one o\u2019clock of starlight night and never been challenged.\nI even tried staying in all day, hiding in some bushes, hoping to see\nhim.\u201d\n\n\u201cEver see him?\u201d I inquired.\n\n\u201cNever,\u201d Thwaite answered, \u201cI\u2019ve heard him though. He rides horseback\nafter dark. I\u2019ve watched the horse being led up and down in front of\nthe Pavilion, till it got too dark to see it from where I was hid. I\u2019ve\nheard it pass me in the dark. But I could never get the horse against\nthe sky to see what was on it. Hiding and getting downhill of a road,\nclose to it, don\u2019t go together.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou didn\u2019t see him the day you spent there?\u201d I insisted.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d Thwaite said, \u201cI didn\u2019t. I was disappointed too. For a big auto\npurred up to the Pavilion entrance and stood under the porte coch\u00e8re.\nBut when it spun round the park there was nobody in it, only the\nchauffeur in front and a pet monkey on the back seat.\u201d\n\n\u201cA pet monkey!\u201d I exclaimed.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cYou know how a dog, a Newfoundland, or a terrier, will\nsit up in an auto and look grand and superior and enjoy himself? Well,\nthat monkey sat there just like that turning his head one way and the\nother taking in the view.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat was he like?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cSort of dog-faced ape,\u201d Thwaite told me, \u201cmore like a mastiff.\u201d\n\nRivvin grunted.\n\n\u201cThis isn\u2019t business,\u201d Thwaite went on, \u201cwe\u2019ve got to get down to\nbusiness. The point is the wall is their only guard, there\u2019s no dog,\nperhaps because of the pet monkey as much as anything else. They lock\nMr. Eversleigh up every night with only one valet to take care of him.\nThey never interfere whatever noise they hear or light they see, unless\nthe alarm is sent out and I have located the alarm wires you are to\ncut. That\u2019s all. Do you go?\u201d\n\nRivvin was sitting close to me, half on me. I could feel his great\nmuscles and the butt of his pistol against my hip.\n\n\u201cI come with you,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cOf your own accord?\u201d Thwaite insisted.\n\nThe butt of that pistol moved as Rivvin breathed.\n\n\u201cI come of my own accord,\u201d I said.\n\n\n                                  III\n\n\nAfoot Thwaite led as confidently as he had driven the car. It was the\nstillest, pitchiest night I ever experienced, without light, air, sound\nor smell to guide anyone: through that fog Thwaite sped like a man\nmoving about his own bedroom, never for a second at a loss.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s the place,\u201d he said at the wall, and guided my hand to feel the\nring-bolt in the grass at its foot. Rivvin made a back for him and I\nscrambled up on the two. Tip-toe on Thwaite\u2019s shoulders I could just\nfinger the coping.\n\n\u201cStand on my head, you fool!\u201d he whispered.\n\nI clutched the coping. Once astraddle of it I let down one end of the\nsilk ladder.\n\n\u201cFast!\u201d breathed Thwaite from below.\n\nI drew it taut and went down. The first sweep of my fingers in the\ngrass found the other ring-bolt. I made the ladder fast and gave it the\nsignal twitches. Rivvin came over first, then Thwaite. Through the park\nhe led evenly. When he halted he caught me by the elbow and asked:\n\n\u201cCan you see any lights?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a light,\u201d I told him.\n\n\u201cSame here,\u201d he said, \u201cthere are no lights. Every window is dark. We\u2019re\nin luck.\u201d\n\nHe led again for a while. Stopping he said only:\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s where you shin up. Cut every wire, but don\u2019t waste time cutting\nany twice.\u201d\n\nThe details of his directions were exact. I found every handhold and\nfoothold as he had schooled me. But I needed all my nerve. I realized\nthat no heavyweight like Rivvin or Thwaite could have done it. When I\ncame down I was limp and tottery.\n\n\u201cJust one swallow!\u201d Thwaite said, putting a flask to my lips. Then we\nwent on. The night was so black and the fog so thick that I saw no loom\nof the building till we were against its wall.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s where you go in,\u201d Thwaite directed.\n\nDoubly I understood why I was with them. Neither could have squeezed\nthrough that aperture in the stone. I barely managed it. Inside,\ninstead of the sliding crash I had dreaded, I landed with a mere\ncrunch, the coal in that bin was not anthracite. Likewise the bin under\nthe window was for soft-coal. I blessed my luck and felt encouraged.\nThe window I got open without too much work. Rivvin and Thwaite slid\nin. We crunched downhill four or five steps and stood on a firm floor.\nRivvin flashed his electric candle boldly round. We were between a\nsuite of trim coal-bins and a battery of serried furnaces. There was\nno door at either end of the open space in which we stood. I had a\nmomentary vision of the alternate windows and coal-chutes above the\nbins, of two big panels of shiny, colored tiling, of clear brick-work,\nfresh-painted, jetty iron and dazzling-white brass-ringed asbestos, of\na black vacancy between two furnaces. Toward that I half heard, half\nfelt Rivvin turn. During the rest of our adventure he led, Thwaite\nfollowed and I mostly tagged or groped after Thwaite, often judging\nof their position or movement by that combination of senses which is\nneither hearing nor touch, though partly both.\n\nRivvin\u2019s torch flashed again. We were in a cement-floored, brick-walled\npassage, with a door at each end and on the side facing us doors in a\nbewildering row. In the darkness that came after the flash I followed\nthe others to the right. Well through the doorway we stood still,\nbreathing and listening. When Rivvin illuminated our environment we\nsaw about us thousands of bottles, all set aslant, neck down, in tiers\nof racks that reached to the ceiling. Edging between them we made the\ncircuit of the cellar, but found no sign of any door save that by which\nwe had entered. A whispered growl from Rivvin, a nudge from Thwaite and\nwe went back the full length of the passage. Again we found ourselves\nin a wine vault, the duplicate of that we had left, and with the same\npeculiarity.\n\nOur curiosity overcame any prudence. Rivvin, instead of flashing his\ntorch at intervals, kept the light steady, and we scrutinized, examined\nand whispered our astonishment. As in its fellow there was not in all\nthis vault any spare space, the aisles were narrow, the racks reached\nthe girders supporting the flat arches, every rack was so full that a\nholder empty of its bottle was scarcely findable. And there was not in\nall that great cellar, there was not among all those tens of thousands\nof bottles a magnum, or a quart or even a pint. They were all splits.\nWe handled a number and all had the same label. I know now what the\ndevice was, from seeing it so often and so much larger afterwards, but\nthere it seemed a picture of a skirt-dancer leading an alligator by a\ndog chain. There was no name of any wine or liquor on any bottle, but\neach label had a red number, 17, or 45 or 328, above the picture, and\nunder it:\n\n\u201cBottled for Hengist Eversleigh.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe know his name now,\u201d Thwaite whispered.\n\nBack in the passage Rivvin took the first door to the left. It brought\nus to an easy stone stair between walls, which turned twice to the left\nat broad landings.\n\nWhen we trod a softer footing we stood a long time breathing cautiously\nand listening.\n\nPresently Rivvin flashed his light. It showed to our left a carpeted\nstair, the dull red carpet bulging up over thick pads and held down by\nbrass stair-rods; the polished quartered oak of the molded door-jamb\nor end of wainscot beyond it; the floor-covering of brownish-yellow\nor yellowish brown linoleum or something similar, made to look like\ninlaid wood; and the feet, legs and thighs of a big stocky man. The\nlight shone but the fraction of a second, yet it showed plain his\nknee-breeches, tight stockings on his big calves, and bright buckles at\nhis knees and on his low shoes.\n\nThere was no loud sound, but the blurred brushy noise of a mute\nstruggle. I backed against a window-sill and could back no further.\nAll I could hear was the shuffling, rasping sounds of the fight, and\npanting that became a sort of gurgle.\n\nAgain the light flashed and stayed full bright. I saw that it was\nThwaite struggling with the man, and that one of his big hands was\non Thwaite\u2019s throat. Thwaite had him round the neck and his face was\nagainst Thwaite\u2019s chest. His hair was brownish. Rivvin\u2019s slung-shot\ncrunched horribly on his skull. Instantly the light went out.\n\nThwaite, radiating heat like a stove, stood gasping close by me. I\nheard no other noise after the body thudded on the floor except that on\nthe carpeted stair I seemed to hear light treads, as it were of a big\ndog or of a frightened child, padding away upward.\n\n\u201cDid you hear anything?\u201d I whispered.\n\nRivvin punched me.\n\nAfter Thwaite was breathing naturally, he turned on his torch and\nRivvin did the same.\n\nThe dead man was oldish, over fifty I should judge, tall, large in all\nhis dimensions, and spare, though heavy. His clothing was a gold-laced\nlivery of green velvet, with green velvet knee breeches, green silk\nstockings and green leather pumps. The four buckles were gold.\n\nThwaite startled me by speaking out loud.\n\n\u201cI take it, Rivvin,\u201d he said, \u201cthis is the trusted valet. He would\nhave yelled if there had been anybody to call. Either we have this\nbuilding to ourselves or we have no one to deal with except Mr. Hengist\nEversleigh.\u201d\n\nRivvin grunted.\n\n\u201cIf he is here,\u201d Thwaite went on, \u201che\u2019s trying to send the alarm over\nthe cut wires, or he\u2019s frightened and hiding. Let\u2019s find him and finish\nhim, if he\u2019s here, and then find his diamonds. Anyway let\u2019s find those\ndiamonds.\u201d\n\nRivvin grunted.\n\nSwiftly they led from room to room and floor to floor. Not a door\nresisted. We had been curious and astonished in the wine-vaults; above\nwe were electrified and numb. We were in a palace of wonders, among\nsuch a profusion of valuables that even Rivvin, after the second or\nthird opportunity, ceased any attempt to pocket or bag anything. We\ncame upon nothing living, found no door locked and apparently made the\ntour of the entire building.\n\nWhen they halted, I halted. We were delirious with amazement, frantic\nwith inquisitiveness, frenzied with curiosity, incredulous, hysterical,\ndazed and quivering.\n\nThwaite spoke in the dark.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m going to see this place plain, all over it, if I die for it.\u201d\n\nThey flashed their torches. We were right beside the body of the\nmurdered footman. Rivvin and Thwaite did not seem to mind the corpse.\nThey waved their torches until one fell on an electric-light button.\n\n\u201cHope those wires are underground,\u201d Thwaite remarked. He pushed the\nbutton and the electric lights came on full and strong. We were\napparently at the foot of the back stairs, in a sort of lobby, an\nexpanded passage-way out of which opened several doors.\n\nWe all three regarded the knobs of those doors. As we had half seen\nby flash-light on every door everywhere each door had two knobs, one\nlike any door-knob, the other about half way between it and the floor.\nRivvin opened one which proved to lead into a broom closet. He tried\nthe knobs, Thwaite and I watching too. The lock and latch were at the\nupper knob, but controlled by either knob indifferently. They tried\nanother door, but my eyes would roam to the dead body.\n\nRivvin and Thwaite paid no more attention to it than if it had not been\nthere. I had never seen but one killed man before and neither wanted to\nbe reminded of that one nor relished the sight of this one. I stared\ndown the blackness of the stone stair up which we had come or glanced\ninto the dimness of the padded stairway.\n\nThen Rivvin, feeling inside the open door, found the button and turned\non the lights. It was a biggish dining-room, the four corners cut off\nby inset glass-framed shelved closets, full of china and glassware. The\nfurniture was oak.\n\n\u201cServants dining-room,\u201d Thwaite commented.\n\nTurning on the lights in each we went through a series of rooms; a\nsort of sitting-room, with card-tables and checker-boards; a library\nwalled with bookcases and open book-shelves, its two stout oak tables\nlittered with magazines and newspapers; a billiard room with three\ntables, a billiard-table, a pool-table and one for bagatelle; a sort of\nlounging room, all leather-covered sofas and deep armchairs; an entry\nwith hat-hooks and umbrella-stands, the outer door dark oak with a\ngreat deal of stained glass set in and around it.\n\n\u201cAll servants\u2019 rooms,\u201d Thwaite commented. \u201cEvery bit of the furniture\nis natural man-size. Let\u2019s go on.\u201d\n\nBack we went along a passage and into a big kitchen beyond the\ndining-room.\n\n\u201cNever mind the pantries till we come down again,\u201d Thwaite commanded.\n\u201cLet\u2019s go upstairs. We\u2019ll do the banqueting-hall after those bedrooms,\nand the writing rooms and study last. I want a real sight of those\npictures.\u201d\n\nThey passed the dead flunkey as if he had not been there at all.\n\nOn the floor above Thwaite touched Rivvins\u2019 elbow.\n\n\u201cI forgot these,\u201d he said.\n\nWe inspected a medium-sized sitting-room with a round center-table, an\narmchair drawn up by it, and in the armchair a magazine and a sort of\nwadded smoking-jacket. Next this room was a bedroom and a bathroom.\n\n\u201cMr. Footman\u2019s quarters,\u201d Thwaite remarked, staring unconcernedly at a\nphotograph of a dumpy young woman and two small children, set on the\nbureau. \u201cAll man-size furniture here, too.\u201d\n\nRivvin nodded.\n\nUp the second flight of that back-stair we went again. It ended in a\nsquarish hallway or lobby or room with nothing in it but two settees.\nIt had two doors.\n\nRivvin pushed one open, felt up and down for the electric button and\nfound it.\n\nWe all three gasped; we almost shouted. We had had glimpses of this\ngallery before, but the flood of light from a thousand bulbs under\ninverted trough-reflectors dazzled us; the pictures fairly petrified us.\n\nThe glare terrified me.\n\n\u201cSurely we are crazy,\u201d I objected, \u201cto make all this illumination. It\u2019s\ncertain to give the alarm.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlarm nothing,\u201d Thwaite snapped. \u201cHaven\u2019t I watched these buildings\nnight after night. I told you he is never disturbed at any hour, lights\nor no lights.\u201d\n\nMy feeble protest thus brushed away I became absorbed, like the others,\nin those incredible paintings. Rivvin was merely stupidly dazed in\nuncomprehending wonder, Thwaite keenly speculative, questing for a\nclue to the origin of their peculiarities, I totally bewildered at the\nperfection of their execution, shivering at their uncanniness.\n\nThe gallery was all of ninety feet long, nearly thirty wide and high.\nApparently it had a glass roof above the rectangle of reflectors. The\npictures covered all four walls, except the little door at either end.\nNone was very small and several were very large. A few were landscapes,\nbut all had figures in them, most were crowded with figures.\n\nThose figures!\n\nThey were human figures, but not one had a human head. The heads were\ninvariably those of birds, animals or fishes, generally of animals,\nsome of common animals, many of creatures I had seen pictures of or had\nheard of, some of imaginary creatures like dragons or griffons, more\nthan half of the heads either of animals I knew nothing of or which had\nbeen invented by the painter.\n\nClose to me when the lights blazed out was a sea picture, blurred\ngrayish foggy weather and a heavy groundswell; a strange other-world\nopen boat with fish heaped in the bottom of it and standing among them\nfour human figures in shining boots like rubber boots and wet, shiny,\nloose coats like oilskins, only the boots and skins were red as claret,\nand the four figures had hyenas\u2019 heads. One was steering and the\nothers were hauling at a net. Caught in the net was a sort of merman,\nbut different from the pictures of mermaids. His shape was all human\nexcept the head and hands and feet; every bit of him was covered with\nfish-scales all rainbowy. He had flat broad fins in place of hands and\nfeet and his head was the head of a fat hog. He was thrashing about in\nthe net in an agony of impotent effort. Queer as the picture was it\nhad a compelling impression of reality, as if the scene were actually\nhappening before our eyes.\n\nNext it was a picnic in a little meadow by a pond between woods with\nmountains behind it higher up. Every one of the picnickers about the\nwhite tablecloth spread on the grass had the head of a different\nanimal, one of a sheep, one of a camel, and the rest of animals like\ndeer, not one of them known to me.\n\nThen next to that was a fight of two compound creatures shaped like\ncentaurs, only they had bulls\u2019 bodies, with human torsos growing out\nof them, where the necks ought to be, the arms scaly snakes with\nopen-mouthed, biting heads in place of hands; and instead of human\nheads roosters\u2019 heads, bills open and pecking. Under the creatures\nin place of bulls\u2019 hoofs were yellow roosters\u2019 legs, stouter than\nchickens\u2019 legs and with short thick toes, and long sharp spurs like\ngame roosters\u2019. Yet these fantastic chimeras appeared altogether alive\nand their movements looked natural, yes that\u2019s the word, natural.\n\nEvery picture was as complete a staggerer as these first three. Every\none was signed in the lower left hand corner in neat smallish letters\nof bright gold paint:\n\n \u201cHengist Eversleigh\u201d\n\nand a date.\n\n\u201cMr. Hengist Eversleigh is a lunatic that\u2019s certain,\u201d Thwaite\ncommented, \u201cbut he unquestionably knows how to paint.\u201d\n\nThere must have been more than fifty pictures in that gallery, maybe as\nmany as seventy-five, and every one a nightmare.\n\nBeyond was a shorter gallery of the same width, end on to the side of\nthe first, and beyond that the duplicate of the first; the three taking\nup three sides of the building. The fourth side was a studio, the size\nof the second gallery; it had a great skylight of glass tilted sideways\nall along over one whole wall. It was white-washed, very plain and\nempty-looking, with two easels, a big one and a little one.\n\nOn the little one was a picture of some vegetables and five or six\nlittle fairies, as it were, with children\u2019s bodies and mice\u2019s heads,\nnibbling at a carrot.\n\nOn the big one was a canvas mostly blank. One side of it had a\npalm-tree in splashy, thick slaps of paint and under it three big crabs\nwith cocoanuts in their claws. A man\u2019s feet and legs showed beside them\nand the rest was unfinished.\n\nThe three galleries had fully three hundred paintings, for the smaller\ngallery contained only small canvases. Besides being impressed with the\ngrotesqueness of the subjects and the perfection of the drawing and\ncoloring, two things struck me as to the pictures collectively.\n\nFirst, there was not represented in any one of all those paintings any\nfigure of a woman or any female shape of any kind. The beast-headed\nfigures were all, whether clothed or nude, figures of men. The animals,\nas far as I could see, were all males.\n\nSecondly, nearly half of the pictures were modifications, or parallels\nor emulations (I could hardly say travesties or imitations), of\nwell-known pictures by great artists, paintings I had seen in public\ngalleries or knew from engravings or photographs or reproductions in\nbooks or magazines.\n\nThere was a picture like Washington crossing the Delaware and another\nlike Washington saying farewell to his generals. There was a batch\nof Napoleon pictures; after the paintings of Napoleon at Austerlitz,\nat Friedland, giving the eagles to his regiments, on the morning of\nWaterloo, coming down the steps at Fontainebleau, and on the deck of\nthe ship going to St. Helena. There were dozens of other pictures of\ngenerals or kings or emperors reviewing victorious armies; two or three\nof Lincoln. One that hit me hardest, obviously after some picture I\nhad never seen or heard of, of the ghost of Lincoln, far larger than\na life-size man, towering above the surviving notabilities of his\ntime on the grandstand reviewing the homecoming Federal army marching\nthrough Washington.\n\nIn every one of these pictures, the dominant figure, whether it stood\nfor Lincoln, Napoleon, Washington, or some other general or ruler;\nwhatever uniform or regalia clothed its human shape, had the same head.\nThe heads of the fighting men in all these pictures were those of\ndogs, all alike in any one picture, but differing from one to another;\nterriers or wolf-hounds or mastiffs or what not. The heads of any men\nnot soldiers were those of oxen or sheep or horses or some other mild\nsort of animal. The head of the dominant figure I then took to be\ninvented, legendary, fabulous--oh, that\u2019s not the word I want.\n\n\u201cMythological?\u201d I suggested, the only interruption I interjected into\nhis entire narrative.\n\nYes, mythological, he returned. I thought it was a mythological\ncreature. The long-jawed head, like a hound\u2019s; the little pointed\nyellow beard under the chin; the black, naked ears, like a hairless\ndog\u2019s ears and yet not doggy, either; the ridge of hair on top of\nthe skull; the triangular shape of the whole head; the close-set,\nsmall, beady, terribly knowing eyes; the brilliant patches of color\non either side of the muzzle; all these made a piercing impression of\nindividuality and yet seemed not so much actual as mythological.\n\nIt takes a great deal longer to tell what we saw on that third floor\nthan it took to see it. All round the galleries under the pictures were\ncases of drawers, solidly built in one length like a counter and about\nas high. Thwaite went down one side of the gallery and Rivvin down the\nother, pulling them out and slamming them shut again. All I saw held\nphotographs of pictures. But Rivvin and Thwaite were taking no chances\nand looked into every drawer. I had plenty of time to gaze about me\nand circulated at a sort of cantering trot around the green-velvet\nminiature sofas and settees placed back to back down the middle of the\nfloor-space. It seemed to me that Mr. Hengist Eversleigh was a great\nmaster of figure and landscape drawing, color, light and perspective.\n\nAs we went down the duplicate staircase at the other corner from where\nwe came up Thwaite said:\n\n\u201cNow for those bedrooms.\u201d\n\nBy the stair we found another valet\u2019s or footman\u2019s apartment,\nsitting-room, bedroom and bathroom, just like the one by the other\nstair. And there were four more between them, under the studio and over\nthe lounging-rooms.\n\nOn the east and west sides of the building were \u201cthe\u201d bedrooms, twelve\napartments, six on each side; each of the twelve made up of a bedroom,\na dressing-room and a bathroom.\n\nThe beds were about three feet long, and proportionately narrow and\nlow. The furniture, bureaus, tables, chairs, chests-of-drawers and\nthe rest, harmonized with the dimensions of the beds, except the\ncheval-glasses and wall-mirrors which reached the ceilings. The\nbathtubs were almost pools, about nine feet by six and all of three\nfeet deep, each a single block of porcelain.\n\nThe shapes and sizes and styles of the furniture were duplicated\nall through, but the colors varied, so that the twelve suites were\nin twelve colors; black, white, gray and brown, and light and dark\nyellow, red, green and blue; wall coverings, hangings, carpets and\nrugs all to match in each suite. The panels of the walls had the same\npicture, however, repeated over and over, two, four or six times to a\nroom and in every suite alike.\n\nThis picture was the design I had failed to make out on the labels of\nthe bottles. It was set as a medallion in each panel of the blue or\nred walls, or whatever other color they were. The background of the\npicture was a vague sort of palish sky and blurred, hazy clouds above\ntropical-looking foliage. The chief figure was an angel, in flowing\nwhite robes, floating on silvery-plumed wings widespread. The angel\u2019s\nface was a human face, the only human face in any picture in that\npalace, the face of a grave, gentle, rather girlish young man.\n\nThe creature the angel was leading was a huge, bulky crocodile, with\na gold collar about its neck, and a gold chain from that, not to the\nangel\u2019s hand, but to a gold fetter about his wrist.\n\nUnder each picture was a verse of four lines, always the same.\n\n    \u201cLet not your baser nature drag you down.\n      Utter no whimper, not one sigh or moan,\n    Hopeless of respite, solace, palm or crown\n      Live out your life unflinching and alone.\u201d\n\nI saw it so often I shall never forget it.\n\nThe bathrooms were luxurious in the extreme, a needle-bath, a\nshower-bath, two basins of different sizes in each, besides the sunk\npool-tub. The dressing-rooms has each a variety of wardrobes. One or\ntwo we opened, finding in each several suits of little clothes, as if\nfor a boy under six years old. One closet had shelf above shelf of\nsmall shoes, not much over four inches long.\n\n\u201cEvidently,\u201d Thwaite remarked, \u201cHengist Eversleigh is a dwarf, whatever\nelse he is.\u201d\n\nRivvin left the wardrobes and closets alone after the first few.\n\nEach bedroom had in it nothing but the bed and on each side of it a\nsort of wine-cooler, like a pail with a lid, but bigger, set on three\nshort legs so that its top was level with the bed. We opened most of\nthem; every one we opened was filled with ice, bedded in which were\nseveral half-pint bottles. Every one of the twelve beds had the covers\ncarefully turned down. Not one showed any sign of having been occupied.\nThe wine-coolers were solid silver but we left them where they were. As\nThwaite remarked, it would have taken two full-sized freight cars to\ncontain the silver we had seen.\n\nIn the dressing-rooms the articles like brushes and combs on the\nbureaus were all of gold, and most set with jewels. Rivvin began to\nfill a bag with those entirely of metal, but even he made no attempt\nto tear the backs off the brushes or to waste energy on any other\nbreakage. By the time we had scanned the twelve suites Rivvin could\nbarely carry his bag.\n\nThe front room on the south side of the building was a library full\nof small, showily-bound books in glass-fronted cases all the way to\nthe ceiling, covering every wall except where the two doors and six\nwindows opened. There were small, narrow tables, the height of those in\nthe dressing-rooms. There were magazines on them and papers. Thwaite\nopened a bookcase and I another and we looked at three or four books.\nEach had in it a book-plate with the device of the angel and the\ncrocodile.\n\nRivvin did not find the electric button in the main hallway and we\nwent down the great broad, curving stair by our electric candles.\nRivvin turned to the left and we found ourselves in the banquet hall\nas Thwaite had called it, a room all of forty by thirty and gorgeous\nbeyond any description.\n\nThe diminutive table, not three feet square, was a slab of\ncrystal-white glass set on silver-covered legs. The tiny armchair, the\nonly chair in the big room, was solid silver, with a crimson cushion\nloose in it.\n\nThe sideboards and glass-fronted closets paralyzed us. One had fine\nchina and cut glass; wonderful china and glass. But four held a table\nservice of gold, all of pure gold; forks, knives, spoons, plates,\nbowls, platters, cups, everything; all miniature, but a profusion\nof everything. We hefted the pieces. They were gold. All the pieces\nwere normal in shape except that instead of wine-glasses, goblets and\ntumblers were things like broad gravy-boats on stems or short feet, all\nlopsided, with one projecting edge like the mouth of a pitcher, only\nbroader and flatter. There were dozens of these. Rivvin filled two bags\nwith what two bags would hold. The three bags were all we three could\ncarry, must have been over a hundred and fifty pounds apiece.\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll have to make two trips to the wall,\u201d Thwaite said. \u201cYou brought\nsix bags, didn\u2019t you, Rivvin?\u201d\n\nRivvin grunted.\n\nAt the foot of the grand staircase Rivvin found the electric button and\nflooded the magnificent stairway with light.\n\nThe stair itself was all white marble, the rails yellow marble, and the\npaneling of the dado malachite. But the main feature was the painting\nabove the landing. This was the most amazing of all the paintings we\nhad come upon.\n\nI remembered something like it, an advertisement of a root-beer or\ntalcum powder, or some other proprietary article, representing all the\nnations of the earth and their rulers in the foreground congratulating\nthe orator.\n\nThis picture was about twenty feet wide and higher than its width.\nThere was a throne, a carved and jeweled throne, set on an eminence.\nThere was a wide view on either side of the throne, and all filled\nwith human figures with animal heads, an infinite throng, all facing\nthe throne. Nearest it were figures that seemed meant for all the\npresidents and kings and queens and emperors of the world. I recognized\nthe robes or uniforms of some of them. Some had heads taken from their\nnational coat of arms, like the heads of the Austrian and Russian\neagles. All these figures were paying homage to the figure that stood\nbefore the throne; the same monster we had seen in place of Lincoln or\nWashington or Napoleon in the paintings upstairs.\n\nHe stood proudly with one foot on a massive crocodile. He was dressed\nin a sort of revolutionary uniform, low shoes, with gold buckles, white\nstockings and knee-breeches, a red waistcoat, and a bright blue coat.\nHis head was the same beast-head of the other pictures, triangular and\nstrange, which I then thought mythological.\n\nAbove and behind the throne floated on outspread silver wings the\nwhite-robed angel with the Sir Galahad face.\n\nRivvin shut off the lights almost instantly, but even in the few\nbreaths while I looked I saw it all.\n\nThe three sacks of swag we put down by the front door.\n\nThe room opposite the banquet-hall was a music room, with an organ and\na piano, both with keys and keyboards far smaller than usual; great\ncases of music books; an array of brass instruments and cellos and more\nthan a hundred violin cases. Thwaite opened one or two.\n\n\u201cThese\u2019d be enough to make our fortune,\u201d he said. \u201cIf we could get away\nwith them.\u201d\n\nBeyond the music-room was the study. It had in it four desks, miniature\nin size and the old-fashioned model with drawers below, a lid to turn\ndown and form a writing surface, and a sort of bookcase above with a\npeaked top. All were carved and on the lids in the carving we read:\n\n                                JOURNAL\n                                 MUSIC\n                               CRITICISM\n                               BUSINESS\n\nThwaite opened the desk marked BUSINESS and pulled open the drawers.\n\nIn pigeon-holes of the desk were bundles of new, clean greenbacks and\ntreasury notes of higher denominations; five each of fives, tens,\ntwenties, fifties and hundreds. Thwaite tossed one bundle of each to\nme and Rivvin and pocketed the rest.\n\nHe bulged.\n\nOne drawer had a division down the middle. One half was full of\nten-dollar gold pieces, the other half of twenties.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve heard of misers,\u201d said Thwaite, \u201cbut this beats hell. Think of\nthat crazy dwarf, a prisoner in this palace, running his hands through\nthis and gloating over the cash he can never use.\u201d\n\nRivvin loaded a bag with the coin and when he had them all he could\nbarely lift the bag. Leaving it where it lay before the desk he strode\nthe length of the room and tried the door at the end.\n\nIt was fast.\n\nInstantly Rivvin and Thwaite were like two terriers after a rat.\n\n\u201cThis is where the diamonds are,\u201d Thwaite declared, \u201cand Mr. Hengist\nEversleigh is in there with them.\u201d\n\nHe and Rivvin conferred a while together.\n\n\u201cYou kneel low,\u201d Thwaite whispered. \u201cDuck when you open it. He\u2019ll fire\nover you. Then you\u2019ve got him. See?\u201d\n\nRivvin tip-toed to the door, knelt and tried key after key in the lock.\n\nThere were at least twenty bulbs in the chandelier of that room and the\nlight beat down on him. His red neck dew-lapped over the low collar of\nhis lavenderish shirt, his great broad back showed vast and powerful.\n\nOn the other side of the doorway Thwaite stood, his finger at the\nelectric button.\n\nEach had his slung-shot in his left hand. They had spun the cylinders\nof their revolvers and stuck them in their belts in front before Rivvin\nbegan work on the lock.\n\nI heard a click.\n\nRivvin put up his hand.\n\nThe lights went out.\n\nIn the black dark we stood, stood until I could almost see the outlines\nof the windows; less black against the intenser blackness.\n\nSoon I heard another click, and the grate of an opened door.\n\nThen a kind of snarl, a thump like a blow, a sort of strangling gasp,\nand the cushiony sounds of a struggle.\n\nThwaite turned on the lights.\n\nRivvin was in the act of staggering up from his knees. I saw a pair\nof small, pink hands, the fingers intertwined, locked behind Rivvin\u2019s\nneck. They slipped apart as I caught sight of them.\n\nI had a vision of small feet in little patent leather silver-buckled\nlow-shoes, of green socks, of diminutive legs in white trousers\nflashing right and left in front of Rivvin, as if he held by the throat\na struggling child.\n\nNext I saw that his arms were thrown up, wide apart.\n\nHe collapsed and fell back his full length with a dull crash.\n\nThen I saw the snout!\n\nSaw the wolf-jaws vised on his throat!\n\nSaw the blood welling round the dazzling white fangs, and recognized\nthe reality of the sinister head I had seen over and over in his\npictures.\n\nRivvin made the fish-out-of-water contortions of a man being killed.\n\nThwaite brought his slung-shot down on the beast-head skull.\n\nThe blow was enough to crush in a steel cylinder.\n\nThe beast wrinkled its snout and shook its head from side to side,\nworrying like a bull-dog at Rivvin\u2019s throat.\n\nAgain Thwaite struck and again and again. At each blow the portentous\nhead oscillated viciously. The awful thing about it to me was the two\nblue bosses on each side of the muzzle, like enamel, shiny and hard\nlooking; and the hideous welt of red, like fresh sealing-wax, down\nbetween them and along the snout.\n\nRivvin\u2019s struggles grew weaker as the great teeth tore at his throat.\nHe was dead before Thwaite\u2019s repeated blows drove in the splintered\nskull and the clenched jaws relaxed, the snout crinkling and\ncontracting as the dog-teeth slid from their hold.\n\nThwaite gave the monster two or three more blows, touched Rivvin and\nfairly dashed out of the room, shouting.\n\n\u201cYou stay here!\u201d\n\nI heard the sound of prying and sawing. There alone I looked but once\nat the dead cracksman.\n\nThe thing that had killed him was the size of a four to six year old\nchild, but more stockily built, looked entirely human up to the neck,\nand was dressed in a coat of bright dark blue, a vest of crimson\nvelvet, and white duck trousers. As I looked the muzzle wriggled for\nthe last time, the jaws fell apart and the carcass rolled sideways. It\nwas the very duplicate in miniature of the figure in the big picture on\nthe staircase landing.\n\nThwaite came dashing back. Without any sign of any qualm he searched\nRivvin and tossed me two or three bundles of greenbacks:\n\nHe stood up.\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\u201cCuriosity,\u201d he said, \u201cwill be the death of me.\u201d\n\nThen he stripped the clothing from the dead monster, kneeling by it.\n\nThe beast-hair stopped at the shirt collar. Below that the skin was\nhuman, as was the shape, the shape of a forty-year-old man, strong and\nvigorous and well-made, only dwarfed to the smallness of a child.\n\nAcross the hairy breast was tattooed in blue,\n\n \u201cHENGIST EVERSLEIGH.\u201d\n\n\u201cHell,\u201d said Thwaite.\n\nHe stood up and went to the fatal door. Inside he found the electric\nbutton.\n\nThe room was small and lined with cases of little drawers, tier on\ntier, rows of brass knobs on mahogany.\n\nThwaite opened one.\n\nIt was velvet lined and grooved like a jeweler\u2019s tray and contained\nrings, the settings apparently emeralds.\n\nThwaite dumped them into one of the empty bags he had taken from\nRivvin\u2019s corpse.\n\nThe next case was of similar drawers of rings set with rubies. The\nfirst of these Thwaite dumped in with the emeralds.\n\nBut then he flew round the room pulling out drawers and slamming them\nshut, until he came upon trays of unset diamonds. These he emptied\ninto his sack to the last of them, then diamond rings on them, other\njewelry set with diamonds, then rubies and emeralds till the sack was\nfull.\n\nHe tied its neck, had me open a second sack and was dumping drawer\nafter drawer into that when suddenly he stopped.\n\nHis nose worked, worked horridly like that of the dead monster.\n\nI thought he was going crazy and was beginning to laugh nervously, was\non the verge of hysterics when he said:\n\n\u201cSmell! Try what you smell.\u201d\n\nI sniffed.\n\n\u201cI smell smoke,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cSo do I,\u201d he agreed. \u201cThis place is afire.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd we locked in!\u201d I exclaimed.\n\n\u201cLocked in?\u201d he sneered. \u201cBosh. I broke open the front door the instant\nI was sure they were dead. Come! Drop that empty bag. This is no time\nfor haggling.\u201d\n\nWe had to step between the two corpses. Rivvin was horridly dead. The\ncolors had all faded from the snout. The muzzle was all mouse-color.\n\nWhen we had hold of the bag of coin, Thwaite turned off the electric\nlights and we struggled out with that and the bag of jewels, and went\nout into the hallway full of smoke.\n\n\u201cWe can carry only these,\u201d Thwaite warned me. \u201cWe\u2019ll have to leave the\nrest.\u201d\n\nI shouldered the bag of coin, and followed him down the steps, across\na gravel road, and, oh the relief of treading turf and feeling the fog\nall about me.\n\nAt the wall Thwaite turned and looked back.\n\n\u201cNo chance to try for those other bags,\u201d he said.\n\nIn fact the red glow was visible at that distance and was fast becoming\na glare.\n\nI heard shouts.\n\nWe got the bags over the wall and reached the car. Thwaite cranked up\nat once and we were off.\n\nHow we went I could not guess, nor in what directions, nor even how\nlong. Ours was the only vehicle on the roads we darted along.\n\nWhen the dawn light was near enough for me to see Thwaite stopped the\ncar.\n\nHe turned to me.\n\n\u201cGet out!\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d I asked.\n\nHe shoved his pistol muzzle in my face.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve fifty thousand dollars in bank bills in your pockets,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cIt\u2019s a half a mile down that road to a railway station. Do you\nunderstand English? Get out!\u201d\n\nI got out.\n\nThe car shot forward into the morning fog and was gone.\n\n\n                                  IV\n\n\nHe was silent a long time.\n\n\u201cWhat did you do then?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cHeaded for New York,\u201d he said, \u201cand got on a drunk. When I came round\nI had barely eleven thousand dollars. I headed for Cook\u2019s office and\nbargained for a ten thousand dollar tour of the world, the most places\nand the longest time they\u2019d give for the money; the whole cost on them.\nI not to need a cent after I started.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat date was that?\u201d I asked.\n\nHe meditated and gave me some approximate indications rather rambling\nand roundabout.\n\n\u201cWhat did you do after you left Cook\u2019s?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cI put a hundred dollars in a savings bank,\u201d he said. \u201cBought a lot of\nclothes and things and started.\n\n\u201cI kept pretty sober all round the world because the only way to get\nfull was by being treated and I had no cash to treat back with.\n\n\u201cWhen I landed in New York I thought I was all right for life. But no\nsooner did I have my hundred and odd dollars in my pockets than I got\nfull again. I don\u2019t seem able to keep sober.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you sober now?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cSure,\u201d he asserted.\n\nHe seemed to shed his cosmopolitan vocabulary the moment he came back\nto everyday matters.\n\n\u201cLet\u2019s see you write what I tell you on this,\u201d I suggested, handing him\na fountain-pen and a torn envelope, turned inside out.\n\nWord by word after my dictation he wrote.\n\n\u201cUntil you hear from me again\nYours truly,\nNo Name.\u201d\n\nI took the paper from him and studied the handwriting.\n\n\u201cHow long were you on that spree?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cWhich?\u201d he twinkled.\n\n\u201cBefore you came to and had but eleven thousand dollars left,\u201d I\nexplained.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he said, \u201cI didn\u2019t know anything I had been doing.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can tell you one thing you did,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d he queried.\n\n\u201cYou put four packets, each of one hundred hundred-dollar bills, in a\nthin manila clasp-envelope, directed it to a New York lawyer and mailed\nthe envelope to him with no letter in it, only a half sheet of dirty\npaper with nothing on it except: \u2018Keep this for me until I ask for it,\u2019\nand the signature you have just written.\u201d\n\n\u201cHonest?\u201d he enunciated incredulously.\n\n\u201cFact!\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cThen you believe what I\u2019ve told you,\u201d he exclaimed joyfully.\n\n\u201cNot a bit I don\u2019t,\u201d I asseverated.\n\n\u201cHow\u2019s that?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cIf you were drunk enough,\u201d I explained, \u201cto risk forty thousand\ndollars in that crazy way, you were drunk enough to dream all the\ncomplicated nightmare you have spun out to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I did,\u201d he argued, \u201chow did I get the fifty thousand odd dollars?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m willing to suppose you got it with no more dishonesty on your\npart,\u201d I told him, \u201cthan if you had come by it as you described.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt makes me mad you won\u2019t believe me,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t,\u201d I finished.\n\nHe gloomed in silence.\n\nPresently he said:\n\n\u201cI can stand looking at him now,\u201d and led the way to the cage where\nthe big blue-nosed mandril chattered his inarticulate bestialities and\nscratched himself intermittently.\n\nHe stared at the brute.\n\n\u201cAnd you don\u2019t believe me?\u201d he regretted.\n\n\u201cNo, I don\u2019t,\u201d I repeated, \u201cand I\u2019m not going to. The thing\u2019s\nincredible.\u201d\n\n\u201cCouldn\u2019t there be a mongrel, a hybrid?\u201d he suggested.\n\n\u201cPut that out of your head,\u201d I told him, \u201cthe whole thing\u2019s incredible.\u201d\n\n\u201cSuppose she\u2019d seen a critter like this,\u201d he persisted, \u201cjust at the\nwrong time?\u201d\n\n\u201cBosh!\u201d I said. \u201cOld wives\u2019 tales! Superstition! Impossibility!\u201d\n\n\u201cHis head,\u201d he declared, \u201cwas just like that.\u201d He shuddered.\n\n\u201cSomebody put drops in some of your drink,\u201d I suggested. \u201cAnyhow, let\u2019s\ntalk about something else. Come and have lunch with me.\u201d\n\nOver the lunch I asked him:\n\n\u201cWhat city did you like best of all you saw?\u201d\n\n\u201cParis for mine,\u201d he grinned, \u201cParis forever.\u201d\n\n\u201cI tell you what I advise you to do,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d he asked, his eyes bright on mine.\n\n\u201cLet me buy you an annuity with your forty thousand,\u201d I explained, \u201can\nannuity payable in Paris. There\u2019s enough interest already to pay your\nway to Paris and leave you some cash till the first quarterly payment\ncomes due.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou wouldn\u2019t feel yourself defrauding the Eversleighs?\u201d he questioned.\n\n\u201cIf I\u2019m defrauding any people,\u201d I said, \u201cI don\u2019t know who they are.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow about the fire?\u201d he insisted. \u201cI\u2019ll bet you heard of it. Don\u2019t the\ndates agree?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe dates agree,\u201d I admitted. \u201cAnd the servants were all dismissed,\nthe remaining buildings and walls torn down and the place cut up and\nsold in portions just about as it would have been if your story were\ntrue.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere now!\u201d he ejaculated. \u201cYou do believe me!\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not!\u201d I insisted. \u201cAnd the proof is that I\u2019m ready to carry out\nmy annuity plan for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI agree,\u201d he said, and stood up from the lunch table.\n\n\u201cWhere are we going now?\u201d he inquired as we left the restaurant.\n\n\u201cJust you come with me,\u201d I told him, \u201cand ask no questions.\u201d\n\nI piloted him to the Museum of Arch\u00e6ology and led him circuitously to\nwhat I meant for an experiment on him. I dwelt on other subjects nearby\nand waited for him to see it himself.\n\nHe saw.\n\nHe grabbed me by the arm.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s him!\u201d he whispered. \u201cNot the size, but his very expression, in\nall his pictures.\u201d\n\nHe pointed to that magnificent, enigmatical black-diorite\ntwelfth-dynasty statue which represents neither Anubis nor Seth, but\nsome nameless cynocephalus god.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s him,\u201d he repeated. \u201cLook at the awful wisdom of him.\u201d\n\nI said nothing.\n\n\u201cAnd you brought me here!\u201d he cried. \u201cYou meant me to see this! You do\nbelieve!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I maintained. \u201cI do not believe.\u201d\n\n\n                                   V\n\n\nAfter I waved a farewell to him from the pier I never saw him again.\n\nWe had an extensive correspondence six months later when he wanted his\nannuity exchanged for a joint-life annuity for himself and his bride.\nI arranged it for him with less difficulty than I had anticipated. His\nletter of thanks, explaining that a French wife was so great an economy\nthat the shrinkage in his income was more than made up for, was the\nlast I heard from him.\n\nAs he died more than a year ago and his widow is already married, this\nstory can do him no harm. If the Eversleighs were defrauded they will\nnever feel it and my conscience, at least, gives me no twinges.\n\n                                                                   1909\n\n\n\n\n                             ALFANDEGA 49A\n\n\n\n\n                             ALFANDEGA 49A\n\n\n                                   I\n\n\nTHE Alders was the last place on earth where anyone would have expected\nto encounter an atmosphere of tragedy and gloom. The very air of the\nfarm seemed charged with the essence of cheerfulness and friendliness.\nThere appeared to be diffused about the homestead some subtle influence\npromoting sociability and cordiality.\n\nPerhaps it was merely that the Hibbards had miraculous luck in\nattracting only the right kind of boarders; possibly, they possessed\nan almost superhuman intuition which enabled them to avoid accepting\nany applicant likely to be uncongenial to the others, to themselves or\nto the place; maybe it was merely the personal effect of the Hibbards\nand of their welcome which seemed, in some magical fashion, to make\nall newcomers as much at home as if they had lived at the Alders from\nchildhood. Certainly all their boarders were mutually congenial.\n\nNever was summer-boarding-house so free from cliques, coteries,\njealousies, enmities, bickerings and squabbles. The children played\nall day long apparently, but never seemed noisy or quarrelsome. The\nold ladies knitted or crocheted, teetering everlastingly in their\nrocking-chairs on the veranda, beaming at each other and at the\nlandscape. The almost daily games of cards gave rise to scarcely\nany disputes. The folks at the Alders were very unlike an accidental\ngathering of summer boarders and much more resembled an unusually large\nand harmonious family.\n\nThis, I suppose, was due to the Hibbards\u2019 positive genius for managing\na boarding-house and to their genial disposition. Naturally, from their\ntemperament, they enjoyed it, they showed that they enjoyed it and they\nmade everybody feel that they enjoyed it, so that each boarder felt\nlike an invited guest.\n\nThe girls never seemed to have anything to do except to make everybody\nhave a good time. Yet they had a great deal to do. In the heydey of the\nAlders the four girls divided their duties systematically.\n\nSusie, the eldest, and the head of the house, rose early, oversaw\nthe getting of the breakfast, and superintended everything. After\ndinner she always took a long rest and nap. Then, after supper, she\nstayed up until the last boarder had come indoors and said goodnight,\nchiefly occupying herself with seeing to it that all together were\nenjoying themselves, and each separately. She did it very well too.\nIt was a sight to see her, the moment she was free from presiding at\nthe supper table, appear out on the lawn or on the piazza, or in the\nparlor, according to the weather. She was tall, plump and handsome,\nheld herself erect and had the art of making herself look well in\nvery inexpensive dresses, mostly of her own devising. She was always\nsmiling, her light brown hair haloing her face, her blue eyes shining.\nAs she came she swept one comprehensive glance over her guests,\nunerringly picked out that one, man or woman, lad or girl, child or\nbaby, which seemed enjoying life least, made for that particular\nindividual and wholeheartedly devoted herself to affording enjoyment.\nShe could afford it, too. She was jolly and had an infectious gaiety\nthat was irresistible. She talked well. She was a fair pianist and\na really splendid singer. She played, if need be, and sang, too,\nindefatigably. Never did a party of boarders have a more conscientious,\nmore solicitous or more tactful hostess.\n\nMattie, who was taller and stouter than Susie, with brown eyes looking\nout of a face generally expressionless, but sometimes lit by a\nsympathetic smile, habitually slept late and was abed early. But she\nbore valiantly the brunt of the long middle of the summer days, took\nupon herself all that pertained to personal dealings with the servants,\nengaged them, dismissed them if unsatisfactory, controlled them when\nrestive or cajoled them if dissatisfied, oversaw the getting of the\ndinner and supper, and made the desserts and ices. Among the boarders\nher chief activity was the foreseeing of incipient coolnesses and\nthe tactful dissipation of any small cloud on the social atmosphere.\nIt was chiefly due to her that no germ of antipathy ever developed,\nat the Alders, into dislike, that no seed of aversion, ever, in that\natmosphere, ripened into enmity. She did her part so cleverly that\nfew of the boarders realized that she ever did anything at all, or\nsuspected that she had any social influence.\n\nThe two younger sisters superintended the sweeping, dusting,\nbed-making, lamp-cleaning and all the other details contributing to the\ncomfort of the boarders outside of the dining-room. Also Anna made the\nalways abundant and miraculously appetizing cakes in great variety.\n\nThe Alders was always full to its capacity, which meant thirty in the\nhouse and any number of boys up to nine in one of the outbuildings, a\none-story stone cottage which had once been part of the slave quarters.\nIn it were two double-beds, three canvas cots and at least seven boys;\nincreased to eleven, sometimes, by casual transient guests of the\nboyboarders.\n\nThe three boys of the family lived out there in summer with the\nboarders and visitors and kept them in a perpetual good humor.\n\nThe Hibbards had learnt this not by precept, but by example. They had\ngrown up to it with their growth. For Susie had been a small girl, Buck\na small boy and the rest little children when their widowed mother had\nbegun to take boarders. They had learned much of her art, unconsciously\nand without knowing that they were learning it.\n\nShe was dead and gone before I first knew the Alders. But her spirit\nstill informed the life of the place. She must have been a real lady,\nevery fiber and breath of her, and she must have been a level-headed,\npractical woman. They quoted some of her aphorisms.\n\n\u201cYou cannot make money on twenty-one really good meals a week when you\nonly charge six dollars board,\u201d she was reputed to have said. \u201cSee\nthat everything is eatable and every meal abundant and give them fried\nchicken and ice-cream, all they can eat, on Sundays and Thursdays, and\nthey\u2019ll always be enthusiastic about the table.\u201d\n\n\u201cPeople can have a good time only in their own way. Find out what they\nlike to do and encourage them to do it, if it is not wrong. That is the\nonly way to please anybody.\u201d\n\n\u201cEither don\u2019t take boarders at all or make them feel as welcome as\ncousins.\u201d\n\n\u201cLeave out what you can\u2019t afford altogether. People never miss what no\none has and no one can see. But never skimp anything you have. It is\neconomy to offer everyone a third helping of everything.\u201d\n\n\u201cSeason the food with good nature.\u201d\n\n\u201cBe easy-going about everything.\u201d\n\nThey were easy-going about everything. I\u2019ve seen Susie tired to death,\nbut gaily hiding it under an exterior of spontaneous vivacity, come\nback into the big parlor at eleven o\u2019clock Saturday night with two\nhandfuls of cornmeal to scatter on the floor to make it more slippery\nfor dancing. And she did it graciously. They all did such things, and\ndid them instinctively.\n\nThey had the faculty of foreseeing when any amusement was palling on\nthe participants and of starting something else before the boarders had\ntime to find out that they were getting tired of what they were doing.\nThey could always lead their guests into anything they began. On Sunday\nnights Susie sat at the piano and the rest stood around her and they\nall sang hymns in which all the singers on the farm invariably joined.\nTwo or three nights a week they gathered similarly and sang college\nsongs or popular tunes. Nearly every weekday evening they danced and of\ncourse the guests danced too. Then there was Jack Palton, who foraged\namong Uncle Hibbard\u2019s guitars, found one with four strings left, tuned\nit like a banjo, and accompanied himself and a bevy of girls in singing\nglees. Mostly the boarders were too lazy to play tennis and most of the\nHibbards were too easy-going to see that the court was kept in order,\nbut nobody missed it. If they played tennis they suited themselves to\nthe court as it was.\n\nThe Alders was an easy-going place, full of merriment, of gaiety, of\ndiversion, of singing and dancing, of lovemaking and flirtations.\n\nEspecially of flirtations.\n\nThat was where the three boys came in strong.\n\nInevitably the boarders at the Alders were mostly women and young\nwomen. Before they were half grown the three boys learned to act as\nbeaux for little girls, misses, hoydens, old-maids and grass-widows.\nThey had learned how without knowing it, without knowing it they made\nan art of it. They did their best, quite spontaneously, to see to it\nthat every unmated feminine creature at the Alders had a good time.\n\nIncidentally they had a good time, for attractive girls were always\npresent in abundance.\n\nThe result was as good as a comedy to watch.\n\nWhenever a pretty girl, without a gallant in attendance, came to the\nAlders, she was promptly annexed by the second brother, who had been\nchristened Ernest Paca Hibbard and was always known, spoken of and\naddressed as \u201cPake.\u201d\n\nPake was neither tall nor short. He was broad and thick. Also he was\nfat, not too fat, but pleasantly fat. He had a bullet head, a short\nneck and a round ruddy face. Withal he was good looking. He affected\nbright hat-bands on his new stylish straw hats; bright effective\nneck-ties, tan shoes, white duck trousers and blue coats. He looked\nattractive, felt attractive and was attractive. Nearly every newcomer\nliked Pake and, if he liked her, she was within three days spoken of as\n\u201cPake\u2019s girl.\u201d\n\nHe was a born flirt, could have flirted if he had been walking in his\nsleep, and he flirted well. Few girls could resist the charm of his\nfrank and ingenuous overtures or the sparkle of his brown eyes.\n\nThen after Pake had annexed the girl, Buck would look her over. He\nwas in no hurry. He was tall, heavily built though spare, had a\ngood-natured countenance, in which blue eyes looked out of a tanned\nface, and wore clothes which neither he nor anyone else ever noticed.\n\nIf Buck liked a girl well enough he took her away from Pake. Nobody\ncould ever describe or specify how he did it; but he did it. Buck\u2019s\nadvances threw Pake completely into the shade.\n\nBuck was the head of the family, ran the farm, gave orders to the\ntenant-farmer, directed the selection of the calf that was to be\nslaughtered every two weeks and of the two lambs killed each week,\ntalked fascinatingly of pigs and crops, had to ask no one but himself\nwhen he wanted a horse hitched up to take a girl out driving, and was\ngenerally jovial and delightful.\n\nThe girls he liked always liked him better than Pake. He had more\nconversation and never bored anybody.\n\nThen after Pake had transferred his attentions to some newcomer and\nBuck and his girl were together during all Buck\u2019s leisure as naturally\nas cup and saucer, Rex would look her over deliberately. He was even\nless in a hurry than Buck.\n\nRex was slight and silent, with a melancholy air and melting\nyellow-brown eyes. He was, to the few girls he fancied, altogether\nirresistible. Therein lay his fault. Rex took flirtation too\nseriously. It was likely to slip into love making, which is not sound\nboarding-house ethics.\n\nBut Rex never caused any trouble or got into any trouble. If things\nlooked serious to the gossips or the family, they never felt serious to\nRex or the girl.\n\nSuch was the Alders in its prime, which lasted some few years, during\nwhich I was a resident there, first in the \u201cClub,\u201d as the boys called\ntheir white-washed stone cottage, later in the house itself. I was\nhappy those four summers, and became almost an honorary member of the\nfamily. The honorary members of the Hibbard family were numerous. The\nAlders had entertained nearly two hundred individual boarders a year\nfor fifteen years. At least one in ten of them felt like an honorary\nmember of the family. Many of those who came there for a second summer\nwere treated as honorary members of the family, and I had spent four\nsummers at the Alders.\n\nSo I was treated quite as an honorary member of the family and enjoyed\nit.\n\nThe family, in fact, was the best feature of life at the Alders. Seldom\ncould one encounter seven brothers and sisters so loving to each other,\nso devoted. They had no motto, but they behaved as if their motto\nwere \u201call for one, one for all.\u201d A pleasant feature of each day was\nthe sight of their habitual morning gathering, all to themselves, on\nthe small side porch. There they would sit for half an hour or more,\nholding a sort of family council on the problems of that day. They\nwere a most united family, solicitous about each other, perpetually\ninterested in each other\u2019s welfare.\n\n\n                                  II\n\n\nThe Alders changed like everything else. Susie married and lived\nin Baltimore, Anna married and lived in Washington. Pake went to\nPittsburgh. Rex married a widow with two children and settled in\nChicago. Buck was away from home a good deal. Mattie married a man who\ndid not make the family feel enthusiastic. The Alders continued full of\nboarders, all in the care of Leslie, the youngest sister, whom I had\nlast seen as a shy girl.\n\nFor I had not visited the Alders for a dozen years, and in that time\nhad scarcely seen any of the family except Pake, jolly old Pake, a\nprosperous bachelor, as much of a flirt as ever, even more of a flirt\nthan in his youth; a short, florid, jovial man, young-looking and\nhandsome, who made love to every new girl he met as naturally as he\nbreathed.\n\nThen, one afternoon early in July, I encountered Rex on the platform\nof a railroad station, just as we were about to take trains leaving in\nopposite directions. He glowed over conditions at the Alders, averred\nthat Leslie ran the place as well as ever all four sisters together\nhad, that it was always full, that it was as delightful as ever.\n\nWithin a week I encountered Susie and her two tall girls in the waiting\nroom of Union Station. They were off to the Alders for the summer and\nSusie invited me up over any Sunday I chose.\n\nAs with Rex, so also the time I had with Susie was too short for me to\nask a tenth of the questions I wanted to ask or for her to tell me a\ntenth of what she had to tell.\n\nThe first Saturday I could get off early I ran up to the Alders. Buck\nmet me at Jonesville station, a little more bronzed than I had last\nseen him, otherwise the same youthful-looking giant.\n\nThe house, of course, was the same tile-roofed brick house, big and\nplain, neat under a new coat of bright lemon-yellow paint. The barns\nwere the same weathered gray, unpainted, ramshackle barns I remembered,\nnot a bit more decayed nor less dilapidated than a dozen years before.\nThe grove behind the barn was unaltered, not a tree gone as far as I\ncould judge, and all its big oaks, tulip-poplars and hickories rustling\ndelightfully. The outbuildings near the house were as of old and the\nbrook, just as of yore, not fifty feet from the front porch, rippled\nacross the lawn between its rows of alders. The ailanthus trees west of\nthe house and the locust tree by the well seemed exactly as formerly.\nThey were so big they did not show their growth. But the catalpa by\nthe bridge over the brook had taken on a new lease of life and was\nflourishing, whereas the lombardy poplars across the brook were gone.\nThe chief change was in the maples. In my time they had been young\ntrees, with trunks too slender to support a hammock rope without\nbending when anyone sat in the hammock. Now they were large trees,\nshading the entire front yard from the brook to the porch with an\nalmost continuous canopy of green.\n\nThe place was full of boarders and their children, though the family\nthemselves took up a larger part of the house than of old. Susie was\nthere with her two girls, Anna with her two manly boys and Rex and\nhis wife and his two step-children. Leslie had grown into an entirely\nadequate housekeeper and hostess and presided admirably. As of yore,\nthe homestead tinkled with banjo music and rang with laughter.\n\nMattie, of course, was not at the house, as she and her husband lived\na quarter of a mile down the road on the farm that had been Aunt\nCynthia\u2019s. Everything and everybody was as I expected except that I\nmissed Pake.\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s Pake?\u201d I queried.\n\n\u201cPake!\u201d Susie exclaimed. \u201cDidn\u2019t you know Pake was in Rio de Janeiro?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d I answered; \u201cwhy, I saw Pake on Washington\u2019s birthday and he said\nnothing about going abroad.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe went in March,\u201d Susie rejoined; \u201clate in March, I think. He likes\nit down there.\u201d\n\nSomebody interrupted and we did not mention Pake again until after\nsupper. Then we were all out on the long front porch, grouped about\nSusie. Buck and Tom Brundige and I, scattered among the ladies, had our\ncigars drawing well. Rex, as always, was smoking one cigarette after\nanother. A V. M. I. cadet, a crony of one of Anna\u2019s boys, was seated on\none rail of the rustic bridge over the brook, twanging a banjo at three\ngirls who sat on the other rail facing him. In the lulls of our talk\nand of the banjo, the chuckle of the brook over its pebbles emphasized\nthe silence, into which broke the undertones of a pair of lovers,\nswinging in a hammock off to the right. The stars twinkled through the\ntree-tops, the cigar ends glowed red in the darkness, which was cloven\nby shafts of lamplight from the windows and mitigated afar to the left\nwhere, over the long black outline of the Blue Ridge a paling sky\nprophesied moonrise.\n\nSomebody had been expecting a letter and had been disappointed and was\nmourning over it.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t understand about letters from Pake,\u201d Susie remarked.\n\u201cSometimes we don\u2019t get any letters for weeks, and then we get two or\nthree, all at once. When we compare dates and postmarks we find that he\nwrites every Wednesday and Saturday and mails the letters the very day\nthey are written. How do you explain that, Billy?\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose,\u201d I said, \u201cthat the letters come different ways, perhaps\nsome by Lisbon, some by London, others perhaps other ways. That might\nexplain it. What do you think, Tom?\u201d\n\n\u201cI fancy,\u201d said Brundige, \u201cthat you are probably right.\u201d\n\n\u201cI had a letter from Pake to-day,\u201d Susie went on. \u201cI had not heard from\nhim for a month. He says he don\u2019t like his business quarters. He has an\nexpensive office and he says it is dark and hot and stuffy and he is\ngoing to change just as soon as he can find something to suit him. He\nsays he is looking round. But he says he is most comfortably located\notherwise. He is boarding, as he expresses it, \u2018up on Santa Teresa\u2019;\nwhat does that mean, Billy?\u201d\n\n\u201cBig, long hill,\u201d I replied. \u201cFour hundred feet high. Splendid view\nover the city and harbor. Fine air all night. Lots of places to board\nup there, and all good. How\u2019s that now, Tom?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll correct,\u201d Brundige corroborated me.\n\n\u201cI should think,\u201d Rex put in, \u201cthat Pake would get into trouble down\nthere.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat sort of trouble?\u201d Anna demanded. \u201cPake never gets into trouble\nanywhere. What sort of trouble do you mean?\u201d\n\nRex lit another cigarette.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d he said, \u201cI meant that down there those Dago Portuguese won\u2019t\nstand any nonsense. They\u2019re a revengeful lot, by what I hear. Pake\nmight cut somebody out with a girl and get a knife stuck in him.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re teasing!\u201d cried Anna, indignantly. \u201cYou\u2019re always up to some\nteasing! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.\u201d\n\nAnd Susie rebuked him:\n\n\u201cYou oughtn\u2019t to suggest such awful things, Rex.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I wasn\u2019t suggesting anything awful,\u201d Rex persisted, \u201cand I wasn\u2019t\nteasing. I only meant Pake would be likely to cause some heartburnings\ndown there. Pake\u2019s bound to be the same old Pake. He can\u2019t change all\nof a sudden. He\u2019s certain to have half a dozen girls thinking they have\nhim on a string before he was there a week. Before he was there a month\nhe had more than one girl on a string. Somebody\u2019s bound to be jealous.\nThose Dagoes are a hot-blooded lot.\u201d\n\n\u201cPooh!\u201d Buck cut in, \u201cPake don\u2019t know enough Portuguese to flirt\nwith any natives and all the Americans and English down there will\nunderstand flirting.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with some Dago being in love with an English girl or\nan American girl?\u201d Rex persevered; \u201cPake might cut one out with a girl\nthat speaks English.\u201d\n\nI saw that both Susie, who was naturally nervous, and Anna, who had\nbeen inseparable from Pake all through their childhood, were wrought\nup. I tried to intervene.\n\n\u201cNonsense,\u201d I said, \u201cPake might cut out any number of gallants and\nnever get into any trouble. Rio is as peaceable as Baltimore. To begin\nwith, he can\u2019t flirt with any Brazilian girls, for no Brazilian girl is\never permitted to talk to a young man. Anybody going along the streets\ncan see the fashionable Brazilians making love according to their\ncustom. Toward sunset, when the heat is less fierce, the girls, all\ndressed up, lean out of the windows of the second floor drawing rooms.\nTheir lovers stand on the other side of the street and look at them. A\nyoung man will stand that way two hours or more every afternoon for a\nyear before he asks her father for a girl. That\u2019s the fashion. How is\nit now, Tom?\u201d\n\n\u201cSame way now.\u201d Brundige corroborated me. \u201cLots of flirtation among\nthe foreign set, though. But no danger of daggers or revenge. Rio is\nas peaceable as Washington. I never heard of any case of revenge or of\njealousy leading to bloodshed. Never heard of a supposed case, except\nonce.\u201d\n\nHis tone told us all there was a story coming. He was sitting next to\nSusie and we all hitched our chairs nearer.\n\n\u201cWhat was that, Tom?\u201d Buck asked.\n\nThe women all looked towards Brundige. Rex lit another cigarette. The\nrest of us lit fresh cigars.\n\n\u201cIt was a fellow named Orodoff Guimaraes,\u201d Brundige began. \u201cGuimaraes,\nin Portuguese, is like Smith in English, only more so. It seems\nas if half the Fluminenses, as they call the people of Rio, are\nnamed Guimaraes. This Orodoff Guimaraes was a cousin and namesake\nof a wealthy and respected wine-merchant and rather traded on the\nrelationship and identity of the name. He was one of those dandies who\nswarm in all South American cities, young men with little or no income,\na great sense of their own importance, a taste for expensive pleasures,\na love of ease and comfort, ungovernable passions, and an insane\ndevotion to the latest fashion in clothes.\n\n\u201cMost of such idlers have no income and are too proud to have any\nbusiness. This Orodoff Guimaraes was better off in both respects. He\ninherited a small property in real estate, and he made some money in\nlife insurance. He had a desk in a third floor office in a building he\nowned, 49A Rua de Alfandega, one of the principal business streets of\nthe old down-town part of Rio. He rented the first and second floors\nof the building at good rentals, and he rented desk-room on the third\nfloor; all the back office and all the front office except his own\nsmall desk.\n\n\u201cHe used to spend the most of his mornings at that desk, idling. He\nsometimes had business that took him out, sometimes he pretended he\nhad. But mostly he just sat at his desk, reading papers, smoking\ncigarettes or doing nothing at all. It was a pleasant place to do\nnothing in, a big room, nearly thirty feet wide, more than thirty feet\nlong, with a high ceiling and three tall French windows down to the\nfloor, all three always open. They faced south, so that they needed no\nawnings and they let in no glare and plenty of breeze. The office was\nlight, but not too light, cool and airy, an ideal loafing place.\n\n\u201cWhen he was not loafing in his office Guimaraes was always making love\nto some girl or going through the motions of making love. No girl would\nhave him, for no girl\u2019s father would let her marry him; he was not well\nenough off to marry, though he managed to dress well as a bachelor.\nSo girl after girl whom he made love to married some one else, or got\nengaged to some one else. Three of them got engaged, but never got\nmarried. Their bridegrooms died before the wedding day.\n\n\u201cIn each case Guimaraes made friends with his rival, got quite chummy\nwith him, and induced him to rent a desk in his office. In each case\nthe rival was killed by falling out of one of the French windows of\nthe office, forty odd feet to the pavement of the Rue de Alfandega.\nIn each case it was an accident. In each case Orodoff Guimaraes was\nout of his office when the accident happened. But while no one could\nsay a word against Guimaraes, after the third accident no Fluminense\nwho had been exposed in any way to Orodoff Guimaraes\u2019 real or apparent\nrivalry for any girl could be induced to rent desk room in his office.\nThe deaths could not be imputed to him, but the coincidence of the\nrivalry, the friendship, the renting of a desk and the fall from the\nwindow, in three different cases, was more than even the slow-thinking\nfashionable Fluminenses could stand. It got on their nerves. If he\nhadn\u2019t committed three murders out of revenge, it seemed as if he had.\nOf course, he couldn\u2019t have hypnotized the victims when he was half a\nmile away and made them throw themselves out of the window or caused\nthem to walk out of the window, but somehow everybody felt as if that\nwas just about what he had done.\n\n\u201cAnd each case was spooky, too. In each case the victim\u2019s desk was\nclose to one of the windows; in each case Orodoff Guimaraes was out,\nbut there were two other men, renters of desk-room, at desks further\nback in the office; in each case the other men, seated at their desks\ntwenty feet and more away, had been talking across the room to the\nvictim; in each case the other men, different men each time, had turned\nround to look at something on their desks, had heard no sound, no\nmovement, no cry, but when they looked round again found themselves\nalone in the room, and, going to the window, saw the victim crushed on\nthe pavement below.\u201d\n\nHe stopped.\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t they have a railing or a balustrade across the open window?\u201d\nRex inquired.\n\n\u201cCustom,\u201d Brundige rejoined. \u201cCustom rules everything down there;\ncustom rules everything all over South America. In Rio all upstairs\noffices have French windows down to the floor. It\u2019s a hot climate and\nno window has a rail or even a bar across it. To have unobstructed\nwindows is the custom.\u201d\n\n\u201cFool custom!\u201d said Buck.\n\nJust then Leslie came out and joined us. She had been attending to her\nhousehold duties, or giving orders about breakfast, or entertaining a\nboarder or something like that.\n\nAfter she was settled next to Rex she said:\n\n\u201cI had a letter from Pake this morning. He says there are some fine\ngirls down there in Rio. Says he has had no end of fun with them. He\nmust have been in a good humor when he wrote that letter. It\u2019s a long\nletter and very funny. He tells how he pretended to make love to a\ngirl, just to annoy a fool of a dude who was always making eyes at her,\nhow at first the dude was mad, how he saw the joke and behaved real\nsensibly. Pake says they got to be real good friends. He tells it all\nvery well. I\u2019ll read it to you to-morrow.\u201d\n\nLeslie was bubbling with merriment, as unconscious as possible and very\ngirlish. But about the rest of us the atmosphere seemed to tingle. I\ncould feel, as it were, the spiritual tension. Buck asked, thickly:\n\n\u201cDid he tell you the fellow\u2019s name?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Leslie cheerfully. \u201cHe never mentioned his name. But he says\nthey are real good friends.\u201d\n\nJust then the banjo party on the little bridge stood up. We heard\ncheerful greetings and recognized Mattie\u2019s voice. She had strolled over\non foot, her home being a very short distance down the road.\n\nShe came up on the porch, a big, solid matronly young woman. I caught\na glimpse of her plump face as the lamplight through the open doorway\nstruck on her, her brown eyes smiling merrily.\n\nBuck sat down on the porch floor, his feet on the steps, his back\nagainst a pillar. Mattie took his chair. She also took charge and\ncontrol of the conversation.\n\n\u201cAlf drove to Hagerstown right after supper,\u201d she said. \u201cHe ought to be\nback soon. I told him I was coming over here and he\u2019ll come right here\nwhen he comes out.\u201d\n\nThis was in answer to my query.\n\n\u201cI had a letter from Pake this morning,\u201d she went on. \u201cHe says he\u2019s\ngot a new office that suits him perfectly. He says he didn\u2019t need as\nmuch room as he had, so he\u2019s taken desk room only in the office of a\nfriend of his, some kind of Brazilian name, I couldn\u2019t spell and can\u2019t\npronounce it. He says it\u2019s a dandy place on the third floor, big, high\nroom, plenty of floor space to move about in and nice fellows at the\nother desks. It\u2019s bright and cool and airy, three big French windows\nopen down to the floor.\u201d\n\nThen, quite suddenly, as she paused, I felt the Alders enveloped in an\natmosphere of tragedy and gloom. The Hibbards excelled in self-control;\nnot one of them uttered a sound. There was a long silence. I could hear\nthe ripple of the brook. The first rays of the late moon, just clearing\nthe top of the Blue Ridge, struck through the maples.\n\nAnna spoke first:\n\n\u201cHave you that letter with you, Mattie?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d Mattie replied cheerfully. \u201cI brought it along.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive it to me,\u201d Anna said; \u201cBilly and I will try to make out that\nname.\u201d\n\n\u201cBilly can do it, I\u2019ll bet,\u201d spoke Mattie brightly.\n\nAnna, the letter in her hand, stood up.\n\n\u201cCome on, Billy,\u201d she said.\n\nI went.\n\nI was surprised at her asking me instead of Brundige. I had never been\nintimate with Anna. Susie I had known well and Mattie better, but\nLeslie, in the old days, had merely smiled and seldom spoken, so that\nI could not tell whether she liked me or not, while Anna had seemed to\navoid me.\n\nI should have expected her to call Brundige, for Tom had been in Rio\nlonger than I, and much more recently.\n\nShe stood by the refrigerator in the back hall by the side door and\nleaned against it, her brown hair almost golden against the lamp that\nstood on the refrigerator.\n\n\u201cI daren\u2019t look at the letter,\u201d she said. \u201cYou read it, Billy.\u201d\n\nI found the name and it was Orodoff Guimaraes. Also, at the end of the\nletter he told Mattie to write to him at his office address, Rua de\nAlfandega, 49A.\n\n\u201cCome!\u201d said Anna, in a fierce whisper.\n\nI followed her through the side door and out into the tepid windless\nmoonlight.\n\nShe made for the barn.\n\nThe atmosphere of gloom and tragedy deepened about us. The moonlight\nseemed weird and ghastly, the shadows of the trees grim and menacing,\nthe silence like that of a graveyard.\n\nAnna leaned against the barnyard gate.\n\n\u201cCould I send a cablegram to Rio de Janeiro for thirty dollars?\u201d she\nqueried.\n\n\u201cA long one for less,\u201d I said. \u201cWhen I was down there the rates were\nsixty-five cents a word. That\u2019s many years ago. The rates can\u2019t be\nover half that now. You could cable a letter for thirty dollars.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have three ten-dollar bills,\u201d she said. \u201cBarton gave them to me for\nemergencies just before I left Washington.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have more than that in my pocket,\u201d I said. \u201cBetween us we are sure\nto have more than enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you suppose,\u201d she asked, \u201cthat I could send a cable from Jonesville\nthis late Saturday night?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe might try,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cIf we can\u2019t,\u201d she pressed me, \u201cwill you drive into Hagerstown with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d I promised.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d she said, \u201cI can\u2019t bear it. I can see him lying dead on those\ncruel paving stones. I can\u2019t bear it.\u201d\n\nI remembered that, just as Rex and Leslie had been inseparable all\nthrough their childhood, so Anna and Pake had been comrades from the\ncradle on. I said nothing.\n\n\u201cCan you hitch up without the lantern?\u201d she demanded.\n\n\u201cHas the stable been altered?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cNot a bit,\u201d she said.\n\nIn fact my hand in the dark found in the same places what might have\nbeen the same hickory harness-pegs and on them what seemed like the\nsame old sets of harness.\n\n\u201cWhich stall?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cLaddie\u2019s old stall,\u201d she directed me; \u201ccall her Nell.\u201d\n\nI harnessed the mare and led her out to the carriage shed. Anna climbed\ninto the buggy. I opened the gate into the grove and closed it after\nshe had driven through. At the far end of the grove I got out of the\nbuggy again and let down the bars. After I had put them up and was at\nlast in the buggy she handed the reins to me.\n\n\u201cNell can trot,\u201d she said.\n\nNell trotted, the snaky black shadows lay inky dark across the road.\nWe tore past Grotto station. We neared Jonesville. I had no sense of\nineptitude or futility in what we were trying to do. I did not feel I\nwas on a wild goose chase. I did not feel absurd. I took our errand\nmost seriously. We were on our way to warn Pake against the devilish\nmachinations of a fiend who had contrived and compassed three ingenious\nmurders. We were racing against time to warn him before it was too\nlate. I was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement over the\ngravity and urgency of our mission.\n\nWe found the telegraph operator still awake. We persuaded him to do as\nwe asked. Anna wrote and I amended till we agreed on:\n\n \u201cChange your office immediately. Do not enter it again on any account.\n Get another office at once. Act instantly; this is a matter of life\n and death. Explanations by letter.\n\n                                                                \u201cANNA.\u201d\n\nWhen the cablegram was sent off we drove homeward, at Nell\u2019s natural\npace, which was not slow.\n\nWe felt only partly relieved.\n\nA dozen times Anna sighed:\n\n\u201cI hope we were in time; oh, I hope we were in time!\u201d\n\nThe atmosphere of gloom and tragedy pursued us as we returned,\nenveloped the Alders when again we were seated on the porch.\n\nHardly were we seated when Mattie\u2019s husband came. I had heard he had\nbeen consumptive, but had recovered completely. He looked to me like a\ndying man; haggard, gray-cheeked, sunken-eyed, trembling. He greeted\npeople like a sleep-walker.\n\nAs soon as greetings were over he said:\n\n\u201cBuck, I want to talk business to you a moment.\u201d\n\nBuck stood up. He had the Hibbard faculty of intuition and\nunexpectedness. I was used to both, of old. But I was very much\nastonished when he pinched me as he passed and indicated that I was to\ncome, too.\n\nIn the back hall by the refrigerator Alf looked up at Buck like a\nhunted animal at bay.\n\n\u201cMy God, Buck,\u201d he said. \u201cHow\u2019ll we ever break it to the girls?\u201d\n\n\u201cBreak what?\u201d Buck queried, his voice dry and thin.\n\n\u201cThere was a cablegram for you at Hagerstown,\u201d Alf replied. \u201cBeesore\nhad sense enough not to telephone it out here. He saw me and gave it to\nme. Pake\u2019s dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet\u2019s look at the cablegram,\u201d Buck said thickly.\n\nHe looked, holding it closely to the kerosene lamp on the refrigerator.\n\nThen he handed it to me.\n\nI read:\n\n \u201cE. P. Hibbard instantly killed by a fall from a window.\n\n                                                         \u201cG. SWANWICK.\u201d\n\n                                                                   1913\n\n\n\n\n                       THE MESSAGE ON THE SLATE\n\n\n\n\n                       THE MESSAGE ON THE SLATE\n\n\nMRS. LLEWELLYN had always held--in so far as she ever thought about\nthe subject at all--that to consult a clairvoyant was not merely an\nimbecile folly, but a degrading action, nearly akin to crime. Now that\nshe felt herself over-masteringly driven to such an unconscionable\nunworthiness she could not bring herself to do it openly. Anything\nunderhand or secretive was utterly alien to her nature. She was a\ntall woman, notably well shaped, with unusual dignity of demeanor.\nThe poise of her head would have appeared haughty but for the winning\nkindliness of her frequent smile. Her dark hair, dark eyes and very\nwhite skin accorded well with that abiding calm of her bearing\nwhich never seemed mere placidity in a face habitually lighted with\ninterested comprehension. Like a cloudless springtime sunrise over\nlimitless expanses of dewy prairies, she was enveloped in an atmosphere\nof spacious serenity of soul, and her appearance was entirely in\nconsonance with her character. She was still a very beautiful woman,\nhigh-souled as she was beautiful and exceedingly straight-forward.\nYet to drive in open day to a house bearing the displayed sign of a\nspirit-medium was more than she could do. Bidding her footman call for\nher later, much later, at her hairdresser\u2019s, she dismissed her carriage\nat the main entrance of a department store. Leaving it by another\nentrance, she took a street car for the neighborhood she sought. The\nneighborhood was altogether different from what she had anticipated;\nthe houses, by no means small, were even handsome; not least handsome\nthat of the clairvoyant. And it was very well kept, the pavement and\nthe steps clean, the plate glass window panes bright, the shades and\ncurtains new and tasteful, the silver doorknobs and door-bell fresh\npolished. There was a sign, indeed, but not the flaming horror her\nimagination had constructed from memories of signs seen in passing.\nThis was a bit of glass set inside the big, bright pane of one of\nthe parlor windows. It bore in small gold letters only the name,\nSALATHIEL VARGAS, and the word, CLAIRVOYANT.\n\nA neat maid opened the door. Yes, Mr. Vargas was in; would she walk\ninto the waiting room? The untenanted waiting room was a dignified\nparlor, furnished in the costliest way, but with a restraint as far as\npossible from ostentation. The rug was Persian, each piece of furniture\ndifferent in design from any other, yet all harmonizing, while the ten\npictures were paintings by well-known artists. Before Mrs. Llewellyn\nhad time for more than one comprehensive and surprised glance about,\nwhen she had barely seated herself, the retreating maid struck two\nsharp notes on a silvery gong. Almost immediately the door leading to\nthe rear room was opened. In it appeared a man under five feet tall,\nnot dwarfish, but deformed. His patent-leather shoes were boyish, his\ntrousers hung limp about legs shriveled to mere skeletal stems, and his\nleft knee was bent and fixed at an unchanging angle, so that his step\nwas a painful hobble. Above the waist he was well made; a deep chest;\nbroad, square shoulders; a huge head with a vast shock of black, curly\nhair. He had the look of a musician or artist; with a wide forehead;\ndelicately curved eyebrows; nose hooked, sharp and assertive; eyes,\nwide apart, large, dark brown with sparkles of red and green; and a\nmouth whose curled upper lip was almost too short. The mouth and eyes\nheld Mrs. Llewellyn at first glance, and the instant change in them\nstartled her. He had appeared with a suave mechanical smile, with a\nlook of easy expectancy. As his gaze met hers his lips set and their\nredness dulled; his eyes were full of so poignant a dismay that she\nwould not have been surprised had he abruptly retreated and slammed the\ndoor between them. Without a word he clung to the knob, staring at her.\nThen he drew the door to after him and leaned against it, still holding\nto the knob with one hand behind his back. When he spoke it was in a\ndry whisper.\n\n\u201cYou here, of all women!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know me!\u201d she exclaimed; \u201cI have never seen you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are seen of many thousands you never note,\u201d he replied. \u201cEveryone\nknows Mrs. David Llewellyn. Everyone knew Constance Palgrave.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou flatter me,\u201d she said coldly, with the air of one resenting an\nunwelcome familiarity.\n\n\u201cFlattery is part of my trade,\u201d he replied. \u201cBut I do not flatter you.\nSo little that I have forgotten my manners. I should have asked you to\nstep into my consulting room. Pray, enter it.\u201d\n\nShe passed him as he held the door open for her. The inner room was\nnot less seemly than the outer. Except for three doors and one\nbroad window looking out on an area, it was walled with bookcases\nsome eight feet high, broken only where there were set into them two\nsmall cabinets with drawers below. The glass doors of the bookcases\nwere of small panes, and the books within were in exquisite bindings.\nTopping the cases were several splendid bronze busts. The furniture\nwas completed by a round mahogany center-table, several small chairs\nand three tapestried armchairs. When Mrs. Llewellyn had seated herself\nin one the clairvoyant took another. His agitation was so extreme that\nhad she been capable of fear it would almost have frightened her; her\ncuriosity it greatly piqued. He was as pale as a swarthy man can be,\nhis lips bloodless and twitching, dry and moistening themselves one\nagainst the other as he mechanically swallowed in his nervousness. She\nherself was perturbed in soul, but an eye less practised than his would\nhave discerned no signs of emotion beneath her easy exterior. They\nfaced each other in silence for some breaths; then he spoke:\n\n\u201cFor what purpose have you come here?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo consult you,\u201d she answered. \u201cIs it astonishing? Do not all sorts of\npersons come to consult you?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll sorts,\u201d he replied. \u201cBut none such as you. Never any such as you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have come, it seems,\u201d she said simply, \u201cand to consult you.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn what way do you mean to consult me?\u201d he queried. \u201cPeople consult me\nin various ways.\u201d\n\n\u201cI had in mind,\u201d she said, \u201cthe answers you give by writing on the\ninside of a shut slate.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have come to the wrong man,\u201d he said harshly, with an obvious\neffort that made his voice unnatural. \u201cGo elsewhere,\u201d and he rose.\n\nShe gazed at him in astonishment without moving.\n\n\u201cWhy do you say that?\u201d she demanded.\n\nHe opened each of the three doors, looked outside and then made sure\nthat each was latched. He looked out of the window, glancing at each of\nthe other windows visible from it. He hobbled once or twice up and down\nthe room, mopping his forehead and face with his handkerchief; then he\nseated himself again.\n\n\u201cMrs. Llewellyn,\u201d he said, \u201cI must request your promise of entire and\npermanent secrecy for what I am about to tell you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnyone would suppose,\u201d she said, \u201cthat you were the client and I the\nclairvoyant.\u201d\n\n\u201cAcknowledging that,\u201d he replied. \u201cLet it pass, I beg of you. I have\ntold you that you have come to the wrong man. I bade you go elsewhere.\nYou ask for an explanation. I have fortified myself to give it to you.\nBut I must have your pledge of silence if you desire an explanation.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do desire it and you have my promise.\u201d\n\nHe looked around the room with the movement of a rat in a cage. His\neyes met hers, but shifted uneasily, and his shamefaced gaze fell to\nthe floor. His hands clutched each other upon his lame knee.\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he said, \u201cI tell you to go elsewhere because I am a\ncharlatan, an impostor. My trances are mere pretense, the method of my\nreplies a farcical mummery, the answers transparent concoctions from\nthe hints I extract from my dupes.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou say this to try me,\u201d she cried; \u201cyou are subjecting me to some\nsort of test.\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he said, \u201clook at me. Am I like a man playing a part? Do I\nnot look in earnest?\u201d\n\nShe regarded him, convinced.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d she wondered. \u201cWhy do you thrust this confession upon me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI fear,\u201d he hesitated, \u201cthat a truthful answer to that question would\ndisplease you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour behavior,\u201d she said, \u201cand your utterances are so unexpected\nand amazing to me, coming here as I have, that I must request an\nexplanation.\u201d\n\nVargas straightened himself in his chair and looked her in the eyes,\nnot aggressively, but timidly. He spoke in a low voice.\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he said solemnly, \u201cI have told you the truth about myself\nbecause you are the one human being whom I am unwilling to harm, wrong\nor cheat.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean,\u201d----she broke off, bridling.\n\n\u201cAh, Madame,\u201d he cried, \u201cI mean nothing that has in it any tinge of\nanything that might offend you. What does the north star know or care\nhow many frail, storm-tossed barks struggle to steer by it? Is it any\nthe less radiant, pure, high because so many to whom it is and shall\nremain forever unattainable strive to win from its rays guidance\ntowards havens of safety? A woman such as you cannot guess, much less\nknow, to how many she is the one abiding heavenly beacon. How could\nyou, who need no such help from without, realize what the mere sight\nof you afar off must mean to natures not blest with such a heritage\nof goodness? How many have been strengthened at sight of your face,\nwherein they could not but see the visible outward expression of that\ninward peace and serenity that comes from right instincts unswervingly\nadhering to noble ideals? You have been to me the incarnate token of\nthe existence of that righteousness to which I might not attain.\u201d\n\nMrs. Llewellyn had borne his torrent of verbiage with a look of\nintolerant toleration, of haughty displeasure curbed by astonishment.\nWhen he paused for breath she said, in a voice half angry, half\nrepressed:\n\n\u201cI quite understand you, I have heard enough, I have heard altogether\ntoo much of this; we will change the subject, if you please.\u201d\n\n\u201cI spoke at your command,\u201d Vargas apologized, abashed, \u201cand only to\nconvince you of my sincerity in telling you that I am not worthy of\nbeing consulted by you.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d she protested, carried away by her surprise, \u201cyou are called the\ngreatest clairvoyant on earth.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I have schemed, advertised lavishly, spent money like water,\nbribed reporters, bought editors, cajoled managers, hoodwinked owners\nand won over their wives and daughters through laborious years to\nproduce that impression. It is no growth of accident, no spontaneous\nrecognition of self-evident merit.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d she argued, \u201care you a fiend doing all this for the delight of\ndeceiving for deception\u2019s sake? Are you a man wealthy by inheritance\nand choosing this form of activity for the pleasure it gives you?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means Madame,\u201d he denied, \u201cI live by my wits.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour surroundings tell me that you live well,\u201d she suggested.\n\n\u201cBetter than my surroundings reveal,\u201d he rejoined.\n\n\u201cThen your wits are good wits,\u201d she ventured.\n\n\u201cNone better of their kind on earth,\u201d he na\u00efvely admitted, wholly off\nhis guard.\n\n\u201cAnd they are not overtaxed?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cDeception is not hard,\u201d he told her, \u201cthe world is full of fools and\neven the sensible are easy to deceive.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom what I have read,\u201d she continued, \u201cyou do not deceive. Your\nadvice is good. Your precepts guide your clients right. Your\nsuggestions lead to success. Your predictions come to pass, your\nconjectures are verified.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll that is true enough,\u201d he allowed.\n\n\u201cThen how can you call your clients dupes, your methods mummeries, your\nanswers lies?\u201d She wound up triumphantly.\n\n\u201cI did not call my answers lies,\u201d he disclaimed. \u201cMummeries I deal\nin and to dupes. Dupes they are all. They pour gold into my lap\nto tell them what they already knew if they but reasoned it out\ncalmly with themselves. They babble to me all they need to know and\npay me insensately for it when I fling back to them a patchwork of\nthe fragments I have extracted from their stories of expectations,\napprehensions and memories.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if you do all that you must be a real judge of human nature, a\ngenuine reader of hearts, a keen-brained counsellor.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am all that and more,\u201d he bragged. He had lost every trace of\nagitation and bore himself with a dashing self-confidence of manner,\nextremely engaging. \u201cI cannot minister to a mind diseased; but I am\ncalled on to prescribe for all sorts of delusions, follies, blunders,\nmiseries and griefs. I could count by thousands the men and women\nI have saved, the lives I have made happy, the difficulties I have\nannihilated, the aspirations I have guided aright.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you must have an immense experience of human frailties and human\nneeds.\u201d\n\n\u201cVast, enormous, incalculable,\u201d he declared.\n\n\u201cYour advice then should be valuable.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is valuable,\u201d he boasted.\n\n\u201cThen advise me, I am in extreme distress. I have felt that no one\ncould help me. The belief that you might has given me a ray of hope.\nYou have expressed a regard for me altogether extraordinary. Will it\nnot lead you to help me?\u201d\n\n\u201cAny advice and help, any service in my power you may be sure shall be\nyours,\u201d he said earnestly. \u201cBut let me ask you first, how was it that\nyou did not seek the advice of some business-man, lawyer or clergyman?\nYou are not at all of the light-headed type of those frivolous\nwomen who flock to me and to others like me. You have common sense,\nunalterable principles, rational instincts and personal fastidiousness,\nwhy did you not go to one of the recognized, established, honored\nadvisers of humanity? Tell me that if you please?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was because of the dream,\u201d she faltered.\n\n\u201cThe dream!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cA dream sent you to me? What sort of a\ndream?\u201d\n\n\u201cI had come to feel that there could be no hope for me,\u201d she said.\n\u201cBut about a month ago I had a dream in which I was told \u2018The seventh\nadvertisement in the seventh column of the seventh newspaper in the\nseventh drawer of the linen room will point for you the way to escape\nfrom your miseries and win what you desire.\u2019 There should have been\nno papers in my linen-room and it made me feel foolish to want to go\nand look. Also the servants knew I never went there, so I had to watch\nuntil the housekeeper was out and no maids were on that floor. Sure\nenough I found seven old newspapers in the seventh drawer, and on the\nseventh page of the lowermost paper, on the seventh column, the seventh\nadvertisement was yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you came to me because of that dream?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes:--and;--\u201d she hesitated.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he interrupted, \u201cthe reasons why you came are not so important.\nWhat I want to be sure of is this. Even if you were led to come by\na mere coincidence acting on your feelings, are you now, from cool,\ndeliberate reflection, determined to consult me? Would it not be better\nto take my advice at this point and go to one of the world\u2019s regular,\naccredited dispensers of wisdom?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have made up my mind to consult you,\u201d she said. \u201cIt is not a passing\nwhim, but a settled resolve.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen madame,\u201d he said, his manner wholly changing, \u201cyou must tell me\nall your troubles without any reservation of any kind. If I am to help\nyou I must know your case as completely as a physician would have to\nknow your symptoms in an illness. Tell me plainly what your trouble is.\u201d\n\nShe began to pluck at her veil with her gloved hands.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d she gasped, \u201clet me moisten my lips. Just a swallow of water.\u201d\n\nFor all his lameness he was surprisingly agile, as he wrenched himself\nup, tore open the rear door and almost instantly hobbled back with a\nglass and silver pitcher on a small silver tray.\n\nShe took off her veil and one glove. Several swallows were required to\ncompose her. When she was calm again he sat looking at her with a face\nfull of inquiry, but without uttering any questions.\n\n\u201cYou do not know,\u201d she said, \u201chow hard it is to begin.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor the third time, Madame,\u201d he said, \u201cI advise you not to consult me,\nto go elsewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you not willing to help me?\u201d she asked, softly.\n\n\u201cUtterly willing,\u201d he said, \u201cbut timid, timid as a doctor would be\nabout prescribing for his own child. Yours is the first case ever\nbrought to me in which I feared the effect of personal bias dimming my\ninsight or deflecting my judgment. I have a second confession to make\nto you. Before you married, a man desperately in love with you came to\nme for help. Among other things he gave me the day, hour and minute of\nyour birth and of his and asked me to cast both horoscopes and infer\nhis chances of success. I had and have no faith in astrology, yet I\nhad cast my own horoscope long before from mere curiosity. When I cast\nyours I was amazed at the clear indications of a connection between\nyour fate and mine. I did not believe anything of the Babylonian\nabsurdities, yet the coincidence struck me. Perhaps I am influenced\nby it yet. Under such an influence, even more than under that of my\nfeeling for yourself, my acumen is likely to be impaired. I again\nadvise you to go elsewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am all the more determined to consult you and you only.\u201d\n\nHe bowed without any word and waited in silence for her to go on.\n\nShe stared at him with big melting eyes, her face very pale.\n\n\u201cMy husband does not love me,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cNot love you?\u201d Vargas exclaimed, startled. \u201cDo you mean seriously\nto tell me that, you who have been loved by hundreds, been adored,\nworshipped, courted by so many, for despair of gaining whom men have\ngone mad, who have had your choice of so many lovers, are not prized by\nthe man who succeeded in winning you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she barely breathed. \u201cHe does not prize me, nor love me at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes he love any one else?\u201d\n\nOut of her total paleness she flushed rose pink from throat to hair.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she admitted.\n\n\u201cWho is she?\u201d Vargas demanded.\n\n\u201cHis first wife.\u201d\n\nVargas staggered to his feet. \u201cI did not so much as know that your\nhusband had been married before,\u201d he gasped, \u201clet alone that he was\ndivorced.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was not divorced,\u201d she stated.\n\n\u201cNot divorced,\u201d he quavered.\n\n\u201cNo, he was a widower when I married him.\u201d\n\nVargas collapsed back into his chair.\n\n\u201cI do not understand,\u201d he told her. \u201cDoes he love a dead woman?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust that,\u201d she asseverated.\n\n\u201cThis will not do,\u201d the clairvoyant told her, \u201cI cannot come nearer\nto helping you at this rate. Try to give me the information you think\nnecessary, not by splinters and fragments, but as a whole. Make a\nconnected exposition of the circumstances. Begin at the beginning!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is harder,\u201d she mused, \u201cI always want to begin anything at the\nlast chapter.\u201d\n\n\u201cWoman fashion,\u201d he commented. \u201cYou are above that in most things, I\nknow. Try a straight story from the beginning.\u201d\n\nShe reflected:\n\n\u201cThe beginning,\u201d she said, \u201cwas before I began to remember. David and\nI were playmates before we could talk. Boy and girl, lad and lass, we\nalways belonged to each other, there was no lovemaking between us, I\nthink, for it was all love-living. I do not believe he ever asked me\nto marry him or promised to marry me, or so much as talked marriage.\nBut we had a clear understanding that we were to marry as soon as we\ncould, at the earliest possible day. He did not merely seem wrapped\nup in me, he was. God knows he was all my life. Then he had no more\nthan seen Marian Conway when he fell in love with her. There is no use\nin dwelling on what I suffered. He married almost at once and I gave\nmyself up to that empty life of frivolity which made me a reigning\nbeauty and brought me scores of suitors for none of whom I cared\nanything and which gave me not a particle of satisfaction. Then after\nthey had lost both their children Marian died. David was frightfully\novercome by his loss. He had loved her inconceivably and he showed his\ngrief in the most heart-rending ways. He had the coffin opened over\nand over after it had been closed. He had it even lifted out of the\ngrave and opened yet once more for one more look at her face. He spent\nevery moment from her death to her burial in a sort of adoration of her\ncorpse, and he did stranger things. I do not know whether it was Mr.\nLlewellyn\u2019s valet who told, but at any rate the story got out among the\nservants. The night before she was buried he had her laid out in her\ncoffin and a second coffin exactly like it set beside hers. He stayed\nlocked in the room all night. They believed he lay in the other coffin.\nAt any rate in the morning it was closed, and he did not allow it to be\nopened. What he had placed in it no one knew. They said it was as heavy\nas the other. Two hearses, one behind the other, carried the coffins to\nthe graveyard. Her grave is not under the monument--you have seen the\nmonument?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he said, \u201conly a picture of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, she is not buried under it, and the second coffin was placed on\nhers.\u201d\n\nShe stopped.\n\n\u201cGo on,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d she cried, \u201cit is so hard to go on. But it is true. As soon as\nDavid was free I felt I had an object in life. I--I followed him, I\nmight almost say pursued him all over the world, and when we met I\ncourted him, and it seems strange, but I asked him to marry me. And--\u201d\nshe hesitated--\u201che refused twice.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe did not want to marry you?\u201d Vargas asked incredulously.\n\n\u201cHe refused. It was at Cairo, that first time. He said he could not\nlove anyone any more, all his love, his very self, was buried in\nMarian\u2019s grave. The second time was at Hongkong. Then he said he always\nhad cared for me and still cared for me, but that affection was as\nnothing compared to his passion for Marian, that he would never marry,\nand especially he would not marry me because of his regard for me, that\nI would not be contented or happy with him, that I was thinking of the\nlad he had been and that boy was buried in his wife\u2019s grave, that he\nwas nothing more than a walking ghost, a wraith of what he had been, a\nspirit condemned to wander its allotted time on earth until his hour\nshould come and he be called to join Marian.\n\n\u201cThe third time was in Paris. He said he was indifferent to everything,\nto anything, to love or hate or death or life; that he cared nothing\nwhether he married me or not. If I cared as much as I seemed to he\nwould marry me to please me. I told him that what I had always wanted\nwas to be with him, that what I most wanted was to spend with him as\nmuch as possible of my time until death parted us. He said if that was\nwhat I wanted I could have it, but he was nothing more than a shadow\nof his old self and I was sure to be unhappy. And I am unhappy. He is\ngenerosity, gentleness, kindness and consideration itself, but he does\nnot care. I hoped, of course, that his grief for Marian would soften,\nfade away and vanish, that he would cease to mourn for her, that his\ninterest in life would reawaken, that I could win his love and that we\nwould both be happy. But I am not. His utter indifference to me, to\nanything, to everything is preying on my feelings, I must do something.\nI shall lose my mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that all?\u201d Vargas asked.\n\n\u201cIt is enough,\u201d she asserted, \u201cand more than enough. Do you think it a\nsmall matter?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot in the least,\u201d he declared, \u201cI comprehend your disappointment in\nrespect to your hopes, your chagrin at your baffled efforts to win him\nback to be his old self, your pain at his inertness. But by your own\nshowing you have no grievance against your husband.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat I have not,\u201d she maintained. \u201cNot a shadow of a grievance against\nhim. My grievance is for him as much as for myself and against--against\nthe way the world is made.\u201d\n\nVargas looked at her for some little time.\n\n\u201cYou do not say what you are thinking,\u201d she interrupted.\n\n\u201cI am considering how to express it,\u201d he said. \u201cHowever I express it I\nam sure to offend you.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a bit,\u201d she replied. \u201cSay it at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must realize that if I am to advise you truly I must speak\nplainly,\u201d he hesitated.\n\n\u201cI do realize it,\u201d she told him.\n\n\u201cYou will then pardon what I have to say?\u201d he ventured.\n\n\u201cI will pardon anything except beating about the bush,\u201d she rapped out.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he said slowly, \u201cit seems to me that your coming to me, your\nstate of mind, your trouble, as you have related it all turns upon a\npiece of femininity to which you should be altogether superior, to\nwhich I should have imagined you were altogether superior. You look,\nand I have always imagined you, free from any trace of the eternal\nfeminine. Here it crops out. Men in general find that women in general\nhave no feeling for the mutuality of a contract. Some women may be\nexceptions, but women habitually ignore the other side of a contract\nand see only their own side. Here you display the same defect. Mr.\nLlewellyn practically proposed a contract to you: on his side he to\nmarry you, on your side, you to put up with his complete indifference\nto you, to everything, and be content with his actual companionship\nsuch as he is. He has fulfilled and is fulfilling his part of the\ncontract, you seek escape from yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think,\u201d she snapped. \u201cYou are insufferably brutal.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe eternal feminine again,\u201d he retorted. \u201cWorse and more of it. I\ntold you I should offend you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou do offend me. I have confidence in you, but I did not come here\nto be scolded or to be preached at. I do not want criticism, I want\nadvice. Don\u2019t tell me my shortcomings, real or imaginary, think over my\ntroubles and my needs and tell me what to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is plain enough,\u201d he asserted. \u201cDo your obvious duty. Keep your\npart of your contract with your husband. Give no sign that you suffer\nfrom the absence of feeling of which he warned you. Make the most of\nyour life with him. Hope for a change in him but do not try to force\nit, do not rebel if it does not come.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know I ought to endure,\u201d she wailed. \u201cBut I cannot, I must do\nsomething. I must act. I must.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have asked for my advice,\u201d he said, \u201cand you have it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what good is it to me?\u201d she objected, \u201cI ask for help and\nyou string out platitudinous precepts like a snuffy, detestable\nold-fashioned evangelical dominie. Is this all the help you can give\nme?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll,\u201d said Vargas humbly. \u201cIf I knew of any other it should be at your\nservice.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could consult your slate for me, as I proposed,\u201d she suggested.\n\n\u201cGreat heavens above!\u201d he cried, \u201cI have told you that all that is\nimposture.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt might turn out genuine for once,\u201d she persisted. \u201cDon\u2019t people have\nreal trances? Don\u2019t many people believe in the answers from slates and\nplanchettes and ouija boards?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps they do,\u201d Vargas admitted. \u201cBut I never had a real trance,\nnever saw one, never knew of one. And to my knowledge no slate or other\nsuch device ever gave any answer or wrote anything unless I or some\nother shuffler made it write or answer.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut could you not try just once for my sake,\u201d she implored.\n\n\u201cWhy on earth,\u201d he demanded, \u201care you, so sane and sensible in\nappearance, so set on this mummery?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause of the other dream,\u201d she faltered.\n\n\u201cThe other dream!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cYou had another dream?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she said, \u201cI was going to tell you but you interrupted me. The\ndream about the advertisement did not convince me. I felt it might be\ncoincidence after all. That was more than a month ago and I disregarded\nit. But night before last I dreamed I was told, \u2018The message on the\nslate will be true.\u2019 I fought against it all day yesterday, all last\nnight. To-day I gave up and came. I want you to consult your slate for\nme.\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he said, \u201cthis is dreadful. Can nothing make you see the\ntruth. There is not anything supernatural about this trade of mine. It\nis as simple as a Punch and Judy show. There the puppets do nothing\nsave as the showman controls them; so of my slate and of my trances.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it might surprise you,\u201d she persisted. \u201cIt might come true once.\nWon\u2019t you try for me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d he mused, \u201cthat there is such a thing as auto-hypnotism. To\nhumor you I might try to put myself into a genuine trance. But there\nwould be nothing about it to help you, just a mere natural sleep,\nartificially induced. If I babbled in it the words would have no\nsignificance, and no writing would appear on the slate unless I put it\nthere.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust try,\u201d she pleaded, \u201cfor my sake, to quiet me. If there is\nnothing, then I shall believe you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere will be nothing on the slate,\u201d he maintained. \u201cBut suppose I\nshould mumble some fragments of words. You might take those accidental\nvocables for a revelation, they might become an obsession upon you,\nthey might warp your judgment and do you great harm. I feel we should\nbe running a foolish risk. Give up this idea of the trance and the\nslate, I beg of you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I beg of you to try it. You said you would do anything for me.\nThat is what I want and nothing else.\u201d\n\nHe shook his head, his expression crestfallen, baffled, puzzled, even\nalarmed.\n\n\u201cIf you insist--\u201d he faltered.\n\n\u201cI do insist,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cYou wish,\u201d he inquired, \u201cto proceed exactly as I usually do with my\nsimulated trance and pretended spirit replies?\u201d\n\n\u201cPrecisely,\u201d she affirmed.\n\nHe opened a drawer below one of the cabinets and took out a hinged\ndouble slate. It was made like a child\u2019s school-slate, but the rims\ninstead of being wood, were of silver, the edges beaded and the flat of\neach rim chased in a pattern of pentacles, swastikas and pentagrams; a\npentacle, a right-hand swastika, a pentagram, a left-hand swastika and\nso on all round. In the drawer was a box of fresh slate-pencils. This\nhe held out to her and told her to choose one. At his bidding she broke\noff a short fragment and put it between the two leaves of the slate,\nthe four faces of which were entirely blank.\n\n\u201cSettle yourself in your chair,\u201d he instructed her, \u201chold the slate\nin your lap. Hold it fast with both hands. First take off your other\nglove.\u201d\n\nAs she did this he settled himself into the armchair opposite her, took\na silver paper-knife from the table and held it upright, gazing at its\npoint.\n\n\u201cYou are not to move or speak until I tell you,\u201d he directed her.\n\nSo they sat, she holding in her lap the slate shut fast upon the pencil\nwithin, her fingers enforcing its closure; he gazing intently at the\npoint of the scimitar-shaped paper-knife. She became aware of the slow,\npompous tick of a tall clock in the hallway; of faint noises, as of\nactivity in a pantry, proceeding from somewhere in the rear of the\nhouse and barely audible through the closed window. She had expected to\nsee him stiffen, his eyes roll up or some such manifestation appear.\nNothing of the kind happened. For a long time, a very long time, she\nwatched him staring fixedly at the sharp end of the paper-cutter. Then\nshe saw it waver, saw his eyes close and his head, propped against the\nback of the armchair, move ever so little sideways, as the neck-muscles\nrelaxed. His hands opened, the knife dropped on his knee and he was\nto all appearances peacefully asleep. Presently his even, regular\nbreathing was a sound more apparent than the tick of the clock outside.\n\nAll of a sudden Mrs. Llewellyn felt herself ridiculous. Here she\nwas, holding a childish toy, facing a strange man with whom she was\nentirely alone and who was apparently enjoying a needed snooze. She had\nan impulse to laugh and was on the point of rising, disembarrassing\nherself of her burden and leaving the house.\n\nAt that instant she felt a movement between the fast-shut slates.\nThey lay level upon her lap, firmly set. She had not jarred or tilted\nthem, yet she felt the pencil move. Felt it move and heard it too. Her\nmood of impatient self-contempt and irritated derision was instantly\nobliterated under a wave of terrified awe. She controlled a spasm of\npanic, an impulse to let go her hold upon her frightful charge, to\nscream, to run away. Rigid, trembling, breathing quick, her heart\nhammering her ribs, she sat, her fingers gripping the slates, listening\nfor another movement. It came. Faintly at first, she felt and heard\nit, then more distinctly. Slowly, very slowly, with intervals of\nsilence, the bit of pencil crawled, tapped and scratched about. While\nlistening to it, and still more while listening for it, she was under\nso terrific a tension that she felt if nothing happened to relieve\nher, she must faint or shriek. When she continued listening for a long,\nan interminable, an unbearable time and heard nothing but the clock in\nthe hall and Vargas\u2019 breathing in the room, she felt she was about to\ndo both.\n\nThen the clairvoyant uttered a choked sound, the incipience of that\nfeeble wailing groan or groaning wail of a sleeper in a nightmare.\nHis feet moved, his undeformed leg stiffened, his hands clenched, his\nhead rolled from side to side, he writhed, the effort expended at each\nsuccessive groan was more and more excessive, each sound feebler and\nmore pitiful.\n\nThen Mrs. Llewellyn did scream.\n\nInstantly Vargas struggled into a sitting posture, his face contorted,\nhis eyes bulging, staring at her.\n\n\u201cDid I speak, did I speak?\u201d he gasped.\n\nMrs. Llewellyn was past articulation, but she shook her head.\n\n\u201cI passed into a real trance, a real trance,\u201d he babbled.\n\nShe could only cling to the slate and gaze.\n\n\u201cI had a frightful dream,\u201d Vargas panted, \u201cI dreamed there was a\nmessage on the plate. It frightened me, but what it was has escaped me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is a message on the slate,\u201d she managed to utter, \u201cI heard the\npencil writing.\u201d\n\nVargas, holding to the back of his chair, assisted himself to his feet.\nFrom her fingers, mechanically clenched on it, he gently disengaged the\nslate and put it on the table. Opening one of the cabinets he took out\na decanter and two glasses, half filling one he placed it in her numb\ngrasp.\n\n\u201cDrink that,\u201d he dictated, draining the other full glass as he spoke.\n\nHalf dazed she obeyed him. Her face flushed angrily and the glass broke\nas she set it down.\n\n\u201cYou have given me brandy!\u201d she cried in indignation.\n\n\u201cYou needed it,\u201d he asserted. \u201cIt will steady you, but you will not\nfeel it. Compose yourself and we will look at the slate.\u201d\n\nShe stood up beside him and he laid the slate open. There was writing\non each leaf of it, on one side legible, on the other reversed.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d she said and sat down heavily. He brought a small chair, set it\nbeside hers and seated himself upon it, the slates open in his hands,\nbefore them both. Fine-lined, legible, plainly made by the point of\nthe pencil, was the writing, on one leaf of the slates; on the other\nreversed writing with coarse strokes, plainly made by the splintered\nend, which was worn slightly at one place. All the writing was in the\nsame individual script.\n\n\u201cThis is not my handwriting,\u201d said Vargas.\n\n\u201cIt is my husband\u2019s,\u201d she gasped.\n\nThe words on the slate were:\n\n\u201cThat which is buried in that coffin is alive. If disinterred it will\ndie.\u201d\n\nVargas opened the other cabinet. The inside of its door was a mirror.\nBefore this he held the slates. On the other leaf the broad-stroked\nscript showed the same words.\n\n\u201cWhat does it mean?\u201d she pleaded, \u201coh! what does it mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt doesn\u2019t mean anything,\u201d said Vargas, roughly.\n\n\u201cHow can that be,\u201d she moaned. \u201cIt must mean something. It does mean\nsomething. I feel it does.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is just the point,\u201d he said, \u201cthat is what I feared before, and\nwarned you of. Here are some chance words. They mean nothing, except\nthat you or I or both of us have been intensely strung up with emotion.\nBut if you cannot see that or be made to see that, you are lost. If you\nfeel that they mean something, then they do mean that something to you,\nthat that is your danger. Do not yield to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean to tell me, to try to convince me that those words, twice\nwritten, in the same handwriting, in my husband\u2019s hand of all hands,\nformed upon those slates while I held them myself, came there by\naccident?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot by accident,\u201d he argued. \u201cBy some operation of unguessed forces\nset in motion by your excitement or mine or both; but blind forces,\nmeaningless as the voices in dreams.\u201d\n\n\u201cAm I to believe meaningless,\u201d she demanded, \u201cthe voices in my dreams\nthat sent me to that advertisement and to you and told me expect an\nanswer from the slates, a true answer?\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he reasoned, \u201cthe series of coincidences is startling, but it\nis nothing but a series of coincidences. Try to rise superior to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you won\u2019t help me,\u201d she wailed. \u201cYou won\u2019t tell me what this\nmessage means?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have told you my belief as to how it originated,\u201d he said, \u201cI have\ntold you that I do not attach any other significance to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d she groaned, \u201cI must go home.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour carriage is at the door,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cMy carriage!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cHow did it get there?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot your own carriage,\u201d he explained, \u201cbut one for you. I telephoned\nfor it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have not left me an instant,\u201d she asserted incredulously.\n\n\u201cWhen I brought you a glass of water I told the maid to telephone for a\ncarriage and tell it to wait. It will be there.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thank you,\u201d she said, \u201cand now, what do I owe you? What is your fee?\u201d\n\nVargas flushed all over his face and neck, a deep brownish-red.\n\n\u201cMrs. Llewellyn,\u201d he said with great dignity, \u201cI take pay from my\ndupes for my fripperies of deception. But no money, not all the money\non earth could pay me to do what I have done for you to-day, no sum\ncould induce me to go through it again for anyone else. For you I\nwould do anything. But what I have done was not done for payment, nor\nwill anything I may do be done except for you, for whom I would do any\nservice in my power.\u201d\n\n\u201cI ask your pardon,\u201d she said. \u201cWhere is the carriage? I shall faint if\nI stay here.\u201d\n\n\nSome weeks later, in the same room, the clairvoyant and the lady again\nfaced each other.\n\n\u201cI had hoped never to see you again,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cDid you imagine that I could escape from the compulsion of all that\nseries of manifestations?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cI tried to believe that you might,\u201d he answered.\n\n\u201cHave you been able to shake off its hold on you?\u201d she demanded.\n\n\u201cNot entirely,\u201d he confessed. \u201cBut dazing as the coincidences were,\nthe effect on my emotions will wear off, like the smart of a burn;\nand, as one forgets the fury of past sufferings, I shall forget the\nturmoil of my feelings. There was no clear intelligibility, no definite\nsignificance in it at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot in that message!\u201d she exclaimed.\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d he asseverated.\n\n\u201cYes there was,\u201d she contradicted.\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he said earnestly, \u201cif you fancy you perceive any genuine\ncoherence in those fortuitous words you have put the meaning there\nyourself, your imagination is riveting upon your soul fetters of your\nown forging.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy imagination and my soul have nothing to do with my insight into\nthe spirit of that message,\u201d she said calmly. \u201cMy heart cries out\nfor help and my intellect has pondered at leisure upon what you call\na fortuitous series of coincidences, a chance string of meaningless\nwords. I see no incoherence, rather convincing coherence, in the\nsequence of your reading of horoscopes, my dreaming of dreams, leading\nup to the imperative behest given me from your slate.\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he cried, \u201cthis is heart-rending. I told you I dreaded the\neffect upon you of any sort of mummery. You forced me to it. I should\nhave had strength to refuse you. I yielded. Now my cowardice will ruin\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas not your trance genuine?\u201d she queried.\n\n\u201cEntirely genuine, entirely too genuine.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid not the writing appear upon the slate independent of your will or\nof mine?\u201d she demanded.\n\n\u201cIt did,\u201d he admitted.\n\n\u201cCan you explain how it came there?\u201d she wound up.\n\n\u201cAlas, no,\u201d he confessed, shaking his head.\n\n\u201cYou can scarcely reproach me for accepting it as a message,\u201d she\nconcluded triumphantly.\n\n\u201cI do not reproach you,\u201d he said, \u201cI reproach myself as culpable.\u201d\n\n\u201cI rather thank you for what you have done for me,\u201d she almost smiled\nat him. \u201cIt gives me hope. I have meditated carefully upon the message\nand I am convinced that I comprehend its meaning.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the worst possible state of mind you could get into,\u201d he\ngroaned. \u201cCan I not make you realize the truth? It is not as you think\nyou see it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not think,\u201d she said. \u201cI know. I am convinced, and I mean to act\non my convictions.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is terrible,\u201d he muttered. Then he controlled himself, shifted\nhis position in his chair and asked: \u201cAnd what are your convictions?\nWhat do you mean to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy conviction,\u201d she said, \u201cis that David\u2019s love for Marian is in some\nway bound up with whatever he had buried in that coffin. I mean to have\nthe coffin disinterred.\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he said, \u201cthis thing gets worse the more you tell me of it.\nYou are in danger of coming under the domination of a fixed idea, even\nif you are not already under its sway. Fight against it. Shake it off.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no use in your talking that way to me,\u201d she said. \u201cI mean to\ndo it. I shall do it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHas your husband consented?\u201d Vargas asked.\n\n\u201cHe has,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cDo you mean to tell me that he has agreed to your opening his wife\u2019s\ngrave?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe has agreed,\u201d she asserted.\n\n\u201cBut did he make no demur?\u201d the clairvoyant inquired.\n\n\u201cHe said he did not care what I did, I could do anything I pleased.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas that all he said?\u201d Vargas persisted.\n\n\u201cNot all,\u201d she admitted. \u201cHe asked me if I had not told him that what\nI wanted in this life was to spend as much as possible of my time on\nearth with him, for us two to be together as much as circumstances\nwould allow, and as long as death would permit. I told him of course I\nhad said it, not once but over and over. He asked me if I still felt\nthat way. I told him I did. He said it made no difference to him, he\nwas past any feelings, but if that was what I really wanted he advised\nme to let that grave alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake his advice, by all means,\u201d Vargas exclaimed. \u201cIt is good advice.\nYou let that grave alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am determined,\u201d she told him.\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d he said, \u201cwill you listen to me?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d she replied. \u201cIf you have anything to say to the purpose.\nBut not to fault-findings or to scoldings.\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs. Llewellyn,\u201d Vargas began, \u201cwhat happened during your former visit\nto me has demolished the entire structure of my spiritual existence.\nI had the sincerest disbelief in astrology, in prophecy, in ghosts,\nin apparitions, in superstitions, each and all, in supernaturalism in\ngeneral, in religions, individually and collectively, in the idea of\nfuture life. Upon the most materialistic convictions my intellectual\nlife was placid and unruffled, and my soul-life, if I had any,\nundisturbed by anything save occasional and very evanescent twinges of\nconscience over the contemptible duplicity of my way of livelihood.\nIntermittently only I despised myself. Mostly I only despised my dupes\nand generally not even that. Rather I merely smiled tolerantly at\nthe childishness of their profitable credulity. Never did I have the\nremotest approach to any shadow of belief that there could be anything\noccult beneath or behind any such jugglery as I continually made use\nof. The matter of your horoscope and mine I took as mere coincidence.\nIt might affect my feelings, never my reason; my heart, never my head.\nMy head is involved now, my reason at fault. In the writing on that\nslate I am face to face with something, if not supernatural, at least\npreternatural. The thing is beyond our ordinary experience of the\nordinary operation of those forces which make the world go. It depends\nupon something not yet understood, not necessarily inexplicable, but\nunexplained. It is uncanny. I don\u2019t like it. Yet I do not yield to its\ninfluence. I am not swept away. If I dwell upon it, I know it will\nunsettle my reason. I do not mean to dwell upon it, I mean to get away\nfrom it, to ignore it, to forget it, and I counsel you to do likewise.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour counsel,\u201d she said, \u201chas a long-winded preamble, but is entirely\nunacceptable.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have more to say,\u201d he went on. \u201cMere bewilderment of mind is not\nan adequate ground for action. There is a fine old proverb that says,\n\u2018When in doubt, do nothing.\u2019 Take its advice and your husband\u2019s; do\nnothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I am not in doubt,\u201d she protested. \u201cI am convinced that I was\nmeant to come to you, that the message was meant for me, and that I\nknow what it means. I am determined to act upon it.\u201d\n\nHe shook his head with a gesture of despair, but continued:\n\n\u201cI have more yet to say and on another point. I advise you to go away\nfrom all this. You should and you can. You have your own wealth and\nyour husband\u2019s opulence at your disposal. You have one of the finest\nsteam-yachts on the seas awaiting your pleasure. Much as you have\ntraveled, the globe has many fascinating regions still new to you.\nYour husband and you have practically not traveled at all since your\nmarriage. You should still hope for your husband\u2019s recovery of his\nspirits by natural means. Travel is the most obvious prescription.\nTry that. Because your husband had not emerged from his brooding upon\nhis loss and grief during two years of wandering alone with a valet;\nbecause he has not recovered his spirits after two years of matrimony\nspent in the neighborhood of his first wife\u2019s grave, in mansions full\nof memories of her, is no reason for not hoping that his elasticity\nwill revive during months or years spent with you among delightful\nscenes of novelty, far from anything to recall his mind to old\nassociations.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no hope in any such attempt,\u201d she said wearily. \u201cWhen I cannot\nbear my life here with a mate who is no more than a likeness of the man\nI loved, why drag this soulless semblance about the oceans of the earth\nin the hope of seeing it awake to love me? Shall I expect a miracle\nfrom salt air or the rays of the Southern cross?\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs. Llewellyn,\u201d Vargas said, \u201cI have taken the liberty of making\ninquiries, quite unobtrusively, concerning your husband\u2019s treatment\nof you. I find that it is the general impression that he is a very\nuxorious, a very loverly husband. Except the barest minimum required\nfor his affairs, he spends his entire time with you. His best friends,\nhis boyhood\u2019s chums, his life-long cronies he never converses with,\nnever chats with, hardly talks to, and for all his genial cordiality\nand courtesy, barely more than greets in passing. He is seldom seen at\nhis clubs and very briefly. To all appearances he devotes himself to\nyou wholly. You have all the external trappings of happiness: health,\nbeauty, a devoted husband, the most desirable intimates, countless\nfriends, luxurious surroundings, and unlimited affluence. It is for you\nto put life into all this, it is your duty to recall to it what you\nmiss. You should leave no natural means untried turning to what you\npropose.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy determination is irrevocably taken,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cBut what do you expect to find in the coffin?\u201d he queried.\n\n\u201cI have no expectations, not even any anticipations,\u201d she said. \u201cWe may\nfind keepsakes of some kind; there cannot be love-letters, for they\nscarcely separated a day after they met, or an hour after they married.\nThere may be nothing in the coffin. But I am convinced that whatever\nit does or does not contain, David\u2019s love for Marian is bound up with\nthe closure of that coffin. I believe that if it is opened he will be\nreleased from his passion of grief and be free to love me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean practically to resort to an incantation, a sort of\nwitchcraft. The notion is altogether unworthy of you, especially while\nso natural a device as travel remains untried.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou do not understand,\u201d she said, \u201cthat I feel compelled to do\nsomething.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs not going for a cruise doing something?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cPractically doing nothing,\u201d she replied. \u201cJust being with David and\nwatching for the change that never comes. You don\u2019t know how that makes\nme feel forced to take some action.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not know,\u201d he said, \u201cbecause you have not told me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot tell you,\u201d she said, \u201cbecause I cannot find any words to\nexpress what I feel. I could not convey it to you, the loneliness that\noverwhelms me when I am alone with David. It is worse than being alone;\nI cannot imagine feeling so lonely lost in a wilderness, solitary in\nthe desert, adrift on a raft in mid-ocean. Being with David, as he is,\nmakes me feel--\u201d (her voice sank to a whisper and her face grew pale,\nher lips gray) \u201coh, it makes me feel as if I were worse than with\nnobody. It makes me feel as if I were with nothing, with nothing at\nall.\u201d\n\n\u201cI sympathize with you deeply,\u201d said Vargas. \u201cBut all you say only\ndeepens my conviction that your one road to safety lies in striving to\novercome these feelings; your best hope is change of scene and travel.\nAbove all let that grave alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy determination is irrevocably taken,\u201d she repeated.\n\n\u201cMrs. Llewellyn,\u201d Vargas asked, \u201chow, in your belief, did the writing\nyou saw upon the slate come there?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no conception at all as to how it came there,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cNone at all?\u201d he probed.\n\n\u201cNone definitely,\u201d she said. \u201cVaguely I suppose I conceive it came\nthere by the power of some consciousness and will beyond our ken.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean,\u201d he queried, \u201cby the intervention of a ghost, or spirit\nor some such disembodied entity?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps,\u201d she admitted, \u201cbut I have not thought it out at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cGranted a spirit,\u201d he suggested, \u201cmight it not be a malignant sprite,\nan imp bent on doing you harm, upon entrapping you to your destruction?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t credit such an idea for a moment,\u201d she said. \u201cThe message has\ngiven me hope. Your innuendoes seek to rob me of my hope.\u201d\n\n\u201cI seek to save you,\u201d Vargas said, \u201cto dislodge you from your fortalice\nof resolve.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor the third time,\u201d she said, \u201cI tell you that my determination is\nirrevocably taken.\u201d\n\nVargas awkwardly stood up. He clung to the back of a chair and gazed\nat her steadily. His face, from a far-off solemn look of resigned\ndesperation gradually took on an expression of prophetic resolve.\n\n\u201cPardon me,\u201d he said, \u201cif I must shock you. I wish to put to you a\nquestion.\u201d\n\n\u201cPut it,\u201d she said coldly.\n\n\u201cMrs. Llewellyn,\u201d the clairvoyant asked in a deep, slow voice. \u201cHave\nyou kept your marriage vows?\u201d\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d she said angrily, rising. \u201cYou are insulting me.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a particle,\u201d he persisted. \u201cYou have not answered my question.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo answer it is superfluous,\u201d she said, facing him in trembling wrath.\n\u201cOf course I have kept them. You know how utterly I love my husband.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou regard your vows as sacred?\u201d he asked relentlessly.\n\n\u201cOf course,\u201d she said wearily.\n\n\u201cWhy then,\u201d he demanded, \u201cdo you attach less sanctity to your verbal\ncompact with your husband? Your duty as a wife is to keep one compact\nas well as the other. Keep both. Do not be recalcitrant against the\nterms of your agreement. Endure his indifference and strive patiently\nto win his love. It is your duty, as much as it is your duty to keep\nyour marriage vows.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou assume a r\u00f4le,\u201d she said, \u201cvery unsuitable for you. Preaching\nmisfits you, and it has no effect on me. I know and feel all this. But\nthere is the plain meaning of that message. I shall open that grave.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have done all I can,\u201d he said dispiritedly. \u201cI cannot dissuade you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou cannot,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cHow then can I serve you?\u201d he asked. \u201cI have not yet discovered to\nwhat I owe the honor of this second visit. Why are you here?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish you to be present at the opening of the coffin,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cAre you sure,\u201d he demanded, \u201cthat that would not be most unseemly? The\nfirst Mrs. Llewellyn, I believe, left no near relatives. But would not\neven her cousins resent such an intrusion as my presence there? Would\nnot your husband still more resent it? Would it not be in very bad\ntaste?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not make requests,\u201d she said, \u201cthat are in bad taste. As for my\nhusband, he resents and will resent nothing, as he approves and will\napprove of nothing. My brother will be there and he will not find\nanything unseemly in your presence.\u201d\n\n\u201cNevertheless I hesitate to agree,\u201d said Vargas.\n\n\u201cYou have expressed,\u201d said she, \u201ca very deep regard for me, will you\nnot do this since I ask it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will,\u201d he said with an effort.\n\n\u201cThen whenever I write you and send a carriage for you, you will be\nthere at the time named?\u201d\n\n\u201cI promise,\u201d he said.\n\n\nSometime before the appointed hour, at that spot where a driveway\napproached nearest to the Llewellyn monument, Vargas painfully emerged\nfrom a closed carriage, the blue shades of which were drawn down.\nHe spoke to some one inside and shut the door. He had taken but two\nor three hobbling steps, when another carriage closely followed his\nstopped where his had stopped. Its shades were also drawn down. When\nits door opened a well dressed man got out. As Vargas had done he spoke\nto some one inside and closed the door. When he turned Vargas saw a\nman of usual, very conventional appearance, the sort of man visible\nby scores in fashionable clubs. His build and carriage were those of\na man naturally jaunty in his movements. His well-fleshed, healthy\nface, smooth shaven except for a thick brown mustache, was such a\nface as lends itself naturally to expressions of good fellowship and\njoviality. His brown eyes were prone to merriment. But there was\nno sparkle in them, no geniality in his air, no springiness in his\nmovements. He wore his brown derby a trifle, the merest trifle, to\none side, but his expression was careworn, he looked haggard. He had\nthe air of a man used to having his own way, but he held himself now\nwithout any elasticity. He looked the deformed clairvoyant up and down\nwith one quick glance, fixed him with a direct gaze as he approached\nand greeted him with an engaging air of easy politeness, neither stiff\nnor familiar.\n\n\u201cMy name is Palgrave,\u201d he said, \u201cI presume you are Mr. Vargas.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe same,\u201d said the clairvoyant, with not a little constraint.\n\n\u201cPleased to meet you,\u201d said the other holding out his hand and\ndiminishing Vargas\u2019 embarrassment by the heartiness of his handshake.\n\u201cGlad to have a chance for a talk with you. My sister has told me of\nher visits to you.\u201d\n\nVargas controlled his expression, but shot one lightning glance at the\nother\u2019s face, reading there instantly how much Mrs. Llewellyn had told\nher brother and how much she had not told him.\n\nThere was something very taking about Mr. Palgrave\u2019s manner, which put\nVargas completely at his ease. It was more than conciliatory, it was\nalmost friendly, almost sympathetic. It not so much expressed readiness\nto admit to a confidential understanding, as gave the impression of\ncontinuing a well-established natural attitude of entire trust and\ncomplete comprehension. It had an unmistakable tinge, as unexpected as\ngratifying, of level esteem and unspoken gratitude.\n\nThere was a rustic seat by the path and by a common impulse both moved\ntoward it. At the clubman\u2019s courteous gesture, the cripple, with his\nunavoidable wrenching jolt, lowered himself painfully to the level of\nthe bench. Mr. Palgrave seated himself beside him, crossed his knees\nand half turned toward him. He rested his left elbow on the back of the\nbench. His other hand held his cane, which he tapped against the side\nof his foot. The waiting carriages, one behind the other, were under a\nbig elm some distance off; their drivers lay on the grass beside them.\nNo one else was in sight except where, rather farther off in another\ndirection, six laborers, their coats off, sat with a superintendent\nnear them, in the shade of a Norway maple, near the Llewellyn monument;\nwhich dominated the neighborhood from its low, broad knoll.\n\nThe brief silence Mr. Palgrave broke.\n\n\u201cIf you will pardon my saying it, you don\u2019t look at all like my idea of\na clairvoyant.\u201d\n\nVargas smiled a wan smile. The tone of the words was totally disarming.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t feel like my idea of a clairvoyant,\u201d he said, \u201cI am usually\nclear-sighted in any matter I take up; usually so clear-sighted in\nrespect to any personality that my advice, as it often is, seems to\nmy clients a mere echo of their own thoughts, a mere confirmation of\ntheir own judgments, a mere additional reason for what they would have\ndone anyhow. I am used to touching unerringly the strongest springs\nof action. So far I have utterly failed to gain that clue to Mrs.\nLlewellyn\u2019s character necessary to make my advice acceptable.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn every other respect you seem to have been as clear-sighted as\npossible,\u201d Mr. Palgrave told him. \u201cNo advice could have been better nor\nmore judiciously urged, nor more entirely disinterested.\u201d\n\n\u201cRather utterly interested,\u201d said Vargas.\n\n\u201cIn an altogether different sense,\u201d said the other. \u201cShe told me. Until\nI saw you I was astonished that she had not resented it.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe did resent it, and of course,\u201d said the cripple.\n\n\u201cNot as she would from any other man,\u201d said Mr. Palgrave.\n\n\u201cThere are some things--\u201d Vargas began. His voice thinned out and he\nbroke off.\n\n\u201cYes, I understand,\u201d said her brother, \u201cand I want to say that I feel\nunder much obligation to you for the way you behaved and for the\nmanliness and the straightforwardness of your whole attitude.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am greatly complimented,\u201d Vargas replied.\n\n\u201cYou deserve complimenting,\u201d said Mr. Palgrave. \u201cYou acted admirably.\nYour consideration, I might say your gentleness shows that you really\nhave her best interests at heart.\u201d\n\n\u201cI truly have,\u201d said Vargas fervently, \u201cand I am more disturbed in mind\nthan I can express.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat must be a great deal,\u201d said the clubman, a momentary gleam of his\nusual self, fading instantly from his eyes. \u201cI certainly cannot express\nhow much I am upset. I hate worry or anxiety and always put such\ntroubles away and forget them. I can\u2019t forget this. I have idolized my\nsister since we were babies. I have hardly slept since she talked to\nme. She won\u2019t hear of a doctor. She don\u2019t admit that there could be any\npretext for her consulting a doctor, and I can\u2019t talk to any one about\nher. I can talk to you. You seem a very sensible man. I should like to\nhear your opinion of her condition. Do you think her mind is unsettled?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot as bad as that,\u201d Vargas told him.\n\n\u201cThis grave-opening idea seems to me out and out lunacy,\u201d said the\nother.\n\n\u201cNot as bad as that,\u201d Vargas repeated. \u201cIt shows a trend of thought\nwhich may develop into something worse, but in itself it is only a\nfoolish whim. The worst of it is that it produces a situation of great\ndelicacy and high tension which may have almost any sort of bad result.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t imagine,\u201d said Palgrave, \u201cany rational or half rational basis\nfor her whim. I can\u2019t conceive what she thinks she will accomplish\nby opening that coffin or why she wants it opened. I was at Marian\u2019s\nfuneral and the two coffins made a precious lot of talk, I can tell\nyou. I assumed that Llewellyn had some wild, sentimental notion of the\nsecond coffin waiting there for him. Constance declares it was not\nempty, but she won\u2019t say what she expects to find in it and I believe\nshe don\u2019t say because she has no idea at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right,\u201d said the clairvoyant, \u201cshe hasn\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the other, \u201cwhat do _you_ think she will find in it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no opinions whatever,\u201d said Vargas, \u201cas to whether it is empty\nor not or as to what may be in it. I have no basis of conjecture. But\nwhether empty or not or whatever may be in it, I dread the effect\non her. She is sure to be baffled in her hopes. Her present state\nof mind is a sort of reawakening in a civilized, educated, cultured\nwoman of the primitive, childish, savage faith in sorcery, almost\nin rudimentary fetishism. She would not acknowledge it, but her\nattitude is very like that of a fetish-worshipper. Her mind does not\nreason. She is possessed of a blind, vague feeling that her welfare\nis implicated with whatever is in that coffin, and a compelling hope\nin the efficiency of the mere act of opening it, as a sort of magic\nrite. She is buoyed up with uncertainty. Whether she finds something\nor nothing she will be brought face to face with final unmistakable\ndisappointment. I dread the moment of that realization.\u201d\n\n\u201cI felt something like that,\u201d said her brother. \u201cAnyhow I brought a\ndoctor with me, but she must not suspect that as long as we don\u2019t need\nhim.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is why your carriage has the shades down,\u201d Vargas hazarded.\n\n\u201cIs that the reason yours has its shades down?\u201d the other inquired.\n\n\u201cThat is it,\u201d Vargas confessed. \u201cI brought a doctor too.\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo doctors,\u201d commented Palgrave. \u201cLike a French duel. Hope it will\nend as harmlessly as the average French duel.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is almost too much to hope for,\u201d said Vargas. \u201cShe may pass the\ncritical instant safely. But even if she does she will be thrown back\ninto brooding over her troubles.\u201d\n\n\u201cHer troubles seem to me largely imaginary,\u201d said the clubman.\n\n\u201cAll the more danger in that,\u201d said Vargas. \u201cIf merely subjective.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn this case they ought to evaporate,\u201d said her brother, \u201cif she\nacted sensibly, and yet they are not wholly imaginary. I don\u2019t wonder\nthat she is troubled. David Llewellyn is not himself at all. His\ndead-and-alive demeanor is enough to prey on anybody\u2019s mind. Moping\nabout here with him makes it worse. But going for a cruise might cure\nboth of them and would be likely to wake him up and certain to clear\nher head. She ought to take your advice.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe will not,\u201d said Vargas dejectedly, \u201cand I scarcely wonder at\nher determination. Her dreams were enough to affect anybody. And the\nmessage on that slate was enough to influence anyone. Believing it\naddressed directly to her she is irresistibly urged to act upon it.\nI myself, merely a spectator, have been thrown by it into a terrible\nconfusion of my whole mentality. I have believed in no real mystery\nin the universe. I am confronted by an unblinkable, an insoluble\npuzzle. My reliance upon the laws of space and time, as we think we\nknow them, is, for the time being, wrenched from its foundations.\nMy faith in the indestructibility of matter, in the continuity of\nforce, in the fundamental laws of motion, is shaken and tottering. My\nbelief in the necessary sequence of cause and effect, in causation and\ncausality in general, is totally shattered. I could credit any marvel,\ncould accept any monstrous portent as altogether to be expected. The\nuniverse no longer seems to me a scene, at least in front of the great,\nblank curtain of the unknowable, filled by an orderly progress of\nmore or less cognizable and predictable occurrences, depending upon\ninterrelated causes; it seems the playground of the irresponsible,\nprankish, malevolent somethings, productive of incalculabilities. I am\nin a delirium of dread, in a daze of panic.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hardly follow your meaning,\u201d said the other, \u201cbut I feel we can do\nnothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Vargas, \u201cwe can only hope for the best and fear the worst.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what will be the worst?\u201d her brother demanded.\n\n\u201cI conceive,\u201d said Vargas, \u201cthat upon the opening of the coffin she\nwill suffer some sort of shock, whether it be from disappointment,\nsurprise, or whatever else. At the worst she might scream and drop dead\nbefore our eyes or shriek and hopelessly lose her reason.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Mr. Palgrave, \u201cthat would be the worst, I suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet,\u201d said Vargas, \u201cI cannot escape from the feeling that the\nworst, in some incalculable, unpredictable, inconceivable way, will\nbe something a great deal worse than that; something unimaginably,\nunutterably, ineffably worse than anything I can definitely put into\nwords or even vaguely think.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot express myself as fluently as you can,\u201d her brother\nresponded, \u201cbut I have had much the same sort of feeling. I have it\nnow. I feel as if I were not now in a cemetery for the purpose of being\npresent at the opening of a grave; but far away, or long ago, about to\nparticipate in some uncanny occurrence fit to make Saul\u2019s experience at\nEndor or Macbeth\u2019s with the witches seem humdrum and commonplace.\u201d\n\n\u201cI feel all that,\u201d said Vargas, \u201cand more; as if we were not\nourselves at all, but the actors in some vast drama of wretchedness,\napocalyptically ignorant of an enormous shadow of unescapable doom\nsteadily darkening over our impotence. We cannot modify, we cannot\nalter, we cannot change, we cannot ward off, we cannot even postpone\nwhat is about to happen.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is about to happen,\u201d said his companion, \u201cis going to happen now.\nHere they come.\u201d\n\nThe two men rose and watched the Llewellyn carriage draw up where\ntheirs had stopped. Its door opened and a large man stepped down.\n\nVargas had previously seen David Llewellyn only momentarily at a\ndistance, and now scrutinized him with much attention. He was a tall\nman, taller than his brother-in-law and was solidly and very compactly\nmade. His manner, as he turned to the carriage, was solicitous, and\ndeferential as he helped his wife out. As they approached, walking side\nby side, Vargas eyed the man. He was powerfully built and showed an\nimmense girth of chest. His close-cut beard did not disguise the type\nof his countenance, the face belonged to an athletic college-bred man,\nfirm chin, set lips, straight nose and clear gray eyes. He was very\nhandsome and reminders of what had been downright beauty in his boyhood\nwere manifest not only in the face but in the general effect of his\npresence.\n\nWithout any word, barely nodding to the two men, he halted some steps\naway, leaving his wife to advance alone. She greeted Vargas and,\nslipping her hand through the bend of her brother\u2019s arm, passed on\nalong the path with him. Vargas remained where he was, waiting for\nMr. Llewellyn to go first. He seemed, by a subtle and intangible\nsomething in his look and attitude, to signify that he disclaimed any\nparticipation in what was to take place. By an almost imperceptible\nnod of negation and a barely discernible gesture of affirmation he\nindicated that the clairvoyant was to precede him. Vargas complied and\nhobbled after the brother and sister. The superintendent came forward\nto meet them, and walked beside Mrs. Llewellyn, listening to her\ninstructions, and then going toward his assistants.\n\nThe space around their monument which was occupied by the Llewellyn\ngraves was encircled by a low hedge, not more than knee-high. It had\nan opening facing the monument and through this Mrs. Llewellyn and her\nbrother passed, Vargas some steps behind them. They stopped a pace or\ntwo from the foot of the grave, and turned about. Vargas, keeping his\ndistance, stopped likewise and likewise turned. Mr. Llewellyn, treading\nnoiselessly, had stepped aside from the path and took his stand just\ninside the hedge. The workmen straggled past him, the superintendent\nconvoying them. When they had begun to dig, Vargas, like the rest,\nwatched them. Presently he began to look about him and survey the\ncemetery, of which the knoll afforded an extensive view. The weather\ngave the prospect an unusual quality, the late spring or early summer\nwarmth was unrelieved by any positive breeze, the light air stirred\naimlessly, the cloudiness which completely overcast the sky was too\nthin to cut off the heat of the sunrays, the foliage was dusty and the\nlandscape a sickly yellowish green in the weak tepid sunshine. This\neery quality of the scene Vargas felt rather than saw. While the time\ntaken up with digging postponed the all-important moment, his attention\nwas divided between the monument and Mr. Llewellyn. He stood with his\nweight nearly all on one foot, leaning on the cane his left hand held,\nthe other gloved hand, holding his hat, hanging at his side. Gazing\nstraight in front of him toward the monument, rather than at it, there\nwas about him the look of something inanimate, of something made,\nnot grown, of an object immovably planted in carven, expressionless\nimpassivity. The monument, which Vargas saw for the first time, gave\nfrom the perfectly co\u00f6rdinated harmonies of its architectural design,\nits delicate reliefs, and its exquisite statuary, an impression of\nindividuality striking enough to any one at any time and all the more\nnow by contrast. Any one of its figures seemed instinct with more life\nthan the man facing it. That member of the little gathering who should\nhave been most moved, showed no emotion and Vargas himself felt much.\nAs the digging proceeded, he mostly gazed into the deepening pit, or\nwatched Mrs. Llewellyn\u2019s back as she stood clinging to her brother\u2019s\narm, leaning against him. When the workmen began to raise the coffin,\nhe found the emotions of his strained forebodings overmastering him.\nHis breath quickened and came hard, his heart thumped at his ribs,\nhis eyes were unexpectedly, inexplicably moist. Glancing back at the\nimmobile man behind him, through the iridescent film upon his lashes,\nhe saw but a blurred, vague shape. He strove to regain his composure,\nconning the outline of his own barely discernible shadow.\n\nThe outer box containing the raised coffin was now supported upon two\npieces of wood thrust under it across the grave. The men unscrewed the\nlid and laid it aside. The coffin was of ebony and as fresh as if just\nmade.\n\nThe men, at the superintendent\u2019s bidding, shambled away round the\nmonument and through the opening in the hedge behind it to the tree\nthey had left.\n\nThe superintendent began to take out the silver screws which held down\nthe lid over the glass front of the coffin-head. As they were removed\none by one, Vargas again glanced behind him. He saw worse than ever.\nThe outline of the big figure was almost indefinite, its bulk almost\nhazy.\n\nAs he turned his gaze again to the coffin his sight seemed to clear\nentirely. He saw even the silver rims round the screw-holes and the\nhead of the last screw. As the superintendent lifted the lid, Mrs.\nLlewellyn, now at the foot of the coffin, leaned forward, and her\nbrother and Vargas, now just behind her, leaned even more. Through the\nglass they saw a face, David Llewellyn\u2019s face. Mrs. Llewellyn screamed.\nAll three turned round. Save themselves and the superintendent and the\ndistant workmen there was no human shape in sight anywhere. The big,\nsolid presence had vanished.\n\nAgain screaming Mrs. Llewellyn threw herself on the coffin, the\ntwo men, scarcely less frantic than she, close by her. Through the\nglass they could see the face working, the eyelids fluttering. The\nsuperintendent toiled furiously at the catches of the glass front.\nWhen he lifted it away the eyes opened, gazing straight into Mrs.\nLlewellyn\u2019s. Almost at once they glazed, and a moment later the jaw\ndropped.\n\n                                                                   1906\n\n\n\n\n                                 AMINA\n\n\n\n\n                                 AMINA\n\n\nWALDO, brought face to face with the actuality of the unbelievable--as\nhe himself would have worded it--was completely dazed. In silence he\nsuffered the consul to lead him from the tepid gloom of the interior,\nthrough the ruinous doorway, out into the hot, stunning brilliance of\nthe desert landscape. Hassan followed, with never a look behind him.\nWithout any word he had taken Waldo\u2019s gun from his nerveless hand and\ncarried it, with his own and the consul\u2019s.\n\nThe consul strode across the gravelly sand, some fifty paces from the\nsouthwest corner of the tomb, to a bit of not wholly ruined wall from\nwhich there was a clear view of the doorway side of the tomb and of the\nside with the larger crevice.\n\n\u201cHassan,\u201d he commanded, \u201cwatch here.\u201d\n\nHassan said something in Persian.\n\n\u201cHow many cubs were there?\u201d the consul asked Waldo.\n\nWaldo stared mute.\n\n\u201cHow many young ones did you see?\u201d the consul asked again.\n\n\u201cTwenty or more,\u201d Waldo made answer.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s impossible,\u201d snapped the consul.\n\n\u201cThere seemed to be sixteen or eighteen,\u201d Waldo asserted. Hassan smiled\nand grunted. The consul took from him two guns, handed Waldo his, and\nthey walked around the tomb to a point about equally distant from the\nopposite corner. There was another bit of ruin, and in front of it, on\nthe side toward the tomb, was a block of stone mostly in the shadow of\nthe wall.\n\n\u201cConvenient,\u201d said the consul. \u201cSit on that stone and lean against the\nwall, make yourself comfortable. You are a bit shaken, but you will be\nall right in a moment. You should have something to eat, but we have\nnothing. Anyhow, take a good swallow of this.\u201d\n\nHe stood by him as Waldo gasped over the raw brandy.\n\n\u201cHassan will bring you his water-bottle before he goes,\u201d the consul\nwent on; \u201cdrink plenty, for you must stay here for some time. And now,\npay attention to me. We must extirpate these vermin. The male, I judge,\nis absent. If he had been anywhere about, you would not now be alive.\nThe young cannot be as many as you say, but, I take it, we have to deal\nwith ten, a full litter. We must smoke them out. Hassan will go back to\ncamp after fuel and the guard. Meanwhile, you and I must see that none\nescape.\u201d\n\nHe took Waldo\u2019s gun, opened the breech, shut it, examined the magazine\nand handed it back to him.\n\n\u201cNow watch me closely,\u201d he said. He paced off, looking to his left past\nthe tomb. Presently he stopped and gathered several stones together.\n\n\u201cYou see these?\u201d he called.\n\nWaldo shouted an affirmation.\n\nThe consul came back, passed on in the same line, looking to his right\npast the tomb, and presently, at a similar distance, put up another\ntiny cairn, shouted again and was again answered. Again he returned.\n\n\u201cNow you are sure you cannot mistake those two marks I have made?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery sure indeed,\u201d said Waldo.\n\n\u201cIt is important,\u201d warned the consul. \u201cI am going back to where I left\nHassan, to watch there while he is gone. You will watch here. You may\npace as often as you like to either of those stone heaps. From either\nyou can see me on my beat. Do not diverge from the line from one to the\nother. For as soon as Hassan is out of sight I shall shoot any moving\nthing I see nearer. Sit here till you see me set up similar limits for\nmy sentry-go on the farther side, then shoot any moving thing not on\nmy line of patrol. Keep a lookout all around you. There is one chance\nin a million that the male might return in daylight--mostly they are\nnocturnal, but this lair is evidently exceptional. Keep a bright\nlookout.\n\n\u201cAnd now listen to me. You must not feel any foolish sentimentalism\nabout any fancied resemblance of these vermin to human beings. Shoot,\nand shoot to kill. Not only is it our duty, in general, to abolish\nthem, but it will be very dangerous for us if we do not. There\nis little or no solidarity in Mohammedan communities, but on the\ncomparatively few points upon which public opinion exists it acts\nwith amazing promptitude and vigor. One matter as to which there is\nno disagreement is that it is incumbent upon every man to assist in\neradicating these creatures. The good old Biblical custom of stoning\nto death is the mode of lynching indigenous hereabouts. These modern\nAsiatics are quite capable of applying it to anyone believed derelict\nagainst any of these inimical monsters. If we let one escape and the\nrumor of it gets about, we may precipitate an outburst of racial\nprejudice difficult to cope with. Shoot, I say, without hesitation or\nmercy.\u201d\n\n\u201cI understand,\u201d said Waldo.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t care whether you understand or not,\u201d said the consul, \u201cI want\nyou to act. Shoot if needful, and shoot straight.\u201d And he tramped off.\n\nHassan presently appeared, and Waldo drank from his water-bottle as\nnearly all of its contents as Hassan would permit. After his departure\nWaldo\u2019s first alertness soon gave place to mere endurance of the\nmonotony of watching and the intensity of the heat. His discomfort\nbecame suffering, and what with the fury of the dry glare, the pangs of\nthirst and his bewilderment of mind, Waldo was moving in a waking dream\nby the time Hassan returned with two donkeys and a mule laden with\nbrushwood. Behind the beasts straggled the guard.\n\nWaldo\u2019s trance became a nightmare when the smoke took effect and the\nbattle began. He was, however, not only not required to join in the\nkilling, but was enjoined to keep back. He did keep very much in the\nbackground, seeing only so much of the slaughter as his curiosity\nwould not let him refrain from viewing. Yet he felt all a murderer\nas he gazed at the ten small carcasses laid out arow, and the memory\nof his vigil and its end, indeed of the whole day, though it was the\nday of his most marvelous adventure, remains to him as the broken\nrecollections of a phantasmagoria.\n\nOn the morning of his memorable peril Waldo had waked early. The\nexperiences of his sea-voyage, the sights at Gibraltar, at Port Said,\nin the canal, at Suez, at Aden, at Muscat, and at Basrah had formed an\naltogether inadequate transition from the decorous regularity of house\nand school life in New England to the breathless wonder of the desert\nimmensities.\n\nEverything seemed unreal, and yet the reality of its strangeness so\nbesieged him that he could not feel at home in it, he could not sleep\nheavily in a tent. After composing himself to sleep, he lay long\nconscious and awakened early, as on this morning, just at the beginning\nof the false-dawn.\n\nThe consul was fast asleep, snoring loudly. Waldo dressed quietly and\nwent out; mechanically, without any purpose or forethought, taking his\ngun. Outside he found Hassan, seated, his gun across his knees, his\nhead sunk forward, as fast asleep as the consul. Ali and Ibrahim had\nleft the camp the day before for supplies. Waldo was the only waking\ncreature about; for the guards, camped some little distance off, were\nbut logs about the ashes of their fire. Meaning merely to enjoy, under\nthe white glow of the false-dawn, the magical reappearance of the\nconstellations and the short last glory of the starladen firmament,\nthat brief coolness which compensated a trifle for the hot morning,\nthe fiery day and the warmish night, he seated himself on a rock, some\npaces from the tent and twice as far from the guards. Turning his\ngun in his hands he felt an irresistible temptation to wander off by\nhimself, to stroll alone through the fascinating emptiness of the arid\nlandscape.\n\nWhen he had begun camp life he had expected to find the consul, that\ncombination of sportsman, explorer and arch\u00e6ologist, a particularly\neasy-going guardian. He had looked forward to absolutely untramelled\nliberty in the spacious expanse of the limitless wastes. The reality he\nhad found exactly the reverse of his preconceptions. The consul\u2019s first\ninjunction was:\n\n\u201cNever let yourself get out of sight of me or of Hassan unless he or I\nsend you off with Ali or Ibrahim. Let nothing tempt you to roam about\nalone. Even a ramble is dangerous. You might lose sight of the camp\nbefore you knew it.\u201d\n\nAt first Waldo acquiesced, later he protested. \u201cI have a good\npocket-compass. I know how to use it. I never lost my way in the Maine\nwoods.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo Kourds in the Maine woods,\u201d said the consul.\n\nYet before long Waldo noticed that the few Kourds they encountered\nseemed simple-hearted, peaceful folk. No semblance of danger or\neven of adventure had appeared. Their armed guard of a dozen greasy\ntatterdemalions had passed their time in uneasy loafing.\n\nLikewise Waldo noticed that the consul seemed indifferent to the ruins\nthey passed by or encamped among, that his feeling for sites and\ntopography was cooler than lukewarm, that he showed no ardor in the\npursuit of the scanty and uninteresting game. He had picked up enough\nof several dialects to hear repeated conversations about \u201cthem.\u201d \u201cHave\nyou heard of any about here?\u201d \u201cHas one been killed?\u201d \u201cAny traces of\nthem in this district?\u201d And such queries he could make out in the\nvarious talks with the natives they met; as to what \u201cthey\u201d were he\nreceived no enlightenment.\n\nThen he had questioned Hassan as to why he was so restricted in his\nmovements. Hassan spoke some English and regaled him with tales of\nAfrits, ghouls, specters and other uncanny legendary presences; of the\njinn of the waste, appearing in human shape, talking all languages,\never on the alert to ensnare infidels; of the woman whose feet turned\nthe wrong way at the ankles, luring the unwary to a pool and there\ndrowning her victims; of the malignant ghosts of dead brigands, more\nterrible than their living fellows; of the spirit in the shape of a\nwild-ass, or of a gazelle, enticing its pursuers to the brink of a\nprecipice and itself seeming to run ahead upon an expanse of sand, a\nmere mirage, dissolving as the victim passed the brink and fell to\ndeath; of the sprite in the semblance of a hare feigning a limp, or of\na ground-bird feigning a broken wing, drawing its pursuer after it till\nhe met death in an unseen pit or well-shaft.\n\nAli and Ibrahim spoke no English. As far as Waldo could understand\ntheir long harangues, they told similar stories or hinted at dangers\nequally vague and imaginary. These childish bogy-tales merely whetted\nWaldo\u2019s craving for independence.\n\nNow, as he sat on a rock, longing to enjoy the perfect sky, the clear,\nearly air, the wide, lonely landscape, along with the sense of having\nit to himself, it seemed to him that the consul was merely innately\ncautious, over-cautious. There was no danger. He would have a fine\nleisurely stroll, kill something perhaps and certainly be back in camp\nbefore the sun grew hot. He stood up.\n\nSome hours later he was seated on a fallen coping-stone in the shadow\nof a ruined tomb. All the country they had been traversing is full\nof tombs and remains of tombs, prehistoric, Bactrian, old Persian,\nParthian, Sassanian, or Mohammedan, scattered everywhere in groups\nor solitary. Vanished utterly are the faintest traces of the cities,\ntowns, and villages, ephemeral houses or temporary huts, in which had\nlived the countless generations of mourners who had reared these tombs.\n\nThe tombs, built more durably than mere dwellings of the living,\nremained. Complete or ruinous, or reduced to mere fragments, they were\neverywhere. In that district they were all of one type. Each was domed\nand below was square, its one door facing eastward and opening into a\nlarge empty room, behind which were the mortuary chambers.\n\nIn the shadow of such a tomb Waldo sat. He had shot nothing, had lost\nhis way, had no idea of the direction of the camp, was tired, warm and\nthirsty. He had forgotten his water-bottle.\n\nHe swept his gaze over the vast, desolate prospect, the unvaried\nturquoise of the sky arched above the rolling desert. Far reddish hills\nalong the skyline hooped in the less distant brown hillocks which,\nwithout diversifying it, hummocked the yellow landscape. Sand and rocks\nwith a lean, starved bush or two made up the nearer view, broken here\nand there by dazzling white or streaked, grayish, crumbling ruins. The\nsun had not been long above the horizon, yet the whole surface of the\ndesert was quivering with heat.\n\nAs Waldo sat viewing the outlook a woman came round the corner of the\ntomb. All the village women Waldo had seen had worn yashmaks or some\nother form of face-covering or veil. This woman was bareheaded and\nunveiled. She wore some sort of yellowish-brown garment which enveloped\nher from neck to ankles, showing no waist line. Her feet, in defiance\nof the blistering sands, were bare.\n\nAt sight of Waldo she stopped and stared at him as he at her. He\nremarked the un-European posture of her feet, not at all turned out,\nbut with the inner lines parallel. She wore no anklets, he observed,\nno bracelets, no necklace or earrings. Her bare arms he thought the\nmost muscular he had ever seen on a human being. Her nails were pointed\nand long, both on her hands and feet. Her hair was black, short and\ntousled, yet she did not look wild or uncomely. Her eyes smiled and\nher lips had the effect of smiling, though they did not part ever so\nlittle, not showing at all the teeth behind them.\n\n\u201cWhat a pity,\u201d said Waldo aloud, \u201cthat she does not speak English.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do speak English,\u201d said the woman, and Waldo noticed that as she\nspoke, her lips did not perceptibly open. \u201cWhat does the gentleman\nwant?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou speak English!\u201d Waldo exclaimed, jumping to his feet. \u201cWhat luck!\nWhere did you learn it?\u201d\n\n\u201cAt the mission school,\u201d she replied, an amused smile playing about\nthe corners of her rather wide, unopening mouth. \u201cWhat can be done for\nyou?\u201d She spoke with scarcely any foreign accent, but very slowly and\nwith a sort of growl running along from syllable to syllable.\n\n\u201cI am thirsty,\u201d said Waldo, \u201cand I have lost my way.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the gentleman living in a brown tent, shaped like half a melon?\u201d\nshe inquired, the queer, rumbling note drawling from one word to the\nnext, her lips barely separated.\n\n\u201cYes, that is our camp,\u201d said Waldo.\n\n\u201cI could guide the gentleman that way,\u201d she droned; \u201cbut it is far, and\nthere is no water on that side.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want water first,\u201d said Waldo, \u201cor milk.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you mean cow\u2019s milk, we have none. But we have goat\u2019s milk. There\nis to drink where I dwell,\u201d she said, sing-songing the words. \u201cIt is\nnot far. It is the other way.\u201d\n\n\u201cShow me,\u201d said he.\n\nShe began to walk, Waldo, his gun under his arm, beside her. She\ntrod noiselessly and fast. Waldo could scarcely keep up with her. As\nthey walked he often fell behind and noted how her swathing garments\nclung to a lithe, shapely back, neat waist and firm hips. Each time\nhe hurried and caught up with her, he scanned her with intermittent\nglances, puzzled that her waist, so well-marked at the spine, showed\nno particular definition in front; that the outline of her from neck\nto knees, perfectly shapeless under her wrappings, was without any\nwaistline or suggestion of firmness or undulation. Likewise he remarked\nthe amused flicker in her eyes and the compressed line of her red, her\ntoo red lips.\n\n\u201cHow long were you in the mission school?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cFour years,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cAre you a Christian?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cThe Free-folk do not submit to baptism,\u201d she stated simply, but with\nrather more of the droning growl between her words.\n\nHe felt a queer shiver as he watched the scarcely moved lips through\nwhich the syllables edged their way.\n\n\u201cBut you are not veiled,\u201d he could not resist saying.\n\n\u201cThe Free-folk,\u201d she rejoined, \u201care never veiled.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you are not a Mohammedan?\u201d he ventured.\n\n\u201cThe Free-folk are not Moslems.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho are the Free-folk?\u201d he blurted out incautiously.\n\nShe shot one baleful glance at him. Waldo remembered that he had to do\nwith an Asiatic. He recalled the three permitted questions.\n\n\u201cWhat is your name?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cAmina,\u201d she told him.\n\n\u201cThat is a name from the \u2018Arabian Nights\u2019,\u201d he hazarded.\n\n\u201cFrom the foolish tales of the believers,\u201d she sneered. \u201cThe Free-folk\nknow nothing of such follies.\u201d The unvarying shutness of her speaking\nlips, the drawly burr between the syllables, struck him all the more as\nher lips curled but did not open.\n\n\u201cYou utter your words in a strange way,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cYour language is not mine,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cHow is it that you learned my language at the mission school and are\nnot a Christian?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey teach all at the mission school,\u201d she said, \u201cand the maidens\nof the Free-folk are like the other maidens they teach, though the\nFree-folk when grown are not as town-dwellers are. Therefore they\ntaught me as any townbred girl, not knowing me for what I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey taught you well,\u201d he commented.\n\n\u201cI have the gift of tongues,\u201d she uttered enigmatically, with an odd\nnote of triumph burring the words through her unmoving lips.\n\nWaldo felt a horrid shudder all over him, not only at her uncanny\nwords, but also from mere faintness.\n\n\u201cIs it far to your home?\u201d he breathed.\n\n\u201cIt is there,\u201d she said, pointing to the doorway of a large tomb just\nbefore them.\n\nThe wholly open arch admitted them into a fairly spacious interior,\ncool with the abiding temperature of thick masonry. There was no\nrubbish on the floor. Waldo, relieved to escape the blistering glare\noutside, seated himself on a block of stone midway between the door and\nthe inner partition-wall, resting his gun-butt on the floor. For the\nmoment he was blinded by the change from the insistent brilliance of\nthe desert morning to the blurred gray light of the interior.\n\nWhen his sight cleared he looked about and remarked, opposite the door,\nthe ragged hole which laid open the desecrated mausoleum. As his eyes\ngrew accustomed to the dimness he was so startled that he stood up. It\nseemed to him that from its four corners the room swarmed with naked\nchildren. To his inexperienced conjecture they seemed about two years\nold, but they moved with the assurance of boys of eight or ten.\n\n\u201cWhose are these children?\u201d he exclaimed.\n\n\u201cMine,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cAll yours?\u201d he protested.\n\n\u201cAll mine,\u201d she replied, a curious suppressed boisterousness in her\ndemeanor.\n\n\u201cBut there are twenty of them,\u201d he cried.\n\n\u201cYou count badly in the dark,\u201d she told him. \u201cThere are fewer.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere certainly are a dozen,\u201d he maintained, spinning round as they\ndanced and scampered about.\n\n\u201cThe Free-people have large families,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cBut they are all of one age,\u201d Waldo exclaimed, his tongue dry against\nthe roof of his mouth.\n\nShe laughed, an unpleasant, mocking laugh, clapping her hands. She was\nbetween him and the doorway, and as most of the light came from it he\ncould not see her lips.\n\n\u201cIs not that like a man! No woman would have made that mistake.\u201d\n\nWaldo was confuted and sat down again. The children circulated around\nhim, chattering, laughing, giggling, snickering, making noises\nindicative of glee.\n\n\u201cPlease get me something cool to drink,\u201d said Waldo, and his tongue was\nnot only dry but big in his mouth.\n\n\u201cWe shall have to drink shortly,\u201d she said, \u201cbut it will be warm.\u201d\n\nWaldo began to feel uneasy. The children pranced around him, jabbering\nstrange, guttural noises, licking their lips, pointing at him, their\neyes fixed on him, with now and then a glance at their mother.\n\n\u201cWhere is the water?\u201d\n\nThe woman stood silent, her arms hanging at her sides, and it seemed to\nWaldo she was shorter than she had been.\n\n\u201cWhere is the water?\u201d he repeated.\n\n\u201cPatience, patience,\u201d she growled, and came a step near to him.\n\nThe sunlight struck upon her back and made a sort of halo about her\nhips. She seemed still shorter than before. There was a something\nfurtive in her bearing, and the little ones sniggered evilly.\n\nAt that instant two rifle shots rang out almost as one. The woman\nfell face downward on the floor. The babies shrieked in a shrill\nchorus. Then she leapt up from all fours with an explosive suddenness,\nstaggered in a hurled, lurching rush toward the hole in the wall, and,\nwith a frightful yell, threw up her arms and whirled backward to the\nground, doubled and contorted like a dying fish, stiffened, shuddered\nand was still. Waldo, his horrified eyes fixed on her face, even in his\namazement noted that her lips did not open.\n\nThe children, squealing faint cries of dismay, scrambled through the\nhole in the inner wall, vanishing into the inky void beyond. The last\nhad hardly gone when the consul appeared in the doorway, his smoking\ngun in his hand.\n\n\u201cNot a second too soon, my boy,\u201d he ejaculated. \u201cShe was just going to\nspring.\u201d\n\nHe cocked his gun and prodded the body with the muzzle.\n\n\u201cGood and dead,\u201d he commented. \u201cWhat luck! Generally it takes three or\nfour bullets to finish one. I\u2019ve known one with two bullets through her\nlungs to kill a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you murder this woman?\u201d Waldo demanded fiercely.\n\n\u201cMurder?\u201d the consul snorted. \u201cMurder! Look at that.\u201d\n\nHe knelt down and pulled open the full, close lips, disclosing not\nhuman teeth, but small incisors, cusped grinders, wide-spaced; and\nlong, keen, overlapping canines, like those of a greyhound: a fierce,\ndeadly, carnivorous dentition, menacing and combative.\n\nWaldo felt a qualm, yet the face and form still swayed his horrified\nsympathy for their humanness.\n\n\u201cDo you shoot women because they have long teeth?\u201d Waldo insisted,\nrevolted at the horrid death he had watched.\n\n\u201cYou are hard to convince,\u201d said the consul sternly. \u201cDo you call that\na woman?\u201d\n\nHe stripped the clothing from the carcass.\n\nWaldo sickened all over. What he saw was not the front of a woman,\nbut more like the underside of an old fox-terrier with puppies, or of\na white sow, with her second litter; from collar-bone to groin ten\nlolloping udders, two rows, mauled, stringy and flaccid.\n\n\u201cWhat kind of a creature is it?\u201d he asked faintly.\n\n\u201cA Ghoul, my boy,\u201d the consul answered solemnly, almost in a whisper.\n\n\u201cI thought they did not exist,\u201d Waldo babbled. \u201cI thought they were\nmythical; I thought there were none.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can very well believe that there are none in Rhode Island,\u201d the\nconsul said gravely. \u201cThis is in Persia, and Persia is in Asia.\u201d\n\n                                                                   1906\n\n\n\n\n                           THE PIG-SKIN BELT\n\n\n\n\n                           THE PIG-SKIN BELT\n\n\n                                   I\n\n\nBE it noted that I, John Radford, always of sound mind and\nmatter-of-fact disposition, being entirely in my senses, here set down\nwhat I saw, heard and knew. As to my inferences from what occurred I\nsay nothing, my theory might be regarded as more improbable than the\nfacts themselves. From the facts anyone can draw conclusions as well as\nI.\n\nThe first letter read:\n\n                         \u201cSan Antonio, Texas,\n                                                     January 1st, 1892.\n\nMY DEAR RADFORD:\n\n You have forgotten me, likely enough, but I have not forgotten you nor\n anyone (nor anything) in Brexington. I saw your advertisement in the\n New York _Herald_ and am glad to learn from it that you are alive\n and to infer that you are well and prosperous.\n\n I need a lawyer\u2019s help. I want to buy real estate and I mean to return\n home, so you are exactly the man I am looking for. I am writing this\n to ask that you take charge of any and all of my affairs falling\n within your province, and to learn whether you are willing to do so.\n\n I am a rich man now, and without any near ties of kin or kind. I want\n to come home to Brexington, to live there if I can, to die there if I\n must. Along with other matters which I will explain if you accept I\n want to buy a house in the town and a farm nearby, if not the Shelby\n house and estate then some others like them.\n\n If willing to act for me please reply at once care of the Hotel\n Menger. Remember me to any cousins of mine you may see.\n\n                           Faithfully yours,\n                                                      CASSIUS M. CASE.\u201d\n\nThe name I knew well enough, of course, but my efforts to recall the\nindividual resulted only in a somewhat hazy recollection of a tall,\nthin, red-cheeked lad of seventeen or so. It was almost exactly\ntwenty-eight years since Colonel Shelby Case had left Brexington\ntaking with him his son. Colonel Shelby had died some six years later.\nI remembered hearing of his death, in Egypt, I thought. Since his\ndeparture from Brexington I had never heard of or from Cassius.\n\nMy reply I wrote at once, professing my readiness to do anything in my\npower to serve him.\n\nAs soon as the mails made it possible, I had a second letter from him.\n\n\u201cMY DEAR RADFORD:\n\n \u201cYour kind letter has taken a load off my mind. I am particular about\n any sort of arrangements I make, exacting as to the accurate carrying\n out of small details and I feared I might have difficulty in finding a\n painstaking man in a community so easy-going as Brexington. I remember\n your precise ways as a boy and am basking in a sense of total relief\n and complete reliance on you.\n\n \u201cI should buy the Shelby house and estate on your representations, but\n I must see for myself first. If they are the best I can get I shall\n take them anyhow. But please be ready to show me over every estate\n of five hundred acres or more, lying within ten miles of the Court\n House. I wish to examine every one which is now for sale or which you\n can induce the owners to consider selling. I want the best which is\n to be had. Also I want a small place of fifty acres or so, two miles\n or more from the larger place I buy. Money is no object to me and the\n condition of the buildings on the places will not weigh with me at all.\n\n \u201cSo with the town house: I may tear it down entirely and rebuild from\n the cellar up. What I want in the town is a place of half an acre\n to two acres carrying fine, tall trees, with well-developed trunks.\n I want shade and plenty of it, but no limbs or branches growing or\n hanging within eight feet of the ground. I do not desire shrubbery,\n but if there is any I can have it removed, while I cannot create stout\n trees. Those I must have on the place when I buy it, for I will have\n the shade and I will have a clear sweep for air and an unobstructed\n view all round.\n\n \u201cI am not at the Menger as you naturally suppose. I merely have my\n mail sent there. I am living in a tent half a mile or more from the\n town. At Los Angeles I had the luck to fall in with a Brexington\n nigger, Jeff Twibill. He knew of another, Cato Johnson, who was in\n Frisco. I have the two of them with me now, Jeff takes care of the\n horses and Cato of me and I am very comfortable.\n\n \u201cThat brings me to the arrangements I want you to make for me. Buy or\n lease or rent or borrow a piece of a field, say four acres, free of\n trees or bushes and sloping enough to shed the rain. Be sure there is\n good water handy. Have four tents; one for me, one for the two niggers\n (and make it big enough for three or four); one to cook in and one\n for my four horses, they are luxurious beasts and live as well as I\n do. Have the tents pitched in the middle of the field so I shall have\n a clear view all around. The field must be clear of bushes or trees,\n must be at least four acres and may be any size larger than that:\n forty would be none too big for me. I want no houses too close to me.\n\n \u201cYou see I am at present averse to houses, hotels and public\n conveyances. I mean to ride across the continent camping as I go. And\n in Brexington I mean to tent it until I have my own house ready to\n live in. I am resolute to be no man\u2019s guest nor any man\u2019s lodger, nor\n any company\u2019s passenger.\n\n \u201cI am coming home, Radford, coming home to be a Colonel with the rest\n of them. And I shall be no mere colonel-by-courtesy: I have won my\n right to the title, I won it twice over, years ago in Egypt and later\n in Asia.\n\n \u201cThank you for all the news of the many cousins, I did not realize\n they were so very numerous. I am sorry that Mary Mattingly is dead, of\n all the many dear people in Brexington I loved her best.\n\n \u201cI shall keep you advised of my progress across the continent. And\n as questions come up about the details of the tent-equipment you can\n confer with me by letter.\n\n                          \u201cGratefully yours,\n                                                     \u201cCASSIUS M. CASE.\u201d\n\nI showed the letters to one and another of my elder acquaintances, who\nremembered Cassius.\n\nDr. Boone said:\n\n\u201cI presume it is a case of advanced tuberculosis. He should have\nremained in that climate. Of course, he may live a long time here,\ntenting in the open or living with the completest fresh air treatment.\nHis punctiliousness in respect to self isolation does him credit,\nthough he carries it further than is necessary. We must do all we can\nfor him.\u201d\n\nBeverly said:\n\n\u201cPoor devil. \u2018Live if he can, die if he must.\u2019 He\u2019ll die all right.\nThey\u2019d call him a \u2018lunger\u2019 out there and he had better stay there.\u201d\n\nThe minister said:\n\n\u201cThe lode-star of old sweet memories draws him homeward. \u2018Mary\nMattingly,\u2019 yes we all remember how wildly he loved Mary Mattingly.\nWhile full of youth he could find forgetfulness fighting in strange\nlands. Now he must be near her although she lies in her grave. The\nproximity even of her tomb will be a solace to his last days.\u201d\n\nWe were prepared to do all that sympathy could suggest. Mr. Hall and\nDr. Boone gravely discussed together the prolongation of Case\u2019s life\nand the affording of spiritual support. Beverly I found helpful on my\nline of finances and creature comforts. As Case\u2019s leisurely progress\nbrought him nearer and nearer our interest deepened. When the day came\non which he was to arrive Beverly and I rode put out to meet him.\n\n\n                                  II\n\n\nLanguage has no words to picture our dumbfounded amazement. And we were\nastonished in more ways than one. Chiefly, instead of the lank invalid\nwe expected to see, we beheld a burly giant every characteristic of\nwhom, save one, bespoke rugged health. He was all of six foot three,\nbig boned, overlaid with a surplus of brawn, a Samsonian musculature\nthat showed plain through his negligent, loose clothing; and withal\nhe was plump and would have been sleek but for the roughness of his\nweather-beaten skin.\n\nHe wore gray; a broad-brimmed felt hat, almost a sombrero; a flannel\nshirt, a sort of jacket, and corduroy trousers tucked into his boots.\nIt was before the days of khaki.\n\nHis head was large and round, but not at all a bullet head, rather\nhandsome and well set. His face was round too, and good-natured,\nbut not a particle as is the usual round face, vacuous and like a\nfull-moon. His was agreeable, but lit with character and determination.\nHis neck was fat but showed great cords through its rotundity. He had a\nbig barrel of a chest and his voice rumbled out of it. He dominated the\nlandscape the moment he entered it.\n\nEven in our astonishment three things about him struck me, and, as I\nafterwards found out, the same three similarly struck Beverly.\n\nOne was his complexion. He had that build which leads one to expect\nfloridity of face, a rubicund countenance or, at least, ruddy cheeks.\nBut he was dead pale, with a peculiar tint I never had seen before. His\nface showed an abundance of solid muscle and over it a skin roughened\nby exposure, toughened, even hardened by wind and sun. Yet its color\nwas not in agreement with its texture. It had the hue which belongs to\nwaxy skin over suety, tallowy flesh, an opaque whiteness, a pallidity\nalmost corpse-like.\n\nThe second was his glance: keen, glittering, hard, blue-gray eyes he\nhad, gallant and far younger than himself. But it was not the handsome\neyes so much as their way of looking that whetted our attention. They\npierced us through and through, they darted incessantly here and there,\nthey peered to right and left, they kept us generally in view, indeed,\nand never let us feel that his attention wandered from us, yet they\nincessantly swept the world about him. You should say they saw all they\nlooked at, looked at everything seeable.\n\nThe third was his belt, a mellowed old belt of pig-skin, with two\ncapacious holsters, from each of which protruded the butt of a\nlarge-calibre revolver.\n\nHe greeted us in the spirit of old comradeship renewed. Behind him Jeff\nand Cato grinned from their tired mounts. He sat his big horse with no\nsign of fatigue and surveyed the landscape from the cross-roads\u2019 knoll\nwhere we had met him.\n\n\u201cI seem to recall the landmarks here,\u201d he said, \u201cthe left hand road by\nwhich you came, would take me through to Brexington.\u201d\n\nBeverly confirmed his recollection.\n\n\u201cThe one straight ahead,\u201d he went on, \u201cgoes past the big new distillery\nyou wrote me about.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight again,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cThe road to the right,\u201d he continued, \u201cwill take us by the old mill,\nand I can swing round to my camp without nearing town.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could,\u201d Beverly told. \u201cBut it is a long way round.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot too far for me,\u201d he announced positively. \u201cNo towns or\ndistilleries for me. I go round. Will you ride with me, gentlemen?\u201d\n\nWe rode with him.\n\nOn the way I told him I expected him to supper that evening.\n\n\u201cWith all my writing, Radford,\u201d he said. \u201cYou don\u2019t seem to get the\nidea. I flock by myself for the present and eat alone. If you insist\nI\u2019ll explain to-morrow.\u201d\n\nBeverly and I left him to his camp supper.\n\nDr. Boone and Mr. Hall were a good deal taken aback upon learning that\ntheir imagined invalid had no existence and that the real Colonel Case\nneeded neither medical assistance nor spiritual solace. We four sat for\nsome time expressing our bewilderment.\n\n\nNext morning I drove out to Case\u2019s Camp. I found him sitting in his\ntent, the flaps of which were looped up all around. He was as pale\nas the day before. As I approached I saw him scrutinize me with a\nsearching gaze, a gaze I found it difficult to analyze.\n\nHe wore his belt with the holsters and the revolver-butts showed from\nthose same holsters. I was astonished at this. When I saw it on him\nthe day before I had thought the belt a piece of bad taste. It might\nhave been advisable in portions of his long ride, might have been\nimperatively necessary in some districts; but it seemed a pose or a\nstupidity to wear it so far east. Pistols were by no means unknown in\nour part of the world, but they were carried in the seclusion of the\nhip-pocket or inside the breast of one\u2019s coat, not flaunted in the face\nof the populace in low-hung pig-skin holsters.\n\nCase greeted me cheerily.\n\n\u201cI got up too early,\u201d he stated. \u201cI\u2019ve had my breakfast and done my\ntarget practice twice over. Apparently you expect me to go with you in\nthat buggy?\u201d\n\nI told him that I did.\n\n\u201cCome in and sit down a moment,\u201d he said in a somewhat embarrassed way.\n\u201cThis suggestion of our driving together is in line with your kind\ninvitation for last night. I see I must explain somehow.\u201d\n\nHe offered me a cigar and though I seldom smoke in the morning, I took\nit, for, I thought smoking would fill up the silences I anticipated.\n\nHe puffed a while, in fact.\n\n\u201cHave you ever been among feudists in the mountains?\u201d he queried.\n\n\u201cMore than a little,\u201d I told him.\n\n\u201cLikely enough then,\u201d he went on, \u201cyou know more about their ways\nthan I do. But I saw something of them myself, before I left America.\nDid you ever notice how a man at either focus of a feud, the king-pin\nof his end of it so to speak, manifests the greatest care to avoid\npermitting others to expose themselves to any degree of the danger\nalways menacing him; how such men, in the black shadow of doom, as\nit were, are solicitous to prevent outsiders from straying into the\npenumbra of the eclipse which threatens themselves?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have observed that,\u201d I replied.\n\n\u201cHave you noticed on the other hand,\u201d he continued, \u201cthat they never\nshow any concern for acquaintances who comprehend the situation, but\npay them the compliment of assuming that they have sense enough to know\nwhat they are doing and to take care of themselves?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have observed that same too,\u201d I affirmed.\n\nHe puffed again for a while.\n\n\u201cMy father,\u201d he returned presently, \u201cused to say that there are two\nends to a quarrel, the right end and the wrong end, but that either end\nof a feud is the wrong end. I am one end of a feud. Wherever I am is\none focus of that feud. The other focus is local, and I have removed\nmyself as far as may be from it. But I am not safe here, should not\nbe safe anywhere on earth; doubt if I should be safe on the moon, or\nMars, on a planet of some other sun, or the least conspicuous satellite\nof the farthest star. I am obnoxious to the hate of a power as\nfar-reaching\u201d ... he took off his broad felt hat and looked up at the\ncanvas of the tent-roof ... \u201cas far-reaching as the displeasure of God.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd as implacable,\u201d he almost whispered. \u201cAs the malice of Satan.\u201d\n\nHe looked sane, healthy and self-possessed.\n\n\u201cI am nowhere safe,\u201d he recommenced in his natural voice, \u201cwhile my\nchief adversary is alive. My enemies are many and malignant enough,\nbut their power is negligible, and their malignancy vicarious. Without\nfomenting their hostility would evaporate. Could I but know that my\nchief enemy were no more I should be free from all alarm. But while\nthat arch-foe survives I am liable to attack at any moment, to attacks\nso subtle that I am at a loss to make you comprehend their possible\nnature, so crude that I could not make you realize the danger you are\nin at this instant.\u201d\n\nI looked at him, unmoved.\n\n\u201cI shall say no more to you,\u201d he said. \u201cYou must do as you please. If\nyou regard my warnings as vapors, I have at least warned you. If you\nare willing to share my danger, in such degree as my very neighborhood\nis always full of danger, you do so at your own risk. If you consider\nit advisable to have no more to do with me, say so now.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see no reason,\u201d I told him without even a preliminary puff, \u201cwhy\nyour utterances should make any difference in my treatment of you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought you would say that,\u201d he said. \u201cBut my conscience is clear.\u201d\n\n\u201cShall we proceed to business?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cThere is one point more,\u201d he replied. \u201cHave you ever been in mining\ncamps or amid other frontier conditions?\u201d\n\n\u201cSeveral times,\u201d I answered, \u201cand for some time at that.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you ever noticed that when two men have been mutually threatening\nto shoot each other at sight, pending the final settlement, neither\nwill expose women or children to danger by being in their neighborhood\nor permitting them in his, if he can prevent their nearing them?\u201d\n\n\u201cSuch scrupulosity can be observed,\u201d I told him dryly, \u201cnearer home\nthan mining camps or frontier towns.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo I have heard,\u201d he replied stiffly. \u201cWhen I left America the\npersonal encounter had not yet taken the place of the formal duel in\nthese regions.\u201d\n\nHe puffed a bit.\n\n\u201cHowever,\u201d he continued, \u201cit makes no difference from what part of the\nworld you draw the illustration; it is equally in point. The danger of\nbeing near me is a hundred times, a thousand times greater than that of\nrunning the risk of stopping a wild or random bullet. I cannot bring\nmyself to expose innocent beings to such danger.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow about Jeff and Cato?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cA nigger,\u201d declared Colonel Case (and he looked all the colonel as he\nspoke it) \u201cis like a dog or a horse, he shares his master\u2019s dangers\nas a matter of course. I speak of women and children and unsuspecting\nmen. I am resolute to sit at no man\u2019s table, to enter no man\u2019s house,\nuninvited or invited. All who come to me knowingly I shall welcome.\nWhen you bring any one with you I shall assume that he has been\nforewarned. But I shall intrude upon no one.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow then are you to inspect,\u201d I queried, \u201cthe properties I expected to\nshow you?\u201d\n\n\u201cBusiness,\u201d said Colonel Case, \u201cis different. When people propose to do\nbusiness they assume any and all risks. Are you afraid to assume the\nrisk of driving me about in that buggy of yours?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a particle,\u201d I disclaimed. \u201cAre you willing to expose the people\nof Brexington to these dangers on which you descant so eloquently and\nwhich I fail to comprehend?\u201d\n\nColonel Case fixed me with a cold stare. He looked every inch a\nwarrior, accustomed to dominate his environment, to command and be\nobeyed, impatient of any opposition, ready to flare up if disbelieved\nin the smallest trifle.\n\n\u201cRadford,\u201d he said, slowly and sternly, \u201cI am willing to take any pains\nto avoid wronging anyone, I am unwilling to make myself ridiculous by\nattempting impossibilities.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see,\u201d I concluded. \u201cLet us go.\u201d\n\n\n                                  III\n\n\nAs we drove through the town he said:\n\n\u201cThis is like coming back to earth from another world. It is like a\ndream too. Some streets are just as they were, only the faces are\nunfamiliar. I almost expect to see the ghosts of thirty years ago.\u201d\n\nI made some vague comment and as we jogged along talked of the\nunchanged or new owners of the houses. Then I felt him make a sudden\nmovement beside me, and I looked round at him. He could not turn any\npaler than he was, yet there had been a change in his face.\n\n\u201cI do see ghosts,\u201d he said slowly and softly.\n\nI followed his glance as he gazed past me. We were approaching the\nKenton homestead and nearly opposite it. It had an old-fashioned\nclassic portico with four big white columns. At the top of the steps,\nbetween the two middle columns, stood Mary Kenton, all in pink with a\nrose in her jetty hair. She was looking intently at us, but not at me.\nCase stared at her fixedly.\n\n\u201cMary Kenton is the picture of her mother,\u201d I told him.\n\n\u201cHer very image,\u201d he breathed, his eyes steadily on her.\n\nShe continued gazing at us. Of course she knew whom I was driving. My\nhorses were trotting slowly and when we were opposite her, she waved\nher hand.\n\n\u201cWelcome home, Cousin Cassius,\u201d she called cheerily.\n\nColonel Case waved his hat to her and bowed, but said nothing.\n\n\nThe Shelby mansion did not suit Colonel Case. What he wanted, he said,\nwas a house at the edge of the town. When he had made his selection\nhe bought it promptly. He had the outbuildings razed, the shrubbery\ntorn up and the trees trimmed so that no limb hung within ten feet of\nthe ground; above they were left untouched, tall and spreading as they\nwere and almost interlacing with each other. The house he practically\nrebuilt. Its all-round veranda he had torn down and replaced by one\neven broader, but at the front only, facing the entrance, the only\nentrance he left. For he entirely closed the back-way to the kitchen\nand side-gate to the stable, cutting instead a loop-drive around the\nhouse from the one front entrance.\n\nExcept for this stone-posted carriage-gate with the little footpath\ngate beside it, he had the whole place surrounded with a fence the\nlike of which Brexington had never seen. The posts were T-beams, of\nrolled steel, eight feet tall above ground, reaching six feet below it\nand bedded down in rammed concrete. To these was bolted a four-foot\ncontinuous, square-mesh wire fencing, the meshes not over six inches\nat its top and as small as two inches at the bottom, which was sunk a\nhand\u2019s breadth below the surface and there held by close-set clamps\nupon sections of gas-pipe, extending from post to post and bolted to\nthem. Inside this mesh-fencing, as high as it reached, and above it to\nthe top of the posts, were strung twenty strands of heavy barbed wire,\nthe upper wires six inches apart, the lower strands closer. Inside the\nfence he had set a close hedge. As the plants composing it were large\nand vigorous when they arrived from the nurseryman, this was soon\nthick and strong. It was kept clipped to about three feet high. The\nflower-beds he abolished and from house to drive and drive to hedge\nsoon had the whole place in well-kept turf.\n\nBehind the house he had two outbuildings erected; at one corner a small\ncarriage-house and stable, capable of holding two vehicles and three\nhorses; at the other a structure of about the same size as the stable,\nhalf wood-shed and half hen-house.\n\nWatching the carpenters at work on this and regarding the\nnine-days-wonder of a fence, several negroes stood in talk one day as I\npassed. They were laughing and I overheard one say:\n\n\u201cMahs\u2019r Case shuah ain\u2019 gwine tuh lose no hains awf he roos\u2019. Mus be\ngwine tuh be powerful fine hains he gwine raise. He sutt\u2019nly mus\u2019 sot\nstoah by he hains. He sutt\u2019nly dun tuk en\u2019 spain\u2019 cunnsdd\u2019ble money awn\nhe faince.\u201d\n\nThe interior of the house was finished plainly and furnished sparingly.\nThe very day it was ready for occupancy he moved into it and ceased his\ncamp life. Besides Cato, an old negro named Samson acted as cook, and\nanother named Pompey as butler. These three made up all his household.\nJeff was quartered in a room over the carriage-house.\n\nBefore his residence was prepared and while he was still camping he\nbought Shelby Manor.\n\n\u201cNothing like obliging one\u2019s cousins,\u201d he said. He also bought two\nadjoining farms, forming a property of over a thousand acres. This\nhe proceeded to equip as a stud farm, engaging a competent manager;\nrefitting the house for him and the two smaller houses for his\nassistants, the overseer and farmer; abolishing the old outbuildings;\nputting up barns and stables in the most lavish fashion. He bought many\nblooded mares and created an establishment on a large scale.\n\n\nAbout two miles out of town on the road past his house, nearly half\nway to Shelby Manor, he bought a worthless little farm of some forty\nacres. This he had fenced and put in grass, except a small garden-patch\nby the house, which he had made snug and where he had installed an\nelderly negro couple as caretakers. The old man had formerly belonged\nto the Colonel\u2019s father, and was named Erastus Everett. All the other\nbuildings he had removed, except a fair-sized hay barrack standing on\na knoll near the middle of the largest field. This he had new roofed\nand repaired and given two coats of shingle stain, moss green on the\nroof and weather gray on the sides. In it he had ranked up some forty\ncords of fat pine wood. Near the house was built a small stable, which\nharbored the two mules Case allowed uncle Rastus.\n\nBesides this he had built a number of low sheds, opening on spaces\nenclosed with wire netting. Soon the enclosures swarmed with dogs, not\nblooded dogs, but mere mongrel curs. Not a small dog among them, all\nwere big or fairly large. Uncle Rastus drove about the country in his\nbig close-covered wagon, behind his two mules. Wherever he found an\nutterly worthless dog of some size he bought it, if it could be had\ncheap, and turned it in with the rest. Before a year had passed uncle\nRastus had more than a hundred no-account brutes to feed and care for.\n\nColonel Case was not a man to whom anyone, least of all a stranger,\nwould put a direct unsolicited question. Uncle Rastus was more\napproachable. But the curious gained little information from him.\n\n\u201cMahs\u2019r Cash ain\u2019 tole muh wuff\u2019r he keepin\u2019 awl dees yeah houns. He\nain\u2019 spoke nuffin. He done tole muh tur buy \u2019um, he done tole muh to\nfeed \u2019um. Ahze buyed \u2019um en\u2019 Ah feeds \u2019um.\u201d\n\nOnce he had established himself Case lived an extremely regular life.\nHe rose early, breakfasted simply, and whatever the weather, drove\nout to Shelby Manor. He never rode in the forenoon. At his estate he\nhad a pistol-range and a rifle-range. He spent nearly an hour each\nmorning in pistol and rifle practice. He never used a shot-gun, but\nshot at targets, running marks, and trap-sprung clay-pigeons with both\nrepeating rifle and revolver. He always carried his two repeating\nrifles with him, and brought them back with him. Several times, when I\nhappened to accompany him, I watched him shoot.\n\nThe first time I was rather surprised. He emptied the chambers of one\nrevolver, made some fifty shots with it, cleaned it, replaced the six\ncartridges which had been in it, and put it in its holster. Then he\ndid the like with the other. Then he similarly emptied the magazines\nof one of his rifles, made some fifty shots with that, cleaned it and\nreloaded it with the original cartridges. So with the second rifle.\n\nI asked him why he did so.\n\n\u201cThe cartridges I go about with,\u201d he said, \u201care loaded with silver\nbullets. I can\u2019t afford to fire away two or three pounds of silver\nevery day. Lead keeps my hand in just as well as silver, and the silver\nbullets are always ready for an emergency.\u201d\n\nAgainst such an imaginary emergency, I conceived he wore his belt and\nkept his two rifles always at hand.\n\nAfter his target practice he talked with his manager, looked over the\nplace, discussed his stock or watched his jockeys exercising their\nmounts, for an hour or two. Once a week or so on his way back to town\nhe stopped to inspect uncle Rastus\u2019 charges, and investigate his\ndoings. His early lunch was almost as simple as his breakfast. After\nhis lunch he slept an hour or more. Later he took a long ride, seldom\ntoward Shelby Manor. Always, both in going and in returning, he rode\npast Judge Kenton\u2019s mansion. At first his hour of starting on his ride\nvaried. Before many days he so timed his setting forth as to pass the\nKenton house when Mary was likely to be at her window, and his riding\nhomeward when she was likely to be on the portico. After a time she\nwas sure to be at her window when he passed and on the portico when\nhe repassed, and his departure and return occurred with clock-work\nregularity. When she was at her window, they never gave any sign of\nmutual recognition, but when she was on the portico she waved her hand\nto him and he his hat to her.\n\nTowards dusk in summer, after lamplight in winter, he ate a deliberate\ndinner. It never seemed to make a particle of difference to him how\nearly he went to bed or how late, or whether he went to bed at all.\nHe was quite capable of sitting all night at cards if the game was\nespecially interesting. Yet he never made a habit of late hours. He\nwas an inveterate card-player, but play at his house generally ceased\nbefore midnight and often much earlier. He could drink all night long,\nfour fingers deep and often, and never seem the worse for it. Yet it\nwas very seldom he did so. Habitually he drank freely after dinner, but\nno effects of liquor were ever visible on him. His liquors were the\nbest and always set out in abundance. His cigars were as good as his\nliquors and spread out in similar profusion. His wines at dinner were\nunsurpassable and numerous. The dinners themselves could not have been\nbeaten. Uncle Samson was an adept at marketing and a superlative cook.\nPompey was an ideal butler. They seemed always ready to serve dinner\nfor their master alone without waste or for a dozen more also without\nany sign of effort or dismay. As Case made welcome to his dinner table\nas to his card table anyone who happened to drop in, he had no lack\nof guests. All the bachelors of Brexington flocked to him as a matter\nof course. The heads of families were puzzled. One after another they\ninvited him to their houses. His refusals were courteous but firm: for\nexplanations he referred them to me. Most of them accepted my dilution\nof his utterances and acquiesced in his lopsided hospitality. One or\ntwo demurred and laid special siege to him. Particularly Judge Kenton\nwould not be denied. When he was finally convinced that Colonel Case\nwould not respond to any invitation, he declared his resolution not\nto cross Case\u2019s threshold until his several visits there were properly\nacknowledged by a return call at his house. Intercourse between him\nand Case thereupon ceased. Judge Kenton, however, was alone in his\npunctilious attitude. Everybody else frequented Case\u2019s house and table.\nHis house indeed became a sort of informal club for all the most\nagreeable men of the town and neighborhood. It was not mere creature\ncomforts or material attractions which drew them there, but the very\nreal charm of the host. Even while he was tenting, before the house was\nready for occupancy, he had made friends, according to their degree,\nwith every man in and about Brexington, white or black. Everybody knew\nhim, everybody liked him, everybody wondered at him.\n\n\n                                  IV\n\n\nCase was in fact the most discussed man in our region of the world.\nSome called him a lunatic, dwelling especially on his dog-ranch, as\nhe called it, and his everlasting pig-skin belt with the holstered\nrevolvers, without which he was never seen at any hour of the day, by\nany one. It was difficult for his most enthusiastic partisans to assign\nany colorable reason why he should maintain a farm for the support of\nsome two hundred totally worthless dogs. Their worthlessness was the\nmain point which uncle Rastus made in buying them. Often he rejected a\ndog proffered for little or almost nothing.\n\n\u201cNo seh,\u201d he would say. \u201cDat ar dawg ain\u2019 no \u2019count enuff. Mah\u2019sr Cash\nhe dun awdah muh dat Ah ain\u2019 buy no dawg wut ain\u2019 pintedly no \u2019count.\nDey gotter be no \u2019count. Ah ain\u2019 buyin\u2019 um lessen dey\u2019s wuffless en\u2019\nonery.\u201d\n\nScarcely less easy was it to defend his wearing his twin revolvers\neven with dinner-dress, for he put on evening-dress for dinner, with\nthe punctiliousness of an Englishman in the wilderness, put it on as\noften as he dined and yet wore it so naturally and unobtrusively,\nthat no more than the incongruous belt did it embarrass the guests he\nmade at home in any kind of clothes they happened to be wearing. His\nadmirers pointed to this as a kind of exploit, as something of which\nonly a perfectly sane and exceptionally fine man could be capable.\nThey adduced his clear-headed business sense, his excellent judgment\non matters pertaining to real estate, his knowledge of horseflesh,\nhis horsemanship, his coolness, skill and exceptional good temper at\ncards, as cumulative proofs of his perfect sanity. They admitted he\nwas peculiar on one or two points but minimized these as negligible\neccentricities. They were ready to descant to any extent on his\npersonal charm, and this indeed all were agreed upon. To attract\nvisitors by good dinners, good liquors, good cigars and endless card\nplaying was easy. To keep his visitors at their ease and entertained\nfor hours with mere conversations while seated on his veranda, was\nno small feat in itself and a hundred times a feat when their host\nobtruded upon them the ever visible butts of his big revolvers and kept\na repeating rifle standing against each jamb of his front door. This\ntension of perpetual preparedness for an imminent attack might well\nhave scared away everybody and left Case a hermit. It did nothing of\nthe kind. It was acquiesced in at first, later tacitly accepted and\nfinally ignored altogether. With it was ignored his strange complexion.\nI had myself puzzled over this: after long groping about in my mind I\nhad realized what it reminded me of, and I found others who agreed with\nme in respect to it. It was like the paleness one sees for the half of\na breath on the face of a strong, healthy man when in sudden alarm,\nastonishment or horror his blood flows momently back to his heart.\nUnder such stress of unforeseen agitation a normal countenance might\nexhibit that hue for a fraction of a second, on Case\u2019s visage it was\nabiding, like the war paint on an armor-clad, drab-gray and dreary. Yet\nit produced no effect of gloom in his associates. He not only did not\nput a damper upon high spirits but diffused an atmosphere of gaiety and\ngood fellowship.\n\nAnd he did so not only in spite of his ever-visible weapons and of\nhis uncanny, somber complexion, but also in spite of the strange and\ndaunting habit of his eyes. I had seen something like it once and again\nin a frontiersman who knew that his one chance of surviving his enemy\nwas to shoot first and who expected the crucial instant at any moment.\nI had watched in more than one town the eyes of such an individual\nscan each man who approached with one swift glance of inquiry, of keen\nuncertainty dying instantly into temporary relief. Such was the look\nwith which Case invariably met me. It had in it hesitation, doubt, and,\nas it were, an element of half-conscious approach to alarm. It was as\nif he said to himself:\n\n\u201cIs that Radford? It looks like him. If it is Radford, all right. But\nis it really Radford after all?\u201d\n\nI grew used in time to this lightning scrutiny of me every time he\ncaught sight of me. His other friends grew used to it. But it was the\nsubject of endless talk among us. His eyes had an inexplicable effect\non every one. And not the least factor in their mystery was that he\nbestowed this glance not only upon all men, but upon women, children,\nanimals, birds, even insects. He regarded a robin or a butterfly with\nthe same flash of transient interest which he bestowed upon a horse or\na man. And his eyes seemed to keep him cognizant of every moving thing\nbefore, behind and above him. Nothing living which entered his horizon\nseemed to escape his notice.\n\nBeverly remarked:\n\n\u201cCase is afraid of something, is always looking for something. But what\nthe devil is it he is looking for? He acts as if he did not know what\nto expect and suspected everything.\u201d\n\nDr. Boone said:\n\n\u201cCase behaves somewhat as if he were suffering from a delusion of\npersecution. But most of the symptoms are conspicuously absent. I am\npuzzled like the rest of you.\u201d\n\nThe effect upon strangers of this eerie quality of Case\u2019s vision was\nby no means pleasant. Yet his merest acquaintances soon became used to\nit and his intimates ceased to notice it at all. His personal charm\nmade it seem a trifle. Night after night his card room was the scene of\njollity. His table gathered the most desirable comrades the countryside\nafforded. Evening after evening his cronies sat in the comfortable\nwicker chairs on his broad veranda, little Turkish tables bearing\ndecanters and cigars set among them, Colonel Case the center and life\nof the group.\n\nHe talked easily and he talked well. To start him talking of the\ncountries he had seen was not easy, but, once he began, his stories\nof Egypt and Abyssinia, of Persia and Burmah, of Siam and China were\nalways entertaining. Very seldom, almost never did he tell of his own\nexperiences. Generally he told of having heard from others the tales he\nrepeated, even when he spoke so that we suspected him of telling events\nin which he had taken part.\n\nIt was impossible to pin him down to a date, almost as hard to elicit\nthe definite name of a locality. He gave minute particulars of\nincidents and customs, but dealt in generalities as to place and time.\nEspecially he was strong in local superstitions and beliefs.\n\nHe told countless tales, all good, of crocodiles and ichneumons in\nEgypt, gazelles and ghouls in Persia, elephants and tigers in Burmah,\ndeer and monkeys in Siam, badgers and foxes in China and sorcerers and\nenchanters anywhere. He spoke of the last two in as matter-of-fact a\ntone as of any of the others.\n\nHe told legends of the contests of various Chinese sages and saints,\nwith magicians and wizards; of the malice and wiles of these wicked\npractitioners of somber arts; of the sort of super-sense developed\nby the adepts, their foes, enabling them to tell of the approach or\npresence of a sorcerer whatever disguise he assumed, even if he had the\npower of making himself invisible.\n\nSeveral legendary anecdotes turned on this point of the invisibility of\nthe wicked enemy and the prescience of his intended victim.\n\nOne was of a holy man said to have lived in Singan Fu about the time\nof the crusades. Knowing that he was threatened with the vengeance of\na wizard, he provided himself with a sword entirely of silver, since\nthe flesh of a wizard was considered proof against all baser metals. He\nlikewise had at hand a quantity of the ashes of a sacred tree.\n\nWhile seated in his study he felt an inimical presence. He snatched\nup his silver blade, stood upon the defensive and shouted a signal\npreviously agreed upon. Hearing it his servants locked the doors of\nthe house and rushed in with boxes of the sacred ashes. Scattering it\non the floor, they could see on the fresh ashes the footsteps of the\nwizard. One of the servants, according to his master\u2019s instructions,\nhad brought a live fowl. Slicing off its head he waved the spouting\nneck towards the air over the footprints. According to Chinese belief\nfowls\u2019 blood has the magical property of disclosing anyone invisible\nthrough incantation. In fact where the blood drops fell upon the\nwizard, they remained visible, there appeared a gory eye and cheek.\nSlashing at his revealed enemy the sage slew him with the silver sword,\nafter which his body was with all speed burned to ashes. This was the\ninvariable ending of all his similar tales.\n\nStories like this Case delighted in, but beyond this penchant for\nthe weird and occult, for even childish tales of distant lands, his\nconversation in general showed no sign of peculiarity or eccentricity.\nOnly once or twice did he startle us. Some visitors to town were\namong the gathering on his veranda and fell into a discussion of the\ncontrasting qualities of Northerners and Southerners. Inevitably\nthe discussion degenerated into a rather acrimonious and petty\ncitation of all the weak points of each section and a rehash of all\nthe stale sneers at either. The wordy Alabamian who led one side of\nthe altercation descanted on the necessary and inherited vileness\nof the descendants of the men who burnt the Salem witches. Case had\nbeen listening silently. Then he cut in with an emphatic, trenchant\ndirectness unusual to him.\n\n\u201cWitches,\u201d he announced, \u201cought to be burnt always and everywhere.\u201d\n\nWe sat a moment startled and mute.\n\nThe Alabamian spoke first.\n\n\u201cDo you believe in witches, Sir?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cI do,\u201d Case affirmed.\n\n\u201cEver been bewitched?\u201d the Alabamian queried. He was rather young and\ndogmatically assertive.\n\n\u201cDo you believe in Asiatic cholera?\u201d Case queried in his turn.\n\n\u201cCertainly, Sir,\u201d the Alabamian asserted.\n\n\u201cEver had it?\u201d Case inquired meaningly.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d the Alabamian admitted. \u201cNo, Sir, never.\u201d\n\n\u201cEver had yellow fever?\u201d Case questioned him.\n\n\u201cNever, Sir, thank God,\u201d the Alabamian replied fervently.\n\n\u201cYet I\u2019ll bet,\u201d Case hammered at him, \u201cthat you would be among the\nfirst to join a shot-gun quarantine if an epidemic broke out within a\nhundred miles of you. You have never had it, but you believe in it with\nevery fiber of your being.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s just the way with me. I\u2019ve never been bewitched, but I believe\nin witchcraft. Belief in witchcraft is like faith in any one of a dozen\nfashionable religions, not a subject for argument or proof, but a\nhabit of mind. That\u2019s my habit of mind. I won\u2019t discuss it, but I\u2019ve no\nhesitation about asserting it.\n\n\u201cWitchcraft is like leprosy, both spread among nations indifferent to\nthem, both disappear before unflinching severity. The horror of both\namong our ancestors abolished both in Europe and kept them from gaining\na foothold in this country. Both exist and flourish in other corners\nof the world, along with other things undreamed of in some complacent\nphilosophies. Leprosy can be repressed only by isolation, the only\nthing that will abolish witchcraft is fire, fire Sir.\u201d\n\nThat finished that discussion. No one said another word on the subject.\nBut it started a round of debates on Case\u2019s mental condition, which\nran on for days, everywhere except at Case\u2019s house, and which brought\nup all that could be said about personal aloofness, pensioned dogs,\nexposed revolvers and pig-skin belts.\n\n\n                                   V\n\n\nThe mellow fall merged into Indian Summer. The days were short and the\nafternoons chill. The weather did not permit the evening gatherings on\nCase\u2019s veranda. No more did it allow Mary Kenton to sit in her rocker\nbetween the two left-hand columns of the big white portico. Yet it was\nboth noticeable and noticed that she never failed to step out upon\nthat portico, no matter what the weather, each afternoon; that in the\ntwilight or in the late dusk the wave of her hand and the sweep of the\nhorseman\u2019s big, broad-brimmed felt hat answered each other unfailingly.\n\nThe coterie of Case\u2019s chums, friends and hangers-on gathered then\nmostly around the generous log-fire in his ample drawing-room, when\nthey were not in the card-room, the billiard-room or at table. I\nmade one of that coterie frequently and enjoyed my hours there with\nundiminished zest. When I dined there I habitually occupied the foot\nof the long table, facing Case at the head. The hall door of the\ndining-room was just at my right hand.\n\nOne evening in early December I was so seated at the foot of the table.\nThe weather had been barely coolish for some days, the skies had been\nclear and everything was dry. That night was particularly mild. We had\nsat down rather early and it was not yet seven o\u2019clock when Pompey\nbegan to pass the cigars. No one had yet lit up. Some one had asked\nCase a question and the table was still listening for his answer. I,\nlike the rest, was looking at him. Then it all happened in a tenth, in\na hundredth of the time necessary to tell it; so quickly that, except\nCase, no one had time to move a muscle.\n\nCase\u2019s eyes were on his questioner. I did not see the door open, but\nI saw his gaze shift to the door, saw his habitual glance of startled\nuncertainty. But instead of the lightning query of his eyes softening\ninto relief and indifference, it hardened instantaneously into\ndecision. I saw his hand go to his holster, saw the revolver leap out,\nsaw the aim, saw his face change, heard his explosive exclamation:\n\n\u201cGood God, it is!\u201d saw the muzzle kick up as the report crushed our ear\ndrums and through the smoke saw him push back his chair and spring up.\n\nThe rest of us were all too dazed to try to stand. Like me they all\nlooked toward the door.\n\nThere stood Mary Kenton, all in pink, a pink silk opera cloak half off\nher white shoulders, a single strand of pale coral round her slender\nthroat, a pink pompom in her glossy hair. She was standing as calmly as\nif nothing had happened, her arms hidden in the cloak, her right hand\nholding it together in front. Her rings sparkled on her fingers as her\nbreast-pin sparkled on her low corsage.\n\n\u201cCousin Cassius,\u201d she said, \u201cyou have a theatrical way of receiving\nunexpected visitors.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood God, Mary,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is really you. I saw it was really you\njust in time.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course it is really I,\u201d she retorted. \u201cWhom or what did you think\nit really was?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot you,\u201d he answered thickly. \u201cNot you.\u201d\n\nHis voice died away.\n\n\u201cNow you know it is really I,\u201d she said crisply, \u201cyou might at least\noffer me a chair.\u201d\n\nAt that the spell of our amazement left us and we all sprang to our\nfeet.\n\nShe seated herself placidly to the right of the fireplace.\n\n\u201cI hear your port is excellent,\u201d she said laughingly.\n\nBefore Case could hand her the glass she wavered a little in the chair,\nbut a mere swallow revived her.\n\n\u201cI had not anticipated,\u201d she said, \u201cso startling a reception.\u201d\n\nWe stood about in awkward silence.\n\n\u201cPray ask your guests to be seated, Cousin Cassius,\u201d she begged. \u201cI did\nnot mean to disturb your gaiety.\u201d\n\nWe took our chairs, but those on her side of the table were turned\noutward toward the fireplace, where Case stood facing her.\n\n\u201cI owe you an explanation,\u201d she said easily. \u201cMilly Wilberforce is\nstaying with me and she bet me a box of Maillard\u2019s that I would not\npay you a call. As I never take a dare, as the weather is fine, and as\nwe have all your guests for chaperons, I thought a brief call between\ncousins could do no harm.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt has not,\u201d said Case fervently; \u201cbut it very nearly did. And now\nwill you let me escort you home? The Judge will be anxious about you.\u201d\n\n\u201cPapa doesn\u2019t know I am here, of course,\u201d she said. \u201cWhen he finds out,\nI\u2019ll quiet him. If you won\u2019t come to see me, at least I have once come\nto see you.\u201d\n\nCase held the door wide for her, shut it behind him, and left us\nstaring at the bullet hole in the door frame.\n\n\nOne morning of the following spring Case was driving me townward from\nShelby Manor, when, not a hundred feet in front of us, Mary Kenton\u2019s\nbuggy entered the pike from a cross-road. As it turned, mare, vehicle\nand all went over sideways with a terrific crash. Mary must have fallen\nclear for the next instant she was at the mare\u2019s head.\n\nCase did succeed in holding his fiery colts and in pulling them to a\nstand-still alongside the wreck, but it was all even he could do. I\njumped out, meaning to take the colts\u2019 bits and let Case help Mary. But\nshe greeted me imperiously.\n\n\u201cCousin Jack, please come sit on Bonnie\u2019s head.\u201d\n\nI took charge of Bonnie in my own fashion and she stood up entirely\nunhurt.\n\n\u201cHow on earth did you come to do it, Mary?\u201d Colonel Case wondered, for\nshe was a perfect horsewoman.\n\n\u201cAccidents will happen,\u201d she answered lightly, \u201cand I am glad of this\none. You have really spoken to me, and that is worth a hundred smashes.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I wrote to you,\u201d he protested. \u201cI wrote to you and explained.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne letter,\u201d she sniffed contemptuously. \u201cYou should have kept on, you\nsilly man, I might have answered the fifth or sixth or even the second.\u201d\n\nHe stared at her and no wonder for she was fascinatingly coquettish.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t mind Jack a bit, you know,\u201d she went on. \u201cJack is my loyal\nknight and unfailing partisan. He keeps my secrets and does everything\nI ask of him. For instance, he will not demur an atom now when I ask\nhim to throw Bonnie\u2019s harness into the buggy and ride her to town for\nme.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d she smiled at him dazzlingly, \u201canother advantage of my upset\nis that the buggy is so smashed that you cannot decently refuse to\ndrive me home.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut Mary,\u201d he protested, \u201cI explained fully to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou didn\u2019t really expect me to believe all that fol-de-rol?\u201d she\ncried. \u201cSuppose I did, I don\u2019t see any dwergs around, and if all\nMalebolge were in plain sight I\u2019d make you take me anyhow.\u201d\n\nInevitably he did, but that afternoon their daily ceremony of hand-wave\nfrom the portico and hat-wave from horseback was resumed and was\ncontinued as their sole intercourse.\n\n\n                                  VI\n\n\nIt was full midsummer when a circus came to Brexington. Case and I\nstarted for a ride together on the afternoon of its arrival, passed the\ntents already raised and met the procession on its way through town\nfrom the freight yard of the railroad. We pulled our horses to one side\nof the street and sat watching the show.\n\nThere were Cossacks and cowboys, Mexican vaqueros and Indians on\nmustangs. There were two elephants, a giraffe, and then some camels\nwhich set our mounts snorting and swerving about. Then came the cages,\none of monkeys, another of parrots, cockatoos and macaws, others with\nwolves, bears, hyenas, a lion, a lioness, a tiger, and a beautiful\nleopard.\n\nCase made a movement and I heard a click. I looked round and beheld him\nwith his revolver cocked and pointed at the leopard\u2019s cage. He did not\nfire but kept the pistol aimed at the cage until it was out of range.\nThen he thrust it back into its holster and watched the fag-end of the\nprocession go by. All he said was:\n\n\u201cYou will have to excuse me, Radford, I have urgent business at home.\u201d\n\n\nTowards dusk Cato came to me in great agitation.\n\n\u201cMahs\u2019r Cash done gone off\u2019n he haid,\u201d he declared. \u201cHe shuah done loss\nhe sainsus.\u201d I told him to return home and I would stroll up there\ncasually.\n\nI found Case in the wood-shed, uncle Rastus with him. Hung by the hind\nlegs like new-slaughtered hogs were a dozen of the biggest dogs of\nwhich Rastus had had charge. Their throats were cut and each dripped\ninto a tin pail. Rastus, his ebony face paled to a sort of mud-gray,\nheld a large tin pail and a new white-washer\u2019s brush.\n\nCase greeted me as usual, as if my presence there were a matter of\ncourse and he were engaged upon nothing out of the common.\n\n\u201cUncle,\u201d he said, \u201cI judge those are about dripped out. Pour it all\ninto the big pail.\u201d\n\nHe took the brush from Rastus, who followed him to the gate.\n\nThere Case dipped the brush into the blood and painted a broad band\nacross the gravel of the drive and the flagstones of the footpath. He\nproceeded as if he were using lime white-wash to mark off a lawn-tennis\ncourt in the early days of the game, when wet markers were not yet\ninvented and dry markers were still undreamed of. He continued the\nstripe of blood all round his place, just inside the hedge. He made it\nabout three inches wide and took great pains to make it plain and heavy.\n\nWhen he had come round to the entrance again he went over the stripe on\nthe path and drive a second time. Then he straightened up and handed\nthe brush to Rastus.\n\n\u201cJust enough,\u201d he remarked. \u201cI calculated nicely.\u201d\n\nI had so far held my tongue. But his air of self-approval, as if in\nsome feat of logic led me to blurt out:\n\n\u201cWhat is it for?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Chinese,\u201d said Case, \u201cesteem dogs\u2019 blood a defense against\nsorcery. I doubt its efficacy, but I know of no better fortification.\u201d\n\nNo reply seemed expected and I made none.\n\nThat evening I was at Case\u2019s, with some six or seven others. We sat\nindoors, for the cloudy day had led up to a rainy evening. Nothing\nunusual occurred.\n\n\nNext day the town was plastered with posters of the circus company\noffering five hundred dollars reward for the capture of an escaped\nleopard.\n\nCato came to my office just as I was going out to lunch.\n\n\u201cMahs\u2019r Cash done gone cunjuhin\u2019 agin,\u201d he announced.\n\nI found out that a second batch of dogs had been brought in by uncle\nRastus in his covered wagon behind his unfailing mules, had been\nbutchered like the former convoy and the band of blood gone over a\nsecond time. Case had not gone outside that line since he first made\nit, no drive to Shelby Manor that morning.\n\n\nThe day was perfect after the rain of the day before, and the bright\nsunlight dried everything. The evening was clear and windless with a\nnearly full moon intensely bright and very high. Practically the whole\npopulation went to the circus.\n\nBeverly and I dined at Case\u2019s. He had no other guests, but such was his\nskill as a host that our dinner was delightfully genial. After dinner\nthe three of us sat on the veranda.\n\nThe brilliance of the moonlight on and through the unstirred trees\nmade a glorious spectacle and the mild, cool atmosphere put us in\njust the humor to enjoy it and each other. Case talked quietly, mostly\nof art galleries in Europe, and his talk was quite as charming and\nentertaining as usual. He seemed a man entirely sane and altogether at\nhis ease.\n\nWe had been on the veranda about half an hour and in that time neither\nteam nor pedestrian had passed. Then we saw the figure of a woman\napproaching down the middle of the roadway from the direction of the\ncountry. Beverly and I caught sight of her at about the same instant\nand I saw him watching her as I did, for she had the carriage and\nbearing of a lady and it seemed strange that she should be walking,\nstranger that she should be alone, and strangest that she should choose\nthe road instead of the footpath which was broad and good for half a\nmile.\n\nCase, who had been describing a carved set of ivory chessmen he had\nseen in Egypt, stopped speaking and stared as we did. I began to feel\nas if I ought to recognize the advancing figure, it seemed unfamiliar\nand yet familiar too in outline and carriage, when Beverly exclaimed:\n\n\u201cBy Jove, that is Mary Kenton.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Colonel Case in a combative, resonant tone like the slow\nboom of a big bell. \u201cNo, it is not Mary Kenton.\u201d\n\nI was astonished at the animus of his contradiction and we intensified\nour scrutiny. The nearing girl really suggested Mary Kenton and yet, I\nfelt sure, was not she. Her bearing made me certain that she was young,\nand she had that indefinable something about her which leads a man to\nexpect that a woman will turn out to be good looking. She walked with\na sort of insolent, high-stepping swing.\n\nWhen she was nearly opposite us Case exclaimed in a sort of\nchopped-off, guttural bark:\n\n\u201cNay, not even in that shape, foul fiend, not even in that.\u201d\n\nThe tall, shapely young woman turned just in front of the gateway and\nwalked towards us.\n\n\u201cI think,\u201d said Beverly, \u201cthe lady is coming in.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Colonel Case, again with that deep, baying reverberation\nbehind his voice. \u201cNo, not coming in.\u201d\n\nThe young woman laid her hand on the pathway gate and pushed it open.\nShe stepped inside and then stopped, stopped suddenly, abruptly, with\nan awkward half-stride, as if she had run into an obstacle in the path,\na low obstruction like a wheelbarrow. She stood an instant, looked\nirresolutely right and left, and then stepped back and shut the gate.\nShe turned and started across the street, fairly striding in a sort of\nincensed, wrathful haste.\n\nMy eyes, like Beverly\u2019s, were on the figure in the road. It was only\nwith a sort of sidelong vision that I felt rather than saw Case whip a\nrifle from the door jamb to his shoulder and fire. Almost before the\nexplosion rent my ear drums I saw the figure in the roadway crumple\nand collapse vertically. Petrified with amazement I was frozen with my\nstare upon the huddle on the macadam. Beverly had not moved and was as\ndazed as I. My gaze still fixed as Case threw up a second cartridge\nfrom the magazine and fired again, I saw the wretched heap on the\npiking leap under the impact of the bullet with the yielding quiver\nof totally dead flesh and bone. A third time he fired and we saw the\nlike. Then the spell of our horror broke and we leapt up, roaring at\nthe murderer.\n\nWith a single incredibly rapid movement the madman disembarrassed\nhimself of his rifle and held us off, a revolver at each of our heads.\n\n\u201cDo you know what you have done?\u201d we yelled together.\n\n\u201cI am quite sure of what I have done,\u201d Case replied in a big calm\nvoice, the barrels of his pistols steady as the pillars of the veranda.\n\u201cBut I am not quite so clear whether I have earned five hundred dollars\nreward. Will you gentlemen be kind enough to step out into the street\nand examine that carcass?\u201d\n\nWoodenly, at the muzzles of those unwavering revolvers, we went down\nthe flagged walk side by side, moving in a nightmare dream.\n\nI had never seen a woman killed before and this woman was presumably\na lady, young and handsome. I felt the piking of the roadway under my\nfeet, and looked everywhere, except downward in front of me.\n\nI heard Beverly give a coughing exclamation:\n\n\u201cThe leopard!\u201d\n\nThen I looked, and I too shouted:\n\n\u201cThe leopard!\u201d\n\nShe lay tangible, unquestionable, in plain sight under the silver\nmoonrays with the clear black shadows of the maple leaves sharp on her\nsleek hide.\n\nGabbling our excited astonishment we pulled at her and turned her over.\nShe had six wounds, three where the bullets entered and three where\nthey came out, one through spine and breast-bone and two through the\nribs.\n\nWe dropped the carcass and stood up.\n\n\u201cBut I thought....\u201d I exclaimed.\n\n\u201cBut I saw....\u201d Beverly cried.\n\n\u201cYou gentlemen,\u201d thundered Colonel Case, \u201chad best not say what you saw\nor what you thought you saw.\u201d\n\nWe stood mute, looking at him, at each other, and up and down the\nstreet. No one was in sight. Apparently the circus had so completely\ndrained the neighborhood that no one had heard the shots.\n\nCase addressed me in his natural voice:\n\n\u201cIf you will be so good Radford, would you oblige me by stepping into\nmy house and telling Jeff to fetch the wheelbarrow. I must keep watch\nover this carrion.\u201d\n\nThere I left him, the two crooked revolvers pointed at the dead animal.\n\nJeff, and Cato with him, brought the wheelbarrow. Upon it the two\nnegroes loaded the warm, inert mass of spotted hide and what it\ncontained. Then Jeff lifted the handles and taking turns they wheeled\ntheir burden all the way to uncle Rastus\u2019, Case walking on one side\nof the barrow with his cocked revolvers, we on the other, quite as a\nmatter of course.\n\nJeff trundled the barrow out to the hay barrack on the knoll. He and\nCato and uncle Rastus carried out cord-wood until they had an enormous\npile well out in the field. Then they dug up a barrel of kerosene from\nnear one corner of the barrack. When the leopard had been placed on the\ntop of the firewood they broached the barrel and poured its contents\nover the carcass and its pyre. When it was set on fire Case gave an\norder to Jeff, who went off. We stood and watched the pyre burn down\nto red coals. By that time Jeff had returned from Shelby Manor with a\ndouble team.\n\nCase let down the hammers of his revolvers, holstered them, unbuckled\nhis belt and threw it into the dayton.\n\nNever had we suspected he could sing a note. Now he started \u201cDixie\u201d in\na fine, deep baritone and we sang that and other rousing songs all the\nway home. When we got out of the dayton he walked loungingly up the\nveranda steps, his belt hanging over his arm. He took the rifles from\nthe door jamb.\n\n\u201cI have no further use for these trusty friends,\u201d he said. \u201cIf you\nlike, you may each have one as a souvenir of the occasion. My defunct\npistols and otiose belt I\u2019ll even keep myself.\u201d\n\n\nNext morning as I was about to pass Judge Kenton\u2019s house I heard\nheavy footsteps rapidly overtaking me. Turning I saw Case, not in his\nhabitual gray clothes and broad-brimmed semi-sombrero, but wearing a\nsoft brown felt hat, a blue serge suit, set off by a red necktie and\ntan shoes. He was conspicuously beltless.\n\n\u201cYou might as well come with me, Radford,\u201d he said. \u201cYou will probably\nbe best man later anyhow.\u201d\n\nWe found Judge Kenton on his porch, and Mary, all in pink, with a pink\nrose in her hair, seated between her father and her pretty step-mother.\n\n\u201cI sent Jeff with a note,\u201d Case explained as we approached the steps,\n\u201cto make sure of finding them.\u201d\n\nAfter the greetings were over Case said:\n\n\u201cJudge, I am a man of few words. I love your daughter and I ask your\npermission to win her if I can.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have my permission, Suh,\u201d the Judge answered.\n\nCase rose.\n\n\u201cMary,\u201d he said, \u201cwould you walk with me in the garden, say to the\ngrape arbor?\u201d\n\nWhen they returned Mary wore a big ruby ring set round with diamonds.\nHer color was no bad match for the ruby. And, beyond a doubt, Case\u2019s\ncheeks showed a trace of color too.\n\n\u201cFather,\u201d Mary said as she seated herself, \u201cI am going to marry Cousin\nCassius.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have my blessing, my dear,\u201d the Judge responded. \u201cI am glad of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cEverybody will be glad, I believe,\u201d said Mary. \u201cCassius is glad, of\ncourse, and he is glad of two other things. One is that he feels free\nto dine with us to-night, he has just told me so.\n\n\u201cThe other\u201d (a roguish light sparkled in her eyes) \u201che has not\nconfessed. But I just know that, next to marrying me, the one thing in\nall this world that makes him gladdest is that now at last he feels at\nliberty to see a horse race and go to the races every chance he gets.\u201d\n\nIn fact, when they returned from their six-months\u2019 wedding tour, they\nwere conspicuous at every race meeting. Case\u2019s eyes had lost their\nrestlessness and his cheeks showed as healthy a coloring as I ever saw\non any human being.\n\n\nIt might be suggested that there should be an explanation to this tale.\nBut I myself decline to expound my own theory. Mary never told what\nshe knew, and her husband, in whose after life there has been nothing\nremarkable as far as I know, has never uttered a syllable.\n\n                                                                   1907\n\n\n\n\n                      THE HOUSE OF THE NIGHTMARE\n\n\n\n\n                      THE HOUSE OF THE NIGHTMARE\n\n\nI FIRST caught sight of the house from the brow of the mountain as I\ncleared the woods and looked across the broad valley several hundred\nfeet below me, to the low sun sinking toward the far blue hills. From\nthat momentary viewpoint I had an exaggerated sense of looking almost\nvertically down. I seemed to be hanging over the checkerboard of roads\nand fields, dotted with farm buildings, and felt the familiar deception\nthat I could almost throw a stone upon the house. I barely glimpsed its\nslate roof.\n\nWhat caught my eyes was the bit of road in front of it, between\nthe mass of dark-green shade trees about the house and the orchard\nopposite. Perfectly straight it was, bordered by an even row of trees,\nthrough which I made out a cinder side path and a low stone wall.\n\nConspicuous on the orchard side between two of the flanking trees was a\nwhite object, which I took to be a tall stone, a vertical splinter of\none of the tilted lime-stone reefs with which the fields of the region\nare scarred.\n\nThe road itself I saw plain as a box-wood ruler on a green baize table.\nIt gave me a pleasurable anticipation of a chance for a burst of speed.\nI had been painfully traversing closely forested, semi-mountainous\nhills. Not a farmhouse had I passed, only wretched cabins by the road,\nmore than twenty miles of which I had found very bad and hindering.\nNow, when I was not many miles from my expected stopping-place, I\nlooked forward to better going, and to that straight, level bit in\nparticular.\n\nAs I sped cautiously down the sharp beginning of the long descent the\ntrees engulfed me again, and I lost sight of the valley. I dipped into\na hollow, rose on the crest of the next hill, and again saw the house,\nnearer, and not so far below.\n\nThe tall stone caught my eye with a shock of surprise. Had I not\nthought it was opposite the house next the orchard? Clearly it was on\nthe left-hand side of the road toward the house. My self-questioning\nlasted only the moment as I passed the crest. Then the outlook was\ncut off again; but I found myself gazing ahead, watching for the next\nchance at the same view.\n\nAt the end of the second hill I only saw the bit of road obliquely and\ncould not be sure, but, as at first, the tall stone seemed on the right\nof the road.\n\nAt the top of the third and last hill I looked down the stretch of road\nunder the overarching trees, almost as one would look through a tube.\nThere was a line of whiteness which I took for the tall stone. It was\non the right.\n\nI dipped into the last hollow. As I mounted the farther slope I kept\nmy eyes on the top of the road ahead of me. When my line of sight\nsurmounted the rise I marked the tall stone on my right hand among the\nserried maples. I leaned over, first on one side, then on the other, to\ninspect my tires, then I threw the lever.\n\nAs I flew forward I looked ahead. There was the tall stone--on the\nleft of the road! I was really scared and almost dazed. I meant to\nstop dead, take a good look at the stone, and make up my mind beyond\nperadventure whether it was on the right or the left--if not, indeed,\nin the middle of the road.\n\nIn my bewilderment I put on the highest speed. The machine leaped\nforward; everything I touched went wrong; I steered wildly, slewed to\nthe left, and crashed into a big maple.\n\nWhen I came to my senses I was flat on my back in the dry ditch.\nThe last rays of the sun sent shafts of golden green light through\nthe maple boughs overhead. My first thought was an odd mixture of\nappreciation of the beauties of nature and disapproval of my own\nconduct in touring without a companion--a fad I had regretted more than\nonce. Then my mind cleared and I sat up. I felt myself from the head\ndown. I was not bleeding; no bones were broken; and, while much shaken,\nI had suffered no serious bruises.\n\nThen I saw the boy. He was standing at the edge of the cinder-path,\nnear the ditch. He was stocky and solidly built; barefoot, with his\ntrousers rolled up to his knees; wore a sort of butternut shirt, open\nat the throat; and was coatless and hatless. He was tow-headed, with a\nshock of tousled hair; was much freckled, and had a hideous harelip. He\nshifted from one foot to the other, twiddled his toes, and said nothing\nwhatever, though he stared at me intently.\n\nI scrambled to my feet and proceeded to survey the wreck. It seemed\ndistressingly complete. It had not blown up, nor even caught fire; but\notherwise the ruin appeared hopelessly thorough. Everything I examined\nseemed worse smashed than the rest. My two hampers alone, by one of\nthose cynical jokes of chance, had escaped--both had pitched clear of\nthe wreckage and were unhurt, not even a bottle broken.\n\nDuring my investigations the boy\u2019s faded eyes followed me continuously,\nbut he uttered no word. When I had convinced myself of my helplessness\nI straightened up and addressed him:\n\n\u201cHow far is it to a blacksmith shop?\u201d\n\n\u201cEight mile,\u201d he answered. He had a distressing case of cleft palate\nand was scarcely intelligible.\n\n\u201cCan you drive me there?\u201d I inquired.\n\n\u201cNary team on the place,\u201d he replied; \u201cnary horse, nary cow.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow far to the next house?\u201d I continued.\n\n\u201cSix mile,\u201d he responded.\n\nI glanced at the sky. The sun had set already. I looked at my watch: it\nwas going--seven thirty-six.\n\n\u201cMay I sleep in your house to-night?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cYou can come in if you want to,\u201d he said, \u201cand sleep if you can. House\nall messy; ma\u2019s been dead three year, and dad\u2019s away. Nothin\u2019 to eat\nbut buckwheat flour and rusty bacon.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve plenty to eat,\u201d I answered, picking up a hamper. \u201cJust take that\nhamper, will you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can come in if you\u2019re a mind to,\u201d he said, \u201cbut you got to carry\nyour own stuff.\u201d He did not speak gruffly or rudely, but appeared\nmildly stating an inoffensive fact.\n\n\u201cAll right,\u201d I said, picking up the other hamper; \u201clead the way.\u201d\n\nThe yard in front of the house was dark under a dozen or more immense\nailanthus trees. Below them many smaller trees had grown up, and\nbeneath these a dank underwood of tall, rank suckers out of the deep,\nshaggy, matted grass. What had once been, apparently, a carriage-drive\nleft a narrow, curved track, disused and grass-grown, leading to\nthe house. Even here were some shoots of the ailanthus, and the air\nwas unpleasant with the vile smell of the roots and suckers and the\ninsistent odor of their flowers.\n\nThe house was of gray stone, with green shutters faded almost as gray\nas the stone. Along its front was a veranda, not much raised from the\nground, and with no balustrade or railing. On it were several hickory\nsplint rockers. There were eight shuttered windows toward the porch,\nand midway of them a wide door, with small violet panes on either side\nof it and a fanlight above.\n\n\u201cOpen the door,\u201d I said to the boy.\n\n\u201cOpen it yourself,\u201d he replied, not unpleasantly nor disagreeably, but\nin such a tone that one could not but take the suggestion as a matter\nof course.\n\nI put down the two hampers and tried the door. It was latched, but not\nlocked, and opened with a rusty grind of its hinges, on which it sagged\ncrazily, scraping the floor as it turned. The passage smelt moldy and\ndamp. There were several doors on either side; the boy pointed to the\nfirst on the right.\n\n\u201cYou can have that room,\u201d he said.\n\nI opened the door. What with the dusk, the interlacing trees outside,\nthe piazza roof, and the closed shutters, I could make out little.\n\n\u201cBetter get a lamp,\u201d I said to the boy.\n\n\u201cNary lamp,\u201d he declared cheerfully. \u201cNary candle. Mostly I get abed\nbefore dark.\u201d\n\nI returned to the remains of my conveyance. All four of my lamps were\nmerely scrap metal and splintered glass. My lantern was mashed flat. I\nalways, however, carried candles in my valise. This I found split and\ncrushed, but still holding together. I carried it to the porch, opened\nit, and took out three candles.\n\nEntering the room, where I found the boy standing just where I had left\nhim, I lit the candle. The walls were white-washed, the floor bare.\nThere was a mildewed, chilly smell, but the bed looked freshly made up\nand clean, although it felt clammy.\n\nWith a few drops of its own grease I stuck the candle on the corner of\na mean, rickety little bureau. There was nothing else in the room save\ntwo rush-bottomed chairs and a small table. I went out on the porch,\nbrought in my valise, and put it on the bed. I raised the sash of each\nwindow and pushed open the shutters. Then I asked the boy, who had not\nmoved or spoken, to show me the way to the kitchen. He led me straight\nthrough the hall to the back of the house. The kitchen was large, and\nhad no furniture save some pine chairs, a pine bench, and a pine table.\n\nI stuck two candles on opposite corners of the table. There was no\nstove or range in the kitchen, only a big hearth, the ashes in which\nsmelt and looked a month old. The wood in the wood-shed was dry enough,\nbut even it had a cellary, stale smell. The ax and hatchet were both\nrusty and dull, but usable, and I quickly made a big fire. To my\namazement, for the mid-June evening was hot and still, the boy, a wry\nsmile on his ugly face, almost leaned over the flame, hands and arms\nspread out, and fairly roasted himself.\n\n\u201cAre you cold?\u201d I inquired.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m allus cold,\u201d he replied, hugging the fire closer than ever, till I\nthought he must scorch.\n\nI left him toasting himself while I went in search of water. I\ndiscovered the pump, which was in working order and not dry on the\nvalves; but I had a furious struggle to fill the two leaky pails I had\nfound. When I had put water to boil I fetched my hampers from the porch.\n\nI brushed the table and set out my meal--cold fowl, cold ham, white and\nbrown bread, olives, jam, and cake. When the can of soup was hot and\nthe coffee made I drew up two chairs to the table and invited the boy\nto join me.\n\n\u201cI ain\u2019t hungry,\u201d he said; \u201cI\u2019ve had supper.\u201d\n\nHe was a new sort of boy to me; all the boys I knew were hearty eaters\nand always ready. I had felt hungry myself, but somehow when I came to\neat I had little appetite and hardly relished the food. I soon made an\nend of my meal, covered the fire, blew out the candles, and returned to\nthe porch, where I dropped into one of the hickory rockers to smoke.\nThe boy followed me silently and seated himself on the porch floor,\nleaning against a pillar, his feet on the grass outside.\n\n\u201cWhat do you do,\u201d I asked, \u201cwhen your father is away?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust loaf \u2019round,\u201d he said. \u201cJust fool \u2019round.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow far off are your nearest neighbors?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t no neighbors never come here,\u201d he stated. \u201cSay they\u2019re afeared\nof the ghosts.\u201d\n\nI was not at all startled; the place had all those aspects which lead\nto a house being called haunted. I was struck by his odd matter-of-fact\nway of speaking--it was as if he had said they were afraid of a cross\ndog.\n\n\u201cDo you ever see any ghosts around here?\u201d I continued.\n\n\u201cNever see \u2019em,\u201d he answered, as if I had mentioned tramps or\npartridges. \u201cNever hear \u2019em. Sort o\u2019 feel \u2019em \u2019round sometimes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you afraid of them?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cNope,\u201d he declared. \u201cI ain\u2019t skeered o\u2019 ghosts; I\u2019m skeered o\u2019\nnightmares. Ever have nightmares?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery seldom,\u201d I replied.\n\n\u201cI do,\u201d he returned. \u201cAllus have the same nightmare--big sow, big as a\nsteer, trying to eat me up. Wake up so skeered I could run to never.\nNowheres to run to. Go to sleep, and have it again. Wake up worse\nskeered than ever. Dad says it\u2019s buckwheat cakes in summer.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must have teased a sow some time,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cYep,\u201d he answered. \u201cTeased a big sow wunst, holding up one of her pigs\nby the hind leg. Teased her too long. Fell in the pen and got bit up\nsome. Wisht I hadn\u2019t \u2019a\u2019 teased her. Have that nightmare three times a\nweek sometimes. Worse\u2019n being burnt out. Worse\u2019n ghosts. Say, I sorter\nfeel ghosts around now.\u201d\n\nHe was not trying to frighten me. He was as simply stating an opinion\nas if he had spoken of bats or mosquitoes. I made no reply, and found\nmyself listening involuntarily. My pipe went out. I did not really\nwant another, but felt disinclined for bed as yet, and was comfortable\nwhere I was, while the smell of the ailanthus blossoms was very\ndisagreeable. I filled my pipe again, lit it, and then, as I puffed,\nsomehow dozed off for a moment.\n\nI awoke with a sensation of some light fabric trailed across my face.\nThe boy\u2019s position was unchanged.\n\n\u201cDid you do that?\u201d I asked sharply.\n\n\u201cAin\u2019t done nary thing,\u201d he rejoined. \u201cWhat was it?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was like a piece of mosquito-netting brushed over my face.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat ain\u2019t netting,\u201d he asserted; \u201cthat\u2019s a veil. That\u2019s one of the\nghosts. Some blow on you; some touch you with their long, cold fingers.\nThat one with the veil she drags acrosst your face--well, mostly I\nthink it\u2019s ma.\u201d\n\nHe spoke with the unassailable conviction of the child in \u201cWe Are\nSeven.\u201d I found no words to reply, and rose to go to bed.\n\n\u201cGood night,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cGood night,\u201d he echoed. \u201cI\u2019ll set out here a spell yet.\u201d\n\nI lit a match, found the candle I had stuck on the corner of the shabby\nlittle bureau, and undressed. The bed had a comfortable husk mattress,\nand I was soon asleep.\n\nI had the sensation of having slept some time when I had a\nnightmare--the very nightmare the boy had described. A huge sow, big\nas a dray horse, was reared up on her forelegs over the foot-board of\nthe bed, trying to scramble over to me. She grunted and puffed, and I\nfelt I was the food she craved. I knew in the dream that it was only a\ndream, and strove to wake up.\n\nThen the gigantic dream-beast floundered over the foot-board, fell\nacross my shins, and I awoke.\n\nI was in darkness as absolute as if I were sealed in a jet vault, yet\nthe shudder of the nightmare instantly subsided, my nerves quieted;\nI realized where I was, and felt not the least panic. I turned over\nand was asleep again almost at once. Then I had a real nightmare, not\nrecognizable as a dream, but appallingly real--an unutterable agony of\nreasonless horror.\n\nThere was a Thing in the room; not a sow, nor any other namable\ncreature, but a Thing. It was as big as an elephant, filled the room to\nthe ceiling, was shaped like a wild boar, seated on its haunches, with\nits forelegs braced stiffly in front of it. It had a hot, slobbering,\nred mouth, full of big tusks, and its jaws worked hungrily. It shuffled\nand hunched itself forward, inch by inch, till its vast forelegs\nstraddled the bed.\n\nThe bed crushed up like wet blotting-paper, and I felt the weight of\nthe Thing on my feet, on my legs, on my body, on my chest. It was\nhungry, and I was what it was hungry for, and it meant to begin on my\nface. Its dripping mouth was nearer and nearer.\n\nThen the dream-helplessness that made me unable to call or move\nsuddenly gave way, and I yelled and awoke. This time my terror was\npositive and not to be shaken off.\n\nIt was near dawn: I could descry dimly the cracked, dirty window-panes.\nI got up, lit the stump of my candle and two fresh ones, dressed\nhastily, strapped my ruined valise, and put it on the porch against the\nwall near the door. Then I called the boy. I realized quite suddenly\nthat I had not told him my name or asked his.\n\nI shouted \u201cHello!\u201d a few times, but won no answer. I had had enough of\nthat house. I was still permeated with the panic of the nightmare. I\ndesisted from shouting, made no search, but with two candles went out\nto the kitchen. I took a swallow of cold coffee and munched a biscuit\nas I hustled my belongings into my hampers. Then, leaving a silver\ndollar on the table, I carried the hampers out on the porch and dumped\nthem by my valise.\n\nIt was now light enough to see to walk, and I went out to the road.\nAlready the night-dew had rusted much of the wreck, making it look more\nhopeless than before. It was, however, entirely undisturbed. There was\nnot so much as a wheel-track or a hoof-print on the road. The tall,\nwhite stone, uncertainty about which had caused my disaster, stood like\na sentinel opposite where I had upset.\n\nI set out to find that blacksmith shop. Before I had gone far the sun\nrose clear from the horizon, and almost at once scorching. As I footed\nit along I grew very much heated, and it seemed more like ten miles\nthan six before I reached the first house. It was a new frame house,\nneatly painted and close to the road, with a white-washed fence along\nits garden front.\n\nI was about to open the gate when a big black dog with a curly tail\nbounded out of the bushes. He did not bark, but stood inside the gate\nwagging his tail and regarding me with a friendly eye; yet I hesitated\nwith my hand on the latch, and considered. The dog might not be as\nfriendly as he looked, and the sight of him made me realize that\nexcept for the boy I had seen no creature about the house where I had\nspent the night; no dog or cat; not even a toad or bird. While I was\nruminating upon this a man came from behind the house.\n\n\u201cWill your dog bite?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cNaw,\u201d he answered; \u201che don\u2019t bite. Come in.\u201d\n\nI told him I had had an accident to my automobile, and asked if he\ncould drive me to the blacksmith shop and back to my wreckage.\n\n\u201cCert,\u201d he said. \u201cHappy to help you. I\u2019ll hitch up foreshortly. Wher\u2019d\nyou smash?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn front of the gray house about six miles back,\u201d I answered.\n\n\u201cThat big stone-built house?\u201d he queried.\n\n\u201cThe same,\u201d I assented.\n\n\u201cDid you go a-past here?\u201d he inquired astonished. \u201cI didn\u2019t hear ye.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I said; \u201cI came from the other direction.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d he meditated, \u201cyou must \u2019a\u2019 smashed \u2019bout sunup. Did you come\nover them mountains in the dark?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I replied; \u201cI came over them yesterday evening. I smashed up\nabout sunset.\u201d\n\n\u201cSundown!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWhere in thunder\u2019ve ye been all night?\u201d\n\n\u201cI slept in the house where I broke down.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that there big stone-built house in the trees?\u201d he demanded.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d I agreed.\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d he quavered excitedly, \u201cthat there house is haunted! They say if\nyou have to drive past it after dark, you can\u2019t tell which side of the\nroad the big white stone is on.\u201d\n\n\u201cI couldn\u2019t tell even before sunset,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cThere!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cLook at that, now! And you slep\u2019 in that house!\nDid you sleep, honest?\u201d\n\n\u201cI slept pretty well,\u201d I said. \u201cExcept for a nightmare, I slept all\nnight.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he commented, \u201cI wouldn\u2019t go in that there house for a farm,\nnor sleep in it for my salvation. And you slep\u2019! How in thunder did you\nget in?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe boy took me in,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cWhat sort of a boy?\u201d he queried, his eyes fixed on me with a queer,\ncountrified look of absorbed interest.\n\n\u201cA thick-set, freckle-faced boy with a harelip,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cTalk like his mouth was full of mush?\u201d he demanded.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d I said; \u201cbad case of cleft palate.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cI never did believe in ghosts, and I never did\nhalf believe that house was haunted, but I know it now. And you slep\u2019!\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t see any ghosts,\u201d I retorted irritably.\n\n\u201cYou seen a ghost for sure,\u201d he rejoined solemnly. \u201cThat there harelip\nboy\u2019s been dead six months.\u201d\n\n                                                                   1905\n\n\n\n\n                            SORCERY ISLAND\n\n\n\n\n                            SORCERY ISLAND\n\n\nWHEN I regained consciousness I was on my feet, standing erect, near\nenough to my burning aeroplane to feel the warmth radiated by the\ncrackling flames with which every part of it was ablaze; far enough\nfrom it to be, despite the strong breeze, much more aware of the fierce\nheat of the late forenoon sunrays beating down on me from almost\noverhead out of the cloudless sky. My shadow, much shorter than I, was\nsharply outlined before me on the intensely white sand of the beach;\nwhich dazzling expanse, but a few paces to my right, ended abruptly\nin an almost straight line, at a little bank of about eight inches\nof exposed blackish loam, beyond which was dense tropical vegetation\ngleaming in the brilliant sunshine. Not much farther away on my left\nwere great patches, almost heaps, fathoms long, yards wide and one or\neven two or three feet high, of unwholesome looking grayish white slimy\nfoam, like persistent dirty soap-bubbles, strung along the margin of\nthe sparkling dry sand, between it and the swishes of hissing froth\nthat lashed lazily up from the sluggish breakers in which ended the\nlong, broad-backed, sleepy swells of the endlessly recurrent ocean\nsurges. As there was no cloud in the dark blue firmament, so there\nwas no sail, no funnel-smoke in sight on the deep blue sea. Overhead,\nagainst the intense blue sky, whirled uncountable flocks of garishly\npink flamingoes, some higher, some lower, crossing and recrossing each\nother, grotesque, flashing, and amazing in their myriads.\n\nTo my scrutinizing gaze, as to my first glance, it was manifest that\nthere was no indication of wreckage, breakage or injury to any part of\nmy aeroplane visible through the flames now fast consuming it. No bone\nof me was broken, no ligament strained. I had not a bruise on me, not a\nscratch. I did not feel shaken or jarred, my garments were untorn and\nnot even rumpled or mussed. I conjectured at once, what is my settled\nopinion after long reflection, that I, in my stupor or trance or daze\nor whatever it was, had made some sort of a landing, had unstrapped\nmyself, had clambered out of the fuselage, had staggered away from it,\nand had fainted; and that, while I was unconscious, some one had set\nfire to my aeroplane.\n\nAs I stood there on the beach I was flogging my memory to make it\nbridge over my interval of unconsciousness and I recollected vividly\nwhat had preceded my lapse and every detail of my sensations. I had\nbeen flying my aeroplane between the wide blue sky, unvaried by any\ncloud, and the wide blue sea, unbroken by any sign of sail, steamer or\nisland. Then I descried a difference of appearance at one point of the\nhorizon forward and on my right and steered towards it. Soon I made\nsure of a low island ahead of me.\n\nUp to that instant I had never, in all my life, had anything resembling\na delusion or even any thoughts that could be called queer. But, just\nas I made certain that I was approaching an island, there popped into\nmy head, for no assignable reason, the recollection of the flock of\nwhite geese on my grandmother\u2019s farm and of how I, when seven years old\nor so, or maybe only six or perhaps even younger, used to make a pet\nof an unusually large and most uncommonly docile and friendly white\ngander, used to fondle him, and, in particular, used to straddle him\nand fairly ride about on him, he flapping his wings and squawking.\n\nWhile I was wondering what in the world had made me think of that\ngander, all of a sudden, as I neared the island and would soon be over\nit, I had an indubitable delusion. Instead of seeing before me and\nabout me the familiar parts of my aeroplane, I seemed to see nothing\nbut sky and sea and myself astraddle of an enormous white gander,\nlonger than a canoe, and bigger than a dray-horse; I seemed to see\nhis immense, dazzlingly white wings, ten yards or more in spread,\nrhythmically beating the air on either side of me; I seemed to see,\nstraight out in front of me, his long white neck, the flattened,\nrounded top of his big head, and the tip of his great yellow bill\nagainst the sky; what was more, instead of seeing my knees clad in\nkhaki, my calves swathed in puttees and my feet in brown boots, I\nseemed to see my knees in blue corduroy knickerbockers, my legs in blue\nribbed woolen stockings, against the white feathers of that gigantic\ndream-gander\u2019s back, and my feet sticking out on either side of him\nencased in low, square-toed shoes of black leather, of the cut one sees\nin pictures of Continental soldiers or of Benjamin Franklin as a lad,\ntheir big silver buckles plain to me against the blueness of the ocean\nfar below me.\n\nAfter being swallowed up in this astounding hallucination, which I\nvividly recalled, I remembered nothing until I came to myself, standing\non the beach by what was left of my blazing aeroplane.\n\nWhile struggling to recollect what I could remember and trying to\nsurmise what had happened during my unconsciousness, I had been\nsurveying my surroundings. On one hand I saw only the limitless and\nunvaried ocean from which came the cool sea-breeze that fanned my\nleft cheek and stirred my hair under the visor of my cap; on the\nother opened a wide, flat-floored valley, bounded by low hills,\nthe highest, at the head of the valley, not over ninety feet above\nsea-level, crowned by a huge palatial building of pinkish stone, its\ntwo lofty stories topped by an ornate carved balustrade above which\nno roof showed, so that I inferred that the roof was flat. The hills\nshutting in my view on either side, lower and lower towards the\nsea, were rounded and covered with a dense growth of scrubby trees,\nnot quite tall enough to be called forest. Close to the beach and\nhills, on each side of the valley, was what looked like a sort of\nmodel garden village. That on my right, as I faced inland, was of\nclosely-set one-story cottages, bowered in flowering vines, under\na grove of handsome, exotic-looking trees. The other, which I saw\nbeyond the slackening flames above the embers of my aeroplane, was of\nroomy, broad-verandahed, two-story villas, generously spaced, beneath\nmagnificent young shade-trees, mostly loaded with brilliant flowers.\n\nAs I was looking at the valley, the villages, the palace on the\nhill-top and from one to the other, with now and then a glance\noverhead at the hosts of wheeling flamingoes, I thought I had a second\nhallucination. I seemed to see, along a path through the riotous\ngreenery, a human figure approaching me, but, when it drew near and I\nseemed to see it more clearly, I felt that it must be a figment of my\nimagination.\n\nIt was that of a tall, perfectly formed and gracefully moving young\nman. But, under the scorching rays of that caustic sunshine he was\nbareheaded and his shock of abundant, wavy and brilliantly yellow\ngolden hair was bobbed off short below his ears like the hair of\nItalian page-boys in early Florentine and Venetian paintings. His\neyes were very bright and a very light blue, his cheeks rosy, his\nbare neck pinkish. He was clad only in a tight-fitting stockinet\ngarment of green silk, something like the patent underwear shown in\nadvertising pictures. It looked very new, very silky and very green,\nand as unsuitable as possible for the climate, for its long, clinging\nsleeves reached to his wrists and the tight legs of it sheathed him\nto his ankles. His feet were encased in high laced shoes of a very\nbright, and apparently very soft, yellow leather, with (I was sure he\nwas an hallucination) _every one of the five toes of each formed\nseparately_.\n\nJust as I was about to rub my eyes to banish this disconcerting\napparition, I recognized him and saw him recognize me.\n\nIt was Pembroke!\n\nHis face, as he recognized me, did not express pleasure; what mine\nexpressed, besides amazement, I could not conjecture. All in a\nflash my mind ran over what I knew of him and had heard. We had\nfirst met as freshmen and had seen little of each other during\nour life as classmates. Pembroke, at college, had been noted as\nthe handsomest student of his day; as the youngest student of his\nclass; as surrounding himself with the most luxurious furnishings,\nthe most beautiful and costly pictures, bronzes, porcelains and art\nobjects ever known in the quarters of any student at our college;\nas very self-indulgent, yet so brilliantly gifted that he stood\nfifth or sixth in a large class with an unusual proportion of bright\nstudents; as daft about languages, music and birds, and, frequently\ndescanting on the wickedness and folly of allowing wild bird-life to\nbe all-but exterminated; as so capricious and erratic that most of his\nacquaintances thought him odd and his enemies said he was cracked.\n\nI had not seen him since our class dispersed after its graduation and\nthe attendant ceremonies and festivities. I had heard that, besides\nhaving a very rich father, he had inherited, on his twenty-first\nbirthday, an income of over four hundred thousand dollars a year and a\nhuge accumulation of ready cash; that he had at once interested himself\nin the creation of refuges for migratory, rare and picturesque birds;\nthat his fantastic whimsicalities and eccentricities had intensified so\nas to cause a series of quarrels and a complete estrangement between\nhimself and his father; that he had bought an island somewhere and\nhad absorbed himself in the fostering of wild bird-life and in the\ncompanionship of very questionable associates.\n\nHe held out his hand and we shook hands.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t seem injured or hurt at all, Denbigh,\u201d he said. \u201cHow did you\nmanage to get out of that blazing thing alive, let alone without any\nsign of scratch or scorch?\u201d\n\n\u201cI must have gotten out of it before it caught fire,\u201d I replied. \u201cI\nmust have gone daffy or lost my wits as I drew over your island. I have\nno idea how I landed or why. The whole thing is a blank to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are lucky,\u201d he said, matter-of-factly, \u201cto have landed at all.\nIf your mind wandered, it is a miracle you did not smash on the coral\nrocks on the other side of the island or on one of the outlying keys,\nor fall into the ocean and drown.\n\n\u201cHowever, all\u2019s well that ends well. Nothing can be salvaged from the\nwreckage of your conveyance, that is clear. What you need is a bracer,\nfood, rest, a bath, sleep, fresh clothes and whatever else will soothe\nyou. Come along. I\u2019ll do all I can for you.\u201d\n\nI followed him past the remnants of my aeroplane, along the beach, to\nthe group of villas. Close to them and to the beach was a sort of park\nor open garden, with fountains playing and carved marble seats set here\nand there along concrete walks between beds of flowers, shrubberies,\nand trim lawns, all canopied by astonishingly vigorous and well-grown\nornamental trees.\n\nAs we approached the nearest villa I saw a family group on its veranda,\nobviously parents and children; also I heard some one whistling\n\u201cAnnie Laurie\u201d so exquisitely as to evidence superlative artistry.\nAs we passed the entrance to the villa I was amazed to recognize\nRadnor, another classmate. But, as he ran down the steps to greet me,\nI reflected that there was nothing really astonishing in a man as\nopulent as Pembroke having as dependable a physician as he could engage\nresident on his island nor anything unnatural in his choosing an\nacquaintance.\n\n\u201cDenbigh,\u201d said Pembroke, \u201chas dropped on us out of the wide blue sky.\nHis aeroplane has been demolished, so he\u2019ll sojourn with us a while.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t seem to need me,\u201d Radnor commented, conning me. \u201cI see no\nblood and no indications of any broken bones. Can I patch you up,\nanywhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a bruise on me, as far as I know,\u201d I replied.\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d he laughed, \u201cmy prescription is two hours abed. Get undressed\nand horizontal and stay so till you really feel like getting up. And\nnot more than one nip of Pembroke\u2019s guest-brandy, either. Get flat with\nno unnecessary delay and sleep if you can.\u201d\n\nAs we went on I noted that neither Radnor close by nor Mrs. Radnor on\nthe veranda seemed aware of anything remarkable in Pembroke\u2019s attire;\nthey must be habituated by him to it or to similar or even more\nfantastic raiment.\n\nWe appeared to walk the length or width of the village, to the villa\nfarthest from the beach. As we entered I had a glimpse on one hand\nof a parlor with an ample round center-table, inviting armchairs and\nwalls lined with bookcases, through whose doors I espied some handsome\nbindings; on the other hand of a cozy dining-room with a polished\ntable and beyond it a sideboard loaded with silverware and decorated\nporcelain.\n\nBy the newel-post of the broad, easy stair stood a paragon of a Chinese\nbutler.\n\n\u201cWu,\u201d said Pembroke, \u201cMr. Denbigh is to occupy this house. Show him\nto his bedroom and call Fong. Mr. Denbigh needs him at once. And tell\nFong that Mr. Denbigh has lost all his baggage and needs a change of\nclothes promptly.\u201d\n\nWithout any sudden movement or appearance of haste, without a word, he\nturned and was out of the villa and away before I could speak.\n\nI found myself domiciled in an abode delightfully situated, each\noutlook a charming picture, and inside admirably designed and lavishly\nprovided with every imaginable comfort and luxury. The servants were\nall Chinese. One took care of the lawn, flowers and shrubberies,\nanother swept the rooms; there was an unsurpassable Chinese cook,\nwhom I never saw, and something I heard made me infer that he had a\nhelper. I had at my beck a Chinese valet, a Chinese errand-boy and the\ndeferential butler, who managed the house and anticipated my every want.\n\nExcept for frequent baths I think I slept most of the ensuing\nforty-eight hours. What I swallowed I took in bed. My second\nbreakfast on the island I ate in the dainty, exquisitely appointed\ndining-room. After that I had energy enough to loll in one of the\nrattan lounging-chairs on the veranda, comfortably clad in neat, cool,\nwell-cut, well-fitting garments chosen from the amazing abundance which\nFong had ready for me, how so exactly suitable for me I could not\nconjecture. I had not been long on the veranda when Radnor strolled by,\nwhistling \u201cThe Carnival of Venice.\u201d He came up and joined me. Early in\nour chat he said:\n\n\u201cProbably you will be unable to refrain from asking questions; but I\nfancy that I shall feel at liberty to answer very few of your queries.\nNearly everything I know about this island and about happenings on it\nI have learned not as a mere man or as a mere dweller here, but as\nPembroke\u2019s resident physician; it is all confidential. Most of what you\nlearn here you\u2019ll have to absorb by observation and inference. And I\ndon\u2019t mind telling you that the less you learn the better will Pembroke\nbe pleased, and I likewise.\u201d\n\nHe did tell me that the villas were tenanted chiefly by the members of\nPembroke\u2019s private orchestra and band, mostly Hungarians, Bohemians,\nPoles and Italians, with such other satellites as a sculptor, an\narchitect, an engineer, a machinist, a head carpenter, a tailor and\nan accountant. The other village was populated entirely by Asiatics,\nChinese, Japanese, Hindoos, and others; who performed all the labor of\nthe island.\n\nThe next morning, about the same time, as I was similarly lounging on\nmy veranda, Pembroke appeared, in the same bizarre attire, or lack of\nattire, in which I had previously seen him. He sat with me a half hour\nor so, asked courteously after my health and comfort and remarked:\n\n\u201cI am glad you feel contented: you\u2019ll probably abide here some time.\u201d\n\nI said nothing. He glanced away from me, up under the edge of the\nveranda roof through the overarching boughs. My eyes followed his. I\ncaught glints of pink from far-off flamingoes.\n\n\u201cGlorious birds!\u201d Pembroke exclaimed, rapturously. \u201cThey nest on\nseveral of the low outlying keys, which, with the coral-reefs scattered\nbetween them, make it impossible for any craft bigger than a cat-boat\nto approach this side of the island. They have multiplied amazingly\nsince I began shepherding them. I love them! I glory in them!\u201d\n\nAt the word he left me, as abruptly and swiftly as after our first\nencounter.\n\nThereafter, for some weeks of what I can describe only as luxuriously\ncomfortable and very pleasant captivity, I diverted myself by reading\nthe very well-chosen and varied books of the villa\u2019s fairly large\nlibrary, by getting acquainted with the inhabitants of the other\nvillas, and by roaming about the lower part of the valley. The very\nevening of our chat Radnor had invited me to dinner, for which Fong\nfitted me out irreproachably, and at which I found Mrs. Radnor charming\nand the other guests, Conway the architect, and his wife and sister,\nvery agreeable companions. After that I was a guest at dinner at one or\nanother of the villas each evening, so that I lunched and breakfasted\nalone at my abode, but never dined there.\n\nOnce only I inspected the other village and found its neatness and\nthe apparent contentment of its inhabitants, especially the women and\nchildren, very charming. But I seemed to divine that they felt the\npresence of a European or American as an intrusion: I avoided the\nvillage thereafter.\n\nSome of the men of that village tended the trees, shrubberies, vines\nand gardens of the valley, and kept it a paradise, luxuriant with every\nsort of fruit and vegetable which could be grown in that soil and\nclimate.\n\nI saw nothing more of Pembroke and found that I could not approach\nhis palace on the hill-top, for there was an extremely adequate steel\nfence of tall L-irons, sharp at the top, across the valley and down\nto the beach beyond either village, which barrier was patrolled by\nheavily-built, muscular guards, seemingly Scotch and not visibly\narmed, who respectfully intimated that no one passed any of its gates,\nor along either beach, without Mr. Pembroke\u2019s express permit. Very\nseldom did I so much as catch a glimpse of Pembroke on the terraces\nof his palace, but I did see on them knots, even bevies, of women\nwhose outlines, even at that distance, suggested that they were young\nand personable, certainly that they were gayly clad in bright-colored\nsilks. Near or with them I saw no man, excepting Asiatic servitors, and\nPembroke himself, who powerfully suggested an oriental despot among his\nsultanas.\n\nBy the inadvertent utterance of some one, I forget whom, I learned that\nthe guards had a cantonment or barrack on the other side of the island.\n\nI enjoyed rambling about the valley, as far as I was permitted, for\nboth the variety and the beauty of its products were amazing.\n\nStill more amazing to me was the number of ever-flowing ornamental\nfountains. The Bahamas are proverbially hampered by scanty water\nsupply. But here I found, apparently, a superabundance of clear, pure,\ndrinkable water. There was a fountain near the village, where a seated\nbronze figure, seemingly of some Asiatic god or saint unknown to me,\nheld in each hand a great serpent grasped by its throat, and from the\nopen mouth of each snake poured a spout of water into the basin before\nthe statue. There were other fountains, each with a figure or group of\nfigures of bronze, in the formal garden by the village of villas. And\nbeyond it, set against the scooped-out flank of one of the range of\nenclosing hills, was a huge concrete edifice of basins and outstanding\ngroups of statuary and statues and groups in niches, more or less\nreminiscent of the Fountain of Trevi. I was dumbfounded at the flow of\nwater from this extravagantly ornate and overloaded structure. There\nwere many jets squirting so as to cross each other in the air, even to\ninterlace, as it were. But midway of the whole construction, behind the\nmiddle basin, was a sort of grotto with, centrally, an open entrance\nlike a low doorway or manhole, on either side of which were two larger\napertures like low latticed windows, filled in with elaborately\npatterned bronze gratings, through the lower part of which flowed two\nstreams of water as copious as brooks, which cascaded into the main\nbasin.\n\nBeyond this rococco fountain was a plot of ground enclosed by a hedge,\nserving as garden for a tiny cottage of one low story. In it lived an\nold Welsh woman, spoken of by the inhabitants of the village as \u201cMother\nBevan.\u201d She always wore the hideous Welsh national costume and hobbled\nabout leaning on a stout malacca walking-stick with an ivory crosshead\ntipped with gold bosses. She cared for and delighted in a numerous\nflock of snow-white geese which somehow seemed thriving in this, one\nwould suppose, for them far too tropical climate. Among them was a\nlarge and very handsome gander, which reminded me of my childhood\u2019s\npet. The flock spent much of its time swimming and splashing in the\nbasins of the enormous grotto-fountain.\n\nWhen I asked Radnor about the abundance of water and its apparent\nwaste, he said:\n\n\u201cNo mystery there nor any secrets. Pembroke could spend anything he\npleased on wildcat artesian drilling and had the perverse luck to\nstrike a generous flow just as his drillers were about to tell him\nthat no humanly constructed implements could drill any deeper. It\u2019s\nno spouting well, though, and a less opulent proprietor than Pembroke\ncould not afford to pump it as he does. The power-station is on the\nother side of the island, near the harbor. It uses oil fuel of some\nkind. There is never any stint of water for any use and the surplus is\nmade to do ornamental duty, as you see.\u201d\n\nI was interested in the old Welsh woman and in her tiny cottage, so\noddly discordant with the Italianate concrete fountain near it and the\nspacious villas not far off. Except the Asiatics of the village and the\nbarrier-guards I had found affable every dweller on the island; most of\nthem sociable. I accosted the grotesque old crone, as she leaned over\nher gate and discovered in her the unexpected peculiarity that all her\nanswers were in rhyming lines, rather cleverly versified, which she\nuttered, indeed, slowly, in a measured voice, but without the slightest\nsymptom of hesitation. Her demeanor was distinctly forbidding and her\nwords by no means conciliatory. I recall only one of her doggerels,\nwhich ended our first interview:\n\n    \u201cMan fallen out of the sky.\n    \u201cGod never intended us to fly.\n    \u201cIt\u2019s impious to ascend so high.\n    \u201c\u2019Twas wicked of you ever to try.\n    \u201cNo lover of reprobates am I.\u201d\n\nExcept for this queer old creature I encountered no unfriendly word\nor look from any of my neighbors. I enjoyed the dinners to which I\nwas invited and liked my fellow-guests at them; indeed I disliked no\none with whom I talked; but, on the other hand, I was attracted to no\none, and, while I felt entirely welcome wherever I was invited and\naltogether at my ease, and pleased to be invited again later, at no\nhousehold did I feel free to drop in at odd times for casual chat. I\nfound many congenial fellow-diners, but no one increasingly congenial,\nno one who impressed me as likely to be glad to have me call uninvited.\n\nTherefore, as I always loved the open air, as I somehow felt lonely\non my own veranda and nowhere intimate enough to lounge on any other,\nI took to spending many hours of the mornings, before the heat of the\nmidday grew intense, out in the shade of the little park, to which I\nwas attracted by many of its charming features, especially by the pink\nmasses of flowering bougainvillea here and there through it. I always\ncarried a book, sometimes I read, oftener I merely gazed about at the\nenchanting vistas, overhead at the uncountable flamingoes, or between\nthe trees out to seaward at the dazzling white heaps of billowy cumulus\nclouds, like titanic snow-clad mountains, bulging and growing on the\ntowering thunder-heads forming against the vivid blue sky out over the\nocean.\n\nI think it was on my second morning in the park that I caught a glimpse\nof Mother Bevan crossing a path at some distance. Later I caught other\nglimpses of her crossing other paths. Each morning I caught similar\nglimpses of her. On the fifth or sixth morning I suddenly became\nconscious of an inward impression that she was, again and again, making\nthe circuit of the park, circling about me as it were, like a witch\nweaving a spell about an intended victim.\n\nNext morning I affected an absorption in my book and kept an alert, and\nI was certain, an imperceptible watch in all directions. I made sure\nthat Mother Bevan was indeed perambulating the outer portions of the\npark, stumping along, leaning heavily on her cross-headed cane, and I\nmade sure also that after she had completed one circuit about me she\nkept on her way and completed another and another.\n\nI was curious, puzzled, incensed; derisive of myself for so much as\nentertaining the idea of any one, in 1921, attempting witchcraft;\nconcerned for fear that my wits were addled; and, while unable to rid\nmyself of the notion, yet completely skeptical of any effect on me and\nunconscious of any.\n\nBut, the very next day, seated on the same marble bench, by the same\nfountain, among the same pink masses of bougainvillea in flower, I was\naware not only of Mother Bevan circumambulating the outskirts of the\npark, but also of her numerous flock of noisy, self-important, white\ngeese waddling about, not far from me, and indubitably walking round\nand round me in ever lessening circles, the big gander always nearest\nme. At first I felt incredulous, then silly, then resentful. And, as\nthe gander, now and then honking, circled about me for the fifth or\nsixth time, I became conscious of an inner impulse, of an all but\novermastering inner impulse, to seek out Pembroke and to tell him that\nI was willing to do anything he wanted me to do; to pledge myself to do\nanything he wanted me to do.\n\nI took alarm. I felt, shamefacedly, but vividly, that I was being made\nthe subject of some sort of attempted necromancy. All of a sudden I\nfound myself aflame with resentment, with hatred of that gander. I\nleapt to my feet, I hurled my book at him, I ran after him, I threw\nat him my bamboo walking-stick, barely missing him. I retrieved the\nwalking-stick and pursued the retreating bird, and threw the cane at\nhim a second time, almost hitting him.\n\nThe geese half waddled, half flew towards the beetling atrocities of\nthe ornate rococco hill-side fountain; I followed, still infuriated.\nThere was, along the walk before the fountain, an edging of lumps of\ncoral rock defining the border of the flower-beds. I picked up an\narmful of the smaller pieces of angular coral rock, chased the geese\ninto the big main basin of the fountain and pelted that gander with\njagged chunks of coral. He fled through the central manhole into the\ngrotto and hissed at me through one of the gratings, behind which he\nwas safe from my missiles.\n\nSuddenly overwhelmed by a revulsion of shame and a tendency to laugh\nat myself, I beat a retreat to my veranda. There I sat, pondering my\nsituation and my experiences.\n\nI recalled that, at every dinner to which I had been invited, there\nhad been, practically, but two subjects of conversation: the boredom\nof life on tropical islands in general and on Pembroke island in\nparticular; and the worth, the fine qualities, the charm, the\nperfection of Pembroke himself.\n\nI watched a chance to find Radnor at leisure, to waylay him, to entice\nhim to my veranda. When the atmosphere of our talk seemed auspicious, I\nsaid:\n\n\u201cSee here, Radnor! I know you said you meant to elude any queries I\nmight put to you, but there is one question you\u2019ll have to answer,\nsomehow. Why are all these people here?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is easy,\u201d Radnor laughed. \u201cI have no objection to answering that\nquestion. They are here because Pembroke wants them here.\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t phrase my question well,\u201d I said, \u201cbut you know what I mean.\nNo one I have met really likes being here. Why do they stay?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s easy, too,\u201d Radnor smiled. \u201cAlmost anyone will stay almost\nanywhere if lodged comfortably and paid enough. Pembroke provides his\nhirelings with an overplus of luxuries and is more than liberal in\npayment.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat does not explain what intrigues me,\u201d I pursued. \u201cI haven\u2019t yet\nhit on the right words to express my idea. But you really understand\nme, I think, though you pretend you don\u2019t. All the inhabitants of these\nvillas are not merely uneasy, they are consciously homesick, acutely\nhomesick, homesick to a degree which no luxurious surroundings, no\nprospective savings could alleviate. They are pining for home. What\nkeeps them here?\u201d\n\n\u201cPut it down,\u201d said Radnor, weightily, \u201cto the unescapable charm of the\nisland. That keeps them here.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you say witchery or enchantment?\u201d I queried, meaningly.\n\nRadnor was emphatic.\n\n\u201cI said charm!\u201d he uttered. \u201cLet it go at that.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not in the least inclined,\u201d I retorted, \u201cto let it go at that. I\ntake it that this is no joke, certainly not anything to be dismissed by\na clever play on words. I insist on knowing what makes all these people\nstay here. They all declare, at every opportunity, that they are dying\nof ennui, that the climate is uncongenial, that they long for temperate\nskies, for northern vegetation, for frosty nights. What keeps them\nhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cI tell you,\u201d said Radnor, \u201cthat, like me, most human beings will do\nanything, anything lawful and reasonable, if paid high enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe rest aren\u2019t like you,\u201d I asserted. \u201cYou and Mrs. Radnor impress\nme as free agents, doing, for a consideration, what you have been\nasked to do, and what you both, after weighing the pros and cons, have\nagreed to do. All the others, Europeans, Americans and Asiatics, except\nMother Bevan, appear like beings hypnotized and moving in a trance,\nmere living automatons, without any will of their own, actuated solely\nby Pembroke\u2019s will; as much so as if they were mechanical dolls. They\nimpress me as being mesmerized or bewitched. I seriously vow that\nI believe they have been subjected to some supernatural or magical\ninfluence. They are as totally dominated by Pembroke as if they were\nthe ends of his fingers.\u201d\n\nRadnor looked startled.\n\n\u201cIt will do no good,\u201d I cried, \u201cto contradict me or to deny it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe you,\u201d Radnor said, as if thinking out loud. He went on:\n\n\u201cYou are right. Except Mother Bevan and me and Lucille every human\nbeing on this island is completely under Pembroke\u2019s influence, gained\nlargely through the help of Mother Bevan.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not you and your wife?\u201d I queried.\n\n\u201cLucille, because of me,\u201d he replied. \u201cPembroke found out, by trying\nMelville here and Kennard, that, after being put under his influence,\nwhile retaining surgical skill, a physician loses all ability to\ndiagnose and prescribe. He had to ship Kennard and Melville back home,\nand pension them till their faculties recovered their tone.\u201d\n\nI looked him straight in the eyes. He forestalled my impending outburst\nby saying:\n\n\u201cAs far as I can discern, Pembroke\u2019s influence over his retainers does\nthem no harm, physical or mental. Kennard and Melville have as large\nincomes and as many patients and are as successful and prosperous, as\npopular and prominent among their fellow-physicians as if they had\nnever sojourned here. Except in their enthusiasm for and admiration of\nPembroke every human being on this island appears to me as healthy as\nif not under any influence of any kind.\u201d\n\n\u201cEven so,\u201d I blurted out, \u201cyou ought not to abet any such deviltries.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t admit,\u201d said Radnor, hotly, \u201cthat any deviltries exist on\nthis island or that there is any approach to deviltry in what you have\npartly divined. Also I abet nothing, as I ought, but, as I also ought,\nI conceive that I am under obligations not to thwart Pembroke in any\nway. I am the island\u2019s resident physician and his personal physician;\nI am here to treat injuries, cure maladies, relieve pain, and do all\nI can to keep healthy every dweller on this island. I live up to my\nconception of my duty. Don\u2019t attempt to preach at me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am impatient,\u201d I said, \u201cat my enforced stay here, and revolted at\nthe idea of succumbing to Pembroke\u2019s influence.\u201d\n\nRadnor laughed.\n\n\u201cYou are,\u201d he said, \u201cthe only human being who has reached the island,\nsince Pembroke bought it, uninvited. You\u2019ll get away by and by. And you\nare most unlikely to be affected by anything he or Mother Bevan may\nhave in their power to do. Neither Kennard nor Melville ever suspected\nanything, or grew suspicious. You alone have half seen through the\nsituation here. You are Mother Bevan\u2019s most refractory subject, so far.\nHave no fear.\u201d\n\nHe went off, whistling Strauss\u2019 Blue Danube Waltz.\n\nI had frequent and recurrent fears, but I dissembled them. I think,\namong all the terrors which haunted me during the remainder of my\nsojourn on the island, that I came nearest to panic and horror within\nan hour after Radnor had left me. Hardly was he gone when Pembroke,\narrayed precisely as before and reminding me of a stage-frog in a\ngoblin pantomime, sauntered up and seated himself by me.\n\nI sweated with tremors of dismay, I was ready to despair, when I found\nmyself, however I tried, unable to utter a word to him concerning the\ngander, Mother Bevan, or my suspicions; unable even to allude to the\nsubject in any way, although he asked me bluntly:\n\n\u201cHave you anything to complain of?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly that I am here,\u201d I replied.\n\n\u201cI had nothing to do with your coming here,\u201d he retorted. \u201cYou came\nuninvited, of your own accord, or by accident. I trust I have been a\ncourteous host, but I have not tried to pretend that you are welcome.\nI am endeavoring to arrange that your departure shall not entail upon\nme any inconvenience or any danger of disadvantageous consequences.\nBelieve me, I am doing all I can to expedite your return to your\nnormal haunts. Meantime you\u2019ll have to be patient.\u201d\n\nI was most impatient and very nearly frantic at finding myself, no\nmatter how I struggled inwardly, totally unable so much as to refer or\nallude to what lay heaviest on my mind.\n\nWe exchanged vaguely generalized sentences for awhile and he left as\nabruptly as before, left me quivering with consternation, dreading that\nmy inability to broach the subject on which I was eager to beard him\nwas a premonition of my total enthrallment to Pembroke\u2019s influence.\n\nAs the days passed I became habituated to stoning that uncanny gander,\nchasing him into the basin of the fountain and having him hiss at me\nfrom behind one of the gratings; I became indifferent to the glimpses\nI caught of Mother Bevan hovering in the middle distance. I had a good\nappetite for my meals: in fact, the food set before me at my abode\nwould have awakened the most finicky dyspeptic to zest and relish, even\nto voracity; while the dinners to which I was invited were delectable.\n\nBut from night to night I slept less and less, until I was near\ninsomnia. And, from day to day, I found it more and more difficult to\nabsorb myself in reading, to keep my mind on what I read; even to read\nat all.\n\nAgain I waylaid Radnor. I described to him my progressively worsening\ndiscomfort and distress.\n\n\u201cI am now,\u201d I said, \u201cor soon shall be, not merely in need of your help,\nbut beyond any help from you or anybody. If you don\u2019t do something for\nme I\u2019ll go crazy, I\u2019ll do something desperate, I\u2019ll commit suicide.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have been pondering,\u201d he said, \u201chow to help you, and I have almost\nhit upon a method. Your condition does not yet justify my giving you\nanything to make you sleep. As yet I do not want to give you any sort\nof drug, not even the simplest sedative. Honestly try to get to sleep\nto-night. Before to-morrow I think I\u2019ll hit upon an entirely suitable\nprescription, salutary for you and yet avoiding any appearance, any\nhint, of my antagonizing Pembroke.\u201d\n\nI did try to sleep that night, but I was still wide awake long after\nmidnight. So tossing and turning on my comfortable bed, I heard outside\nin the moonless darkness some one whistling a tune. As the sound came\nnearer I made sure it was Radnor. Also I recognized the tune.\n\nIt was that of \u201cThe Ballad of Nell Flaherty\u2019s Drake.\u201d\n\nThe tune brought to my mind the words of the song\u2019s refrain:\n\n                \u201cThe dear little fellow,\n                \u201cHis legs were so yellow,\n    \u201cHe could fly like a swallow and swim like a hake!\n                \u201cBad luck to the tober,\n                \u201cThe haythen cashlober,\n    \u201cThe monsther thot murthered Nell Flaherty\u2019s drake!\u201d\n\nAll of a sudden I conceived that this was Radnor\u2019s method of intimating\nto me by indirection what he did not dare to utter to me in plain\nwords. I thought I knew what he meant as well as if it had been put\ninto the plainest words. I rolled over, was asleep in three breaths,\nand slept till Fong ventured to waken me.\n\nAfter breakfast I went upstairs again and rummaged about in the closet\nwhere Fong had deposited what I had worn when I came under his care. I\nfound there everything I remembered to have had about me. My automatic\nwas well oiled and in good working order and its clip of cartridges was\nfull. My belt, with the extra clips of cartridges, was as it had been\nwhen I last put it on. I put it on, over my feather-weight hot-weather\nhabiliments; I strapped on my automatic; I strolled out, intent on\nsomehow coming within speaking distance of Pembroke.\n\nChance, or some unconscious whim, guided my footsteps to the beach and,\nin spite of the rapidly intensifying heat of the sun rays, along it\nto the remaining fragments of my wreck, barely visible under a great\naccumulation of beach foam, left by the breakers, hurled shorewards\nduring the thunder storm which had raged while I slept.\n\nNot far beyond those vestiges of what had been an aeroplane,\napproaching me along the beach, I encountered Pembroke.\n\nI found I had now no difficulty in speaking out my mind.\n\n\u201cPembroke,\u201d I said, \u201cI\u2019m outdone with confinement on this island of\nyours. I\u2019m irritated past endurance. If you don\u2019t promptly speed me on\nmy way elsewhere the tension inside me is going to get too much for me.\nSomething inside me is going to snap and I\u2019ll do something desperate,\nsomething you\u2019ll regret.\u201d\n\nHe looked me straight in the eyes, handsome in his fantastic toggery;\ncalm and cool, to all appearance.\n\n\u201cAre you, by any chance,\u201d he drawled, \u201cthreatening to shoot me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t made any threats,\u201d I retorted, hotly, \u201cand I have no\nintentions of shooting you or anybody. I realize that this island of\nyours is part of the British Empire and that in no part of it are\nhomicides or murderous assaults condoned or left unpunished. But,\nsince you use the word \u2018threat,\u2019 I am ready to make a threat. If you\ndon\u2019t soon set me free of my present captivity, if you don\u2019t soon put\nme in the way of getting home, I\u2019ll not shoot you or any human being,\nbut I will shoot that devilish gander; and, I promise you, if I shoot\nat him I\u2019ll hit him and if I hit him I\u2019ll kill him. I fancy those are\nplain words and I conjecture that you understand me fully, with all the\nimplications of what I say.\u201d\n\nPembroke\u2019s expression of face appeared to me to indicate not only\namazement and surprise, but the emotions of a man at a loss and\nmomentarily helpless in the face of wholly unexpected circumstances.\n\n\u201cYou come with me!\u201d he snapped.\n\nI followed him along the beach to the village, and, as we went,\nwondered to see him apparently comfortable in his tight-fitting suit\nand bare headed beneath the fierce radiance of the merciless sun rays,\nwhile I rejoiced in my flimsy garments and at being sheltered under the\nvery adequate Panama I had chosen from the headgear Fong had offered me.\n\nWe passed the end of the steel picket fence, the two beach guards\nsaluting Pembroke, and, I thought, suppressing a tendency to grin at\nme. Just around the point was a wide aviation field with a long row of\nhangars opposite the beach. I marveled, for I had caught no glimpse of\nany avion in the air over or about the island.\n\nA half dozen Asiatics, apparently Annamites, rose as we approached and\nstood respectfully, eyes on Pembroke. He uttered some sort of order in\na tongue unknown to me and two of them set wide open the doors of one\nof the hangars. In it, to my amazement, I saw a Visconti biplane, one\nof the fastest and most powerful single-seaters ever built.\n\n\u201cWhat do you think of that?\u201d Pembroke queried.\n\n\u201cI am astonished,\u201d I answered. \u201cI was certain that no specimen of this\ntype of machine had ever been on this side of the Atlantic.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is the first and only Visconti to be set up on this side of the\nocean,\u201d he replied. \u201cThe point is; could you fly it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think I could,\u201d I said, \u201cand I am sure I could try.\u201d\n\n\u201cTry then,\u201d Pembroke snapped. \u201cI make you a present of it. The sooner\nyou\u2019re off and away the better I\u2019ll be pleased.\u201d\n\nHe spoke at some length, apparently in the same unknown tongue, and\nstrode off towards his palace.\n\nI spent that day and most of the next going over that Visconti biplane,\nwith the deft, quick assistance of the docile Annamites. If there was\nanything about it defective, untrustworthy or out of order I could not\nfind it. On the third morning (I had dined at Radnor\u2019s both evenings),\nequipped admirably by Fong, who instantly provided me with whatever I\nasked for, I rose in that Visconti biplane, and, contrary to my fears,\nreached Miami in safety. But I was so overstrained by anxiety that it\nrequired six weeks in a sanitarium to make me myself again. During\nthose, apparently, endless hours in the air I had been expecting every\nmoment that something cunningly arranged beforehand and undiscoverable\nto my scrutiny in my inspections and reinspections, was going to go\nwrong with my conveyance and instantaneously annihilate me. The strain\nall but finished me. However, all\u2019s well that ends well.\n\n                                                                   1922\n\n\n\n\n                               AFTERWORD\n\n\n\n\n                               AFTERWORD\n\n\nEIGHT of the stories in this book I did not compose. I dreamed them,\nand in each the dream or nightmare needed little or no modification to\nmake a story of it.\n\nThe one exception is Floki\u2019s Blade, which is based on an alleged\nnightmare narrated to me by an acquaintance, who, when I said that I\nshould like to make a story of it, declared that he made me a present\nof the ideas in the dream. From what he told me I have taken the\nconception of the magic sword, conferring on its wielder superhuman\nstrength and also potent to discern foe from friend; likewise the\nlocality of the tale; all the rest is mine.\n\nThe latter part of Alfandega 49A I dreamed, as now written, after I\nheard of the manner of the death of my acquaintance whom I have renamed\nPake.\n\nLukundoo was written after my nightmare without any manipulation of\nmine, just as I dreamed it. But I should never have dreamed it had I\nnot previously read H. G. Wells\u2019 very much better story, \u201cPollock and\nthe Porroh Man.\u201d Anyone interested in dreams might relish comparing the\ntwo tales. They have resemblant features, but are very unlike, and the\ndifferences are such as no waking intellect would invent, but such as\ncome into a human mind only in a nightmare dream.\n\nThe others are paragon nightmares.\n\nThe House of the Nightmare is written just as I dreamed it, word for\nword, since I had the concurrent sensations of reading the tale in\nprint and of it all happening to me in the archaic times when all\nmotor-cars were right-hand-drive and with gear-shift-levers outside\nthe tonneau. The dream had the unusual peculiarity that I woke after\nthe second nightmare, so shaken that my wife had to quiet and soothe\nme as if I had been a scared child; and then I went to sleep again and\n_finished the dream_! Its denouement came as a complete surprise\nto me, as much of a shock as the climax of The Snout or of Amina.\n\nIt will be easy to realize that anyone dreaming such narratives as The\nPicture Puzzle, The Message on the Slate and The Pig-skin Belt just had\nto write them into stories to get them out of his system.\n\n                                           EDWARD LUCAS WHITE.\n\n\n\n\n                        =TRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTES=\n\nSimple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced\nquotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and\notherwise left unbalanced.\n\nPunctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant\npreference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not\nchanged.\n\nInconsistent hyphens left as printed.","title":"Lukundoo, and other stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":77597}