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diff --git a/26687-h/26687-h.htm b/26687-h/26687-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..99f5852 --- /dev/null +++ b/26687-h/26687-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5109 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Black Spirits and White, by Ralph Adams Cram + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .noin {text-indent: 0em;} + body > p {text-indent: 1em;} + h1,h2 {clear: both; font-weight: normal;} + h2 {line-height: 2;} + hr {width: 65%; margin: 2em auto; clear: both;} + .tb {width: 45%;} + table,.hd1,.poem,.tb {margin: 1em auto;} + .td1 {text-align: left; padding-right: 6em;} + .td2,.p4 {text-align: right;} + .td3 {text-align: left;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: small; font-style: normal; text-align: right; text-indent: 0em;} + .bq {margin: 0 10%;} + .center,h1,h2,.hd1,.hd2,.p1,.p5 {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .figc1 {margin: 1em auto 1.5em; width: 300px;} + .figc2 {margin: 2em auto; width: 31px;} + .figc3 {margin: 3em auto 5em; width: 200px;} + .figc3 img {border: double 5px;} + .poem {text-align: left; width: 20em;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; padding: 1em; text-align: justify;} + img {border: none;} + a:link, a:visited {text-decoration: none;} + .bk1 {width: 20em; border: solid 2px; margin: 0 auto; min-width: 330px;} + .bk2 {width: 14em; margin: 0 auto;} + .bk3 {margin: 2em 15% 1em;} + .hd1 {font-size: x-large;} + .hd2 {line-height: 1.5;} + .sp1 {font-size: medium;} + .sp4,.bq {font-size: small;} + .p1 {margin-top: 2em;} + .p2 {margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: 0; font-size: large;} + .p3 {padding-left: 2em; text-indent: 1em;} + .p3,.p4,.bk4 {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0;} + .p5 {padding-left: 7em; text-indent: -14em;} +// --> +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Black Spirits and White, by Ralph Adams Cram + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Black Spirits and White + A Book of Ghost Stories + +Author: Ralph Adams Cram + +Release Date: September 22, 2008 [EBook #26687] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE *** + + + + +Produced by David Clarke, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE</h1> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk1"><div class="figc1"> +<img src="images/001.png" width="300" height="75" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h1>Black Spirits & White</h1> + +<div class="hd1"><i>A Book of Ghost Stories</i></div> + +<h2><span class="sp1">BY</span><br /> +RALPH ADAMS CRAM</h2> + +<div class="figc2"> +<img src="images/002.png" width="31" height="38" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="hd2">CHICAGO<br /> +STONE & KIMBALL<br /> +MDCCCXCV</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="center"><small>COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY<br /> +STONE AND KIMBALL</small></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 16em;"> +<span class="i0">"BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">RED SPIRITS AND GRAY,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">MINGLE, MINGLE, MINGLE,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">YE THAT MINGLE MAY."<br /></span> +</div> + +<hr /> +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td class="td2" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">NO. 252 RUE M. LE PRINCE</td><td class="td2"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">IN KROPFSBERG KEEP</td><td class="td2"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">THE WHITE VILLA</td><td class="td2"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">SISTER MADDELENA</td><td class="td2"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">NOTRE DAME DES EAUX</td><td class="td2"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">THE DEAD VALLEY</td><td class="td2"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">POSTSCRIPT</td><td class="td2"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<hr /> +<h2>No. 252 RUE M. LE PRINCE.</h2> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> +<h2><big>No. 252 Rue M. le Prince.</big></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> in May, 1886, I found myself at last in +Paris, I naturally determined to throw myself +on the charity of an old chum of mine, Eugene +Marie d'Ardeche, who had forsaken Boston a +year or more ago on receiving word of the +death of an aunt who had left him such property +as she possessed. I fancy this windfall +surprised him not a little, for the relations between +the aunt and nephew had never been +cordial, judging from Eugene's remarks touching +the lady, who was, it seems, a more or +less wicked and witch-like old person, with a +penchant for black magic, at least such was +the common report.</p> + +<p>Why she should leave all her property to +d'Ardeche, no one could tell, unless it was +that she felt his rather hobbledehoy tendencies<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> +towards Buddhism and occultism might +some day lead him to her own unhallowed +height of questionable illumination. To be sure +d'Ardeche reviled her as a bad old woman, +being himself in that state of enthusiastic exaltation +which sometimes accompanies a boyish +fancy for occultism; but in spite of his distant +and repellent attitude, Mlle. Blaye de Tartas +made him her sole heir, to the violent wrath of +a questionable old party known to infamy as the +Sar Torrevieja, the "King of the Sorcerers." +This malevolent old portent, whose gray and +crafty face was often seen in the Rue M. le +Prince during the life of Mlle. de Tartas had, +it seems, fully expected to enjoy her small +wealth after her death; and when it appeared +that she had left him only the contents of the +gloomy old house in the Quartier Latin, giving +the house itself and all else of which she died +possessed to her nephew in America, the Sar +proceeded to remove everything from the place, +and then to curse it elaborately and comprehensively, +together with all those who should ever +dwell therein.</p> + +<p>Whereupon he disappeared.</p> + +<p>This final episode was the last word I received<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> +from Eugene, but I knew the number of the +house, 252 Rue M. le Prince. So, after a day or +two given to a first cursory survey of Paris, I +started across the Seine to find Eugene and compel +him to do the honors of the city.</p> + +<p>Every one who knows the Latin Quarter knows +the Rue M. le Prince, running up the hill towards +the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is full of queer +houses and odd corners,—or was in '86,—and +certainly No. 252 was, when I found it, quite as +queer as any. It was nothing but a doorway, a +black arch of old stone between and under two +new houses painted yellow. The effect of this +bit of seventeenth-century masonry, with its dirty +old doors, and rusty broken lantern sticking +gaunt and grim out over the narrow sidewalk, +was, in its frame of fresh plaster, sinister in +the extreme.</p> + +<p>I wondered if I had made a mistake in the +number; it was quite evident that no one lived +behind those cobwebs. I went into the doorway +of one of the new hôtels and interviewed the +concierge.</p> + +<p>No, M. d'Ardeche did not live there, though +to be sure he owned the mansion; he himself +resided in Meudon, in the country house of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +late Mlle. de Tartas. Would Monsieur like the +number and the street?</p> + +<p>Monsieur would like them extremely, so I took +the card that the concierge wrote for me, and +forthwith started for the river, in order that I +might take a steamboat for Meudon. By one of +those coincidences which happen so often, being +quite inexplicable, I had not gone twenty paces +down the street before I ran directly into the +arms of Eugene d'Ardeche. In three minutes +we were sitting in the queer little garden of the +Chien Bleu, drinking vermouth and absinthe, and +talking it all over.</p> + +<p>"You do not live in your aunt's house?" I said +at last, interrogatively.</p> + +<p>"No, but if this sort of thing keeps on I shall +have to. I like Meudon much better, and the +house is perfect, all furnished, and nothing in +it newer than the last century. You must come +out with me to-night and see it. I have got a +jolly room fixed up for my Buddha. But there +is something wrong with this house opposite. I +can't keep a tenant in it,—not four days. I have +had three, all within six months, but the stories +have gone around and a man would as soon +think of hiring the Cour des Comptes to live<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +in as No. 252. It is notorious. The fact is, +it is haunted the worst way."</p> + +<p>I laughed and ordered more vermouth.</p> + +<p>"That is all right. It is haunted all the same, +or enough to keep it empty, and the funny part +is that no one knows <i>how</i> it is haunted. Nothing +is ever seen, nothing heard. As far as I +can find out, people just have the horrors there, +and have them so bad they have to go to the +hospital afterwards. I have one ex-tenant in the +Bicêtre now. So the house stands empty, and +as it covers considerable ground and is taxed for +a lot, I don't know what to do about it. I think +I'll either give it to that child of sin, Torrevieja, +or else go and live in it myself. I shouldn't mind +the ghosts, I am sure."</p> + +<p>"Did you ever stay there?"</p> + +<p>"No, but I have always intended to, and in +fact I came up here to-day to see a couple of +rake-hell fellows I know, Fargeau and Duchesne, +doctors in the Clinical Hospital beyond here, up +by the Parc Mont Souris. They promised that +they would spend the night with me some time in +my aunt's house,—which is called around here, +you must know, 'la Bouche d'Enfer,'—and I +thought perhaps they would make it this week,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +if they can get off duty. Come up with me +while I see them, and then we can go across +the river to Véfour's and have some luncheon, +you can get your things at the Chatham, and +we will go out to Meudon, where of course +you will spend the night with me."</p> + +<p>The plan suited me perfectly, so we went up +to the hospital, found Fargeau, who declared +that he and Duchesne were ready for anything, +the nearer the real "bouche d'enfer" the better; +that the following Thursday they would both +be off duty for the night, and that on that +day they would join in an attempt to outwit the +devil and clear up the mystery of No. 252.</p> + +<p>"Does M. l'Américain go with us?" asked +Fargeau.</p> + +<p>"Why of course," I replied, "I intend to go, +and you must not refuse me, d'Ardeche; I decline +to be put off. Here is a chance for +you to do the honors of your city in a +manner which is faultless. Show me a real +live ghost, and I will forgive Paris for having +lost the Jardin Mabille."</p> + +<p>So it was settled.</p> + +<p>Later we went down to Meudon and ate +dinner in the terrace room of the villa, which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +was all that d'Ardeche had said, and more, +so utterly was its atmosphere that of the seventeenth +century. At dinner Eugene told me +more about his late aunt, and the queer goings +on in the old house.</p> + +<p>Mlle. Blaye lived, it seems, all alone, except +for one female servant of her own age; a severe, +taciturn creature, with massive Breton features +and a Breton tongue, whenever she vouchsafed +to use it. No one ever was seen to enter the +door of No. 252 except Jeanne the servant and +the Sar Torrevieja, the latter coming constantly +from none knew whither, and always entering, +<i>never leaving</i>. Indeed, the neighbors, who for +eleven years had watched the old sorcerer sidle +crab-wise up to the bell almost every day, declared +vociferously that <i>never</i> had he been seen +to leave the house. Once, when they decided to +keep absolute guard, the watcher, none other +than Maître Garceau of the Chien Bleu, after +keeping his eyes fixed on the door from ten +o'clock one morning when the Sar arrived until +four in the afternoon, during which time the +door was unopened (he knew this, for had he +not gummed a ten-centime stamp over the +joint and was not the stamp unbroken) nearly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +fell down when the sinister figure of Torrevieja +slid wickedly by him with a dry "Pardon, Monsieur!" +and disappeared again through the black +doorway.</p> + +<p>This was curious, for No. 252 was entirely +surrounded by houses, its only windows opening +on a courtyard into which no eye could look +from the hôtels of the Rue M. le Prince and +the Rue de l'Ecole, and the mystery was one of +the choice possessions of the Latin Quarter.</p> + +<p>Once a year the austerity of the place was +broken, and the denizens of the whole quarter +stood open-mouthed watching many carriages +drive up to No. 252, many of them private, not +a few with crests on the door panels, from all of +them descending veiled female figures and men +with coat collars turned up. Then followed +curious sounds of music from within, and those +whose houses joined the blank walls of No. 252 +became for the moment popular, for by placing +the ear against the wall strange music could +distinctly be heard, and the sound of monotonous +chanting voices now and then. By dawn +the last guest would have departed, and for +another year the hôtel of Mlle. de Tartas was +ominously silent.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> + +<p>Eugene declared that he believed it was a +celebration of "Walpurgisnacht," and certainly +appearances favored such a fancy.</p> + +<p>"A queer thing about the whole affair is," he +said, "the fact that every one in the street +swears that about a month ago, while I was +out in Concarneau for a visit, the music and +voices were heard again, just as when my +revered aunt was in the flesh. The house was +perfectly empty, as I tell you, so it is quite possible +that the good people were enjoying an +hallucination."</p> + +<p>I must acknowledge that these stories did +not reassure me; in fact, as Thursday came +near, I began to regret a little my determination +to spend the night in the house. I was too +vain to back down, however, and the perfect +coolness of the two doctors, who ran down Tuesday +to Meudon to make a few arrangements, +caused me to swear that I would die of fright +before I would flinch. I suppose I believed +more or less in ghosts, I am sure now that I am +older I believe in them, there are in fact few +things I can <i>not</i> believe. Two or three inexplicable +things had happened to me, and, although +this was before my adventure with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +Rendel in Pæstum, I had a strong predisposition +to believe some things that I could not +explain, wherein I was out of sympathy with +the age.</p> + +<p>Well, to come to the memorable night of the +twelfth of June, we had made our preparations, +and after depositing a big bag inside the doors +of No. 252, went across to the Chien Bleu, +where Fargeau and Duchesne turned up +promptly, and we sat down to the best dinner +Père Garceau could create.</p> + +<p>I remember I hardly felt that the conversation +was in good taste. It began with various +stories of Indian fakirs and Oriental jugglery, +matters in which Eugene was curiously well +read, swerved to the horrors of the great Sepoy +mutiny, and thus to reminiscences of the dissecting-room. +By this time we had drunk more +or less, and Duchesne launched into a photographic +and Zolaesque account of the only time +(as he said) when he was possessed of the +panic of fear; namely, one night many years +ago, when he was locked by accident into the +dissecting-room of the Loucine, together with +several cadavers of a rather unpleasant nature. +I ventured to protest mildly against the choice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +of subjects, the result being a perfect carnival +of horrors, so that when we finally drank our +last <i>crème de cacao</i> and started for "la Bouche +d'Enfer," my nerves were in a somewhat rocky +condition.</p> + +<p>It was just ten o'clock when we came into +the street. A hot dead wind drifted in great +puffs through the city, and ragged masses of +vapor swept the purple sky; an unsavory night +altogether, one of those nights of hopeless lassitude +when one feels, if one is at home, like doing +nothing but drink mint juleps and smoke cigarettes.</p> + +<p>Eugene opened the creaking door, and tried +to light one of the lanterns; but the gusty wind +blew out every match, and we finally had to +close the outer doors before we could get a +light. At last we had all the lanterns going, +and I began to look around curiously. We were +in a long, vaulted passage, partly carriageway, +partly footpath, perfectly bare but for the +street refuse which had drifted in with eddying +winds. Beyond lay the courtyard, a curious +place rendered more curious still by the fitful +moonlight and the flashing of four dark lanterns. +The place had evidently been once a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +most noble palace. Opposite rose the oldest +portion, a three-story wall of the time of Francis +I., with a great wisteria vine covering half. +The wings on either side were more modern, +seventeenth century, and ugly, while towards +the street was nothing but a flat unbroken +wall.</p> + +<p>The great bare court, littered with bits of +paper blown in by the wind, fragments of packing +cases, and straw, mysterious with flashing +lights and flaunting shadows, while low masses +of torn vapor drifted overhead, hiding, then +revealing the stars, and all in absolute silence, +not even the sounds of the streets entering this +prison-like place, was weird and uncanny in the +extreme. I must confess that already I began to +feel a slight disposition towards the horrors, but +with that curious inconsequence which so often +happens in the case of those who are deliberately +growing scared, I could think of nothing +more reassuring than those delicious verses of +Lewis Carroll's:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<span class="i0">"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That alone should encourage the crew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What I tell you three times is true,"—<br /></span> +</div> + +<p class="noin"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>which kept repeating themselves over and over +in my brain with feverish insistence.</p> + +<p>Even the medical students had stopped their +chaffing, and were studying the surroundings +gravely.</p> + +<p>"There is one thing certain," said Fargeau, +"<i>anything</i> might have happened here without +the slightest chance of discovery. Did ever +you see such a perfect place for lawlessness?"</p> + +<p>"And <i>anything</i> might happen here now, with +the same certainty of impunity," continued +Duchesne, lighting his pipe, the snap of the +match making us all start. "D'Ardeche, your +lamented relative was certainly well fixed; she +had full scope here for her traditional experiments +in demonology."</p> + +<p>"Curse me if I don't believe that those same +traditions were more or less founded on fact," +said Eugene. "I never saw this court under +these conditions before, but I could believe anything +now. What's that!"</p> + +<p>"Nothing but a door slamming," said Duchesne, +loudly.</p> + +<p>"Well, I wish doors wouldn't slam in houses +that have been empty eleven months."</p> + +<p>"It is irritating," and Duchesne slipped his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +arm through mine; "but we must take things +as they come. Remember we have to deal +not only with the spectral lumber left here by +your scarlet aunt, but as well with the supererogatory +curse of that hell-cat Torrevieja. Come +on! let's get inside before the hour arrives for +the sheeted dead to squeak and gibber in these +lonely halls. Light your pipes, your tobacco is +a sure protection against 'your whoreson dead +bodies'; light up and move on."</p> + +<p>We opened the hall door and entered a vaulted +stone vestibule, full of dust, and cobwebby.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing on this floor," said Eugene, +"except servants' rooms and offices, and I don't +believe there is anything wrong with them. I +never heard that there was, any way. Let's go +up stairs."</p> + +<p>So far as we could see, the house was apparently +perfectly uninteresting inside, all eighteenth-century +work, the façade of the main +building being, with the vestibule, the only +portion of the Francis I. work.</p> + +<p>"The place was burned during the Terror," +said Eugene, "for my great-uncle, from whom +Mlle. de Tartas inherited it, was a good and true +Royalist; he went to Spain after the Revolution,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +and did not come back until the accession of +Charles X., when he restored the house, and +then died, enormously old. This explains why +it is all so new."</p> + +<p>The old Spanish sorcerer to whom Mlle. de +Tartas had left her personal property had done +his work thoroughly. The house was absolutely +empty, even the wardrobes and bookcases built +in had been carried away; we went through +room after room, finding all absolutely dismantled, +only the windows and doors with their +casings, the parquet floors, and the florid Renaissance +mantels remaining.</p> + +<p>"I feel better," remarked Fargeau. "The house +may be haunted, but it don't look it, certainly; +it is the most respectable place imaginable."</p> + +<p>"Just you wait," replied Eugene. "These are +only the state apartments, which my aunt seldom +used, except, perhaps, on her annual 'Walpurgisnacht.' +Come up stairs and I will show you +a better <i>mise en scène</i>."</p> + +<p>On this floor, the rooms fronting the court, the +sleeping-rooms, were quite small,—("They are +the bad rooms all the same," said Eugene,)—four +of them, all just as ordinary in appearance as +those below. A corridor ran behind them connecting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +with the wing corridor, and from this +opened a door, unlike any of the other doors in +that it was covered with green baize, somewhat +moth-eaten. Eugene selected a key from the +bunch he carried, unlocked the door, and with +some difficulty forced it to swing inward; it was +as heavy as the door of a safe.</p> + +<p>"We are now," he said, "on the very threshold +of hell itself; these rooms in here were my +scarlet aunt's unholy of unholies. I never let +them with the rest of the house, but keep them +as a curiosity. I only wish Torrevieja had kept +out; as it was, he looted them, as he did the +rest of the house, and nothing is left but the +walls and ceiling and floor. They are something, +however, and may suggest what the former +condition must have been. Tremble and +enter."</p> + +<p>The first apartment was a kind of anteroom, a +cube of perhaps twenty feet each way, without +windows, and with no doors except that by which +we entered and another to the right. Walls, floor, +and ceiling were covered with a black lacquer, +brilliantly polished, that flashed the light of our +lanterns in a thousand intricate reflections. It +was like the inside of an enormous Japanese box,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +and about as empty. From this we passed to +another room, and here we nearly dropped our +lanterns. The room was circular, thirty feet or +so in diameter, covered by a hemispherical dome; +walls and ceiling were dark blue, spotted with +gold stars; and reaching from floor to floor +across the dome stretched a colossal figure in +red lacquer of a nude woman kneeling, her +legs reaching out along the floor on either +side, her head touching the lintel of the door +through which we had entered, her arms forming +its sides, with the fore arms extended and +stretching along the walls until they met the +long feet. The most astounding, misshapen, +absolutely terrifying thing, I think, I ever saw. +From the navel hung a great white object, like +the traditional roe's egg of the Arabian Nights. +The floor was of red lacquer, and in it was +inlaid a pentagram the size of the room, made +of wide strips of brass. In the centre of this +pentagram was a circular disk of black stone, +slightly saucer-shaped, with a small outlet in the +middle.</p> + +<p>The effect of the room was simply crushing, +with this gigantic red figure crouched over it all, +the staring eyes fixed on one, no matter what his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +position. None of us spoke, so oppressive was +the whole thing.</p> + +<p>The third room was like the first in dimensions, +but instead of being black it was entirely +sheathed with plates of brass, walls, ceiling, and +floor,—tarnished now, and turning green, but +still brilliant under the lantern light. In the +middle stood an oblong altar of porphyry, its +longer dimensions on the axis of the suite of +rooms, and at one end, opposite the range of +doors, a pedestal of black basalt.</p> + +<p>This was all. Three rooms, stranger than +these, even in their emptiness, it would be +hard to imagine. In Egypt, in India, they +would not be entirely out of place, but here +in Paris, in a commonplace <i>hôtel</i>, in the Rue +M. le Prince, they were incredible.</p> + +<p>We retraced our steps, Eugene closed the +iron door with its baize covering, and we went +into one of the front chambers and sat down, +looking at each other.</p> + +<p>"Nice party, your aunt," said Fargeau. "Nice +old party, with amiable tastes; I am glad we are +not to spend the night in <i>those</i> rooms."</p> + +<p>"What do you suppose she did there?" inquired +Duchesne. "I know more or less about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +black art, but that series of rooms is too much +for me."</p> + +<p>"My impression is," said d'Ardeche, "that the +brazen room was a kind of sanctuary containing +some image or other on the basalt base, while +the stone in front was really an altar,—what the +nature of the sacrifice might be I don't even +guess. The round room may have been used +for invocations and incantations. The pentagram +looks like it. Any way it is all just +about as queer and <i>fin de siècle</i> as I can well +imagine. Look here, it is nearly twelve, let's +dispose of ourselves, if we are going to hunt +this thing down."</p> + +<p>The four chambers on this floor of the old +house were those said to be haunted, the +wings being quite innocent, and, so far as we +knew, the floors below. It was arranged that +we should each occupy a room, leaving the +doors open with the lights burning, and at the +slightest cry or knock we were all to rush at +once to the room from which the warning +sound might come. There was no communication +between the rooms to be sure, but, as +the doors all opened into the corridor, every +sound was plainly audible.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> + +<p>The last room fell to me, and I looked it over +carefully.</p> + +<p>It seemed innocent enough, a commonplace, +square, rather lofty Parisian sleeping-room, +finished in wood painted white, with a small +marble mantel, a dusty floor of inlaid maple +and cherry, walls hung with an ordinary French +paper, apparently quite new, and two deeply embrasured +windows looking out on the court.</p> + +<p>I opened the swinging sash with some trouble, +and sat down in the window seat with my lantern +beside me trained on the only door, which +gave on the corridor.</p> + +<p>The wind had gone down, and it was very +still without,—still and hot. The masses of +luminous vapor were gathering thickly overhead, +no longer urged by the gusty wind. The +great masses of rank wisteria leaves, with here +and there a second blossoming of purple flowers, +hung dead over the window in the sluggish air. +Across the roofs I could hear the sound of a +belated <i>fiacre</i> in the streets below. I filled my +pipe again and waited.</p> + +<p>For a time the voices of the men in the +other rooms were a companionship, and at first +I shouted to them now and then, but my voice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +echoed rather unpleasantly through the long +corridors, and had a suggestive way of reverberating +around the left wing beside me, and +coming out at a broken window at its extremity +like the voice of another man. I soon +gave up my attempts at conversation, and devoted +myself to the task of keeping awake.</p> + +<p>It was not easy; why did I eat that lettuce +salad at Père Garceau's? I should have known +better. It was making me irresistibly sleepy, +and wakefulness was absolutely necessary. It +was certainly gratifying to know that I could +sleep, that my courage was by me to that extent, +but in the interests of science I must keep +awake. But almost never, it seemed, had sleep +looked so desirable. Half a hundred times, +nearly, I would doze for an instant, only to +awake with a start, and find my pipe gone out. +Nor did the exertion of relighting it pull me together. +I struck my match mechanically, and +with the first puff dropped off again. It was +most vexing. I got up and walked around the +room. It was most annoying. My cramped +position had almost put both my legs to sleep. +I could hardly stand. I felt numb, as though +with cold. There was no longer any sound<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +from the other rooms, nor from without. I +sank down in my window seat. How dark it +was growing! I turned up the lantern. That +pipe again, how obstinately it kept going out! +and my last match was gone. The lantern, too, +was <i>that</i> going out? I lifted my hand to turn it +up again. It felt like lead, and fell beside me.</p> + +<p><i>Then</i> I awoke,—absolutely. I remembered +the story of "The Haunters and the Haunted." +<i>This</i> was the Horror. I tried to rise, to cry +out. My body was like lead, my tongue was +paralyzed. I could hardly move my eyes. And +the light was going out. There was no question +about that. Darker and darker yet; little +by little the pattern of the paper was swallowed +up in the advancing night. A prickling numbness +gathered in every nerve, my right arm +slipped without feeling from my lap to my side, +and I could not raise it,—it swung helpless. A +thin, keen humming began in my head, like +the cicadas on a hillside in September. The +darkness was coming fast.</p> + +<p>Yes, this was it. Something was subjecting +me, body and mind, to slow paralysis. Physically +I was already dead. If I could only hold +my mind, my consciousness, I might still be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +safe, but could I? Could I resist the mad horror +of this silence, the deepening dark, the +creeping numbness? I knew that, like the +man in the ghost story, my only safety lay here.</p> + +<p>It had come at last. My body was dead, I +could no longer move my eyes. They were +fixed in that last look on the place where the +door had been, now only a deepening of the +dark.</p> + +<p>Utter night: the last flicker of the lantern +was gone. I sat and waited; my mind was +still keen, but how long would it last? There +was a limit even to the endurance of the utter +panic of fear.</p> + +<p>Then the end began. In the velvet blackness +came two white eyes, milky, opalescent, +small, far away,—awful eyes, like a dead dream. +More beautiful than I can describe, the flakes +of white flame moving from the perimeter inward, +disappearing in the centre, like a never +ending flow of opal water into a circular tunnel. +I could not have moved my eyes had I possessed +the power: they devoured the fearful, +beautiful things that grew slowly, slowly larger, +fixed on me, advancing, growing more beautiful, +the white flakes of light sweeping more swiftly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +into the blazing vortices, the awful fascination +deepening in its insane intensity as the white, +vibrating eyes grew nearer, larger.</p> + +<p>Like a hideous and implacable engine of +death the eyes of the unknown Horror swelled +and expanded until they were close before me, +enormous, terrible, and I felt a slow, cold, wet +breath propelled with mechanical regularity +against my face, enveloping me in its fetid mist, +in its charnel-house deadliness.</p> + +<p>With ordinary fear goes always a physical +terror, but with me in the presence of this unspeakable +Thing was only the utter and awful +terror of the mind, the mad fear of a prolonged +and ghostly nightmare. Again and again I +tried to shriek, to make some noise, but physically +I was utterly dead. I could only feel +myself go mad with the terror of hideous death. +The eyes were close on me,—their movement +so swift that they seemed to be but palpitating +flames, the dead breath was around me like the +depths of the deepest sea.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a wet, icy mouth, like that of a +dead cuttle-fish, shapeless, jelly-like, fell over +mine. The horror began slowly to draw my +life from me, but, as enormous and shuddering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +folds of palpitating jelly swept sinuously around +me, my will came back, my body awoke with +the reaction of final fear, and I closed with the +nameless death that enfolded me.</p> + +<p>What was it that I was fighting? My arms +sunk through the unresisting mass that was +turning me to ice. Moment by moment new +folds of cold jelly swept round me, crushing me +with the force of Titans. I fought to wrest my +mouth from this awful Thing that sealed it, but, +if ever I succeeded and caught a single breath, +the wet, sucking mass closed over my face +again before I could cry out. I think I fought +for hours, desperately, insanely, in a silence +that was more hideous than any sound,—fought +until I felt final death at hand, until the memory +of all my life rushed over me like a flood, until +I no longer had strength to wrench my face +from that hellish succubus, until with a last +mechanical struggle I fell and yielded to death.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>Then I heard a voice say, "If he is dead, I +can never forgive myself; I was to blame."</p> + +<p>Another replied, "He is not dead, I know we +can save him if only we reach the hospital in +time. Drive like hell, <i>cocher</i>! twenty francs +for you, if you get there in three minutes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then there was night again, and nothingness, +until I suddenly awoke and stared around. I +lay in a hospital ward, very white and sunny, +some yellow <i>fleurs-de-lis</i> stood beside the head +of the pallet, and a tall sister of mercy sat by +my side.</p> + +<p>To tell the story in a few words, I was in the +Hôtel Dieu, where the men had taken me that +fearful night of the twelfth of June. I asked +for Fargeau or Duchesne, and by and by the +latter came, and sitting beside the bed told me +all that I did not know.</p> + +<p>It seems that they had sat, each in his room, +hour after hour, hearing nothing, very much +bored, and disappointed. Soon after two +o'clock Fargeau, who was in the next room, +called to me to ask if I was awake. I gave no +reply, and, after shouting once or twice, he took +his lantern and came to investigate. The door +was locked on the inside! He instantly called +d'Ardeche and Duchesne, and together they +hurled themselves against the door. It resisted. +Within they could hear irregular footsteps dashing +here and there, with heavy breathing. Although +frozen with terror, they fought to destroy +the door and finally succeeded by using a great +slab of marble that formed the shelf of the mantel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +in Fargeau's room. As the door crashed in, +they were suddenly hurled back against the +walls of the corridor, as though by an explosion, +the lanterns were extinguished, and they found +themselves in utter silence and darkness.</p> + +<p>As soon as they recovered from the shock, +they leaped into the room and fell over my body +in the middle of the floor. They lighted one +of the lanterns, and saw the strangest sight that +can be imagined. The floor and walls to the +height of about six feet were running with something +that seemed like stagnant water, thick, +glutinous, sickening. As for me, I was drenched +with the same cursed liquid. The odor of +musk was nauseating. They dragged me +away, stripped off my clothing, wrapped me in +their coats, and hurried to the hospital, thinking +me perhaps dead. Soon after sunrise +d'Ardeche left the hospital, being assured that +I was in a fair way to recovery, with time, and +with Fargeau went up to examine by daylight +the traces of the adventure that was so nearly +fatal. They were too late. Fire engines were +coming down the street as they passed the Académie. +A neighbor rushed up to d'Ardeche: +"O Monsieur! what misfortune, yet what fortune!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +It is true <i>la Bouche d'Enfer</i>—I beg +pardon, the residence of the lamented Mlle. de +Tartas,—was burned, but not wholly, only the +ancient building. The wings were saved, and +for that great credit is due the brave firemen. +Monsieur will remember them, no doubt."</p> + +<p>It was quite true. Whether a forgotten lantern, +overturned in the excitement, had done the +work, or whether the origin of the fire was more +supernatural, it was certain that "the Mouth of +Hell" was no more. A last engine was pumping +slowly as d'Ardeche came up; half a dozen +limp, and one distended, hose stretched through +the <i>porte cochère</i>, and within only the façade of +Francis I. remained, draped still with the black +stems of the wisteria. Beyond lay a great +vacancy, where thin smoke was rising slowly. +Every floor was gone, and the strange halls of +Mlle. Blaye de Tartas were only a memory.</p> + +<p>With d'Ardeche I visited the place last +year, but in the stead of the ancient walls was +then only a new and ordinary building, fresh +and respectable; yet the wonderful stories of +the old <i>Bouche d'Enfer</i> still lingered in the quarter, +and will hold there, I do not doubt, until the +Day of Judgment.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> +<h2>IN KROPFSBERG KEEP.</h2> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> +<h2><big>In Kropfsberg Keep.</big></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">To</span> the traveller from Innsbrück to Munich, up +the lovely valley of the silver Inn, many castles +appear, one after another, each on its beetling +cliff or gentle hill,—appear and disappear, melting +into the dark fir trees that grow so thickly +on every side,—Laneck, Lichtwer, Ratholtz, +Tratzberg, Matzen, Kropfsberg, gathering close +around the entrance to the dark and wonderful +Zillerthal.</p> + +<p>But to us—Tom Rendel and myself—there +are two castles only: not the gorgeous and +princely Ambras, nor the noble old Tratzberg, +with its crowded treasures of solemn and splendid +mediævalism; but little Matzen, where +eager hospitality forms the new life of a never-dead +chivalry, and Kropfsberg, ruined, tottering,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +blasted by fire and smitten with grievous years,—a +dead thing, and haunted,—full of strange +legends, and eloquent of mystery and tragedy.</p> + +<p>We were visiting the von C——s at Matzen, +and gaining our first wondering knowledge of +the courtly, cordial castle life in the Tyrol,—of +the gentle and delicate hospitality of noble Austrians. +Brixleg had ceased to be but a mark on +a map, and had become a place of rest and delight, +a home for homeless wanderers on the +face of Europe, while Schloss Matzen was a +synonym for all that was gracious and kindly +and beautiful in life. The days moved on in a +golden round of riding and driving and shooting: +down to Landl and Thiersee for chamois, +across the river to the magic Achensee, up the +Zillerthal, across the Schmerner Joch, even to +the railway station at Steinach. And in the +evenings after the late dinners in the upper +hall where the sleepy hounds leaned against +our chairs looking at us with suppliant eyes, +in the evenings when the fire was dying away +in the hooded fireplace in the library, stories. +Stories, and legends, and fairy tales, while the +stiff old portraits changed countenance constantly +under the flickering firelight, and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +sound of the drifting Inn came softly across +the meadows far below.</p> + +<p>If ever I tell the Story of Schloss Matzen, +then will be the time to paint the too inadequate +picture of this fair oasis in the desert of +travel and tourists and hotels; but just now it +is Kropfsberg the Silent that is of greater importance, +for it was only in Matzen that the +story was told by Fräulein E——, the gold-haired +niece of Frau von C——, one hot evening in July, +when we were sitting in the great west window +of the drawing-room after a long ride up the +Stallenthal. All the windows were open to +catch the faint wind, and we had sat for a long +time watching the Otzethaler Alps turn rose-color +over distant Innsbrück, then deepen to +violet as the sun went down and the white +mists rose slowly until Lichtwer and Laneck +and Kropfsberg rose like craggy islands in a +silver sea.</p> + +<p>And this is the story as Fräulein E—— told +it to us,—the Story of Kropfsberg Keep.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>A great many years ago, soon after my grandfather +died, and Matzen came to us, when I +was a little girl, and so young that I remember<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +nothing of the affair except as something dreadful +that frightened me very much, two young +men who had studied painting with my grandfather +came down to Brixleg from Munich, +partly to paint, and partly to amuse themselves,—"ghost-hunting" +as they said, for they were +very sensible young men and prided themselves +on it, laughing at all kinds of "superstition," +and particularly at that form which believed in +ghosts and feared them. They had never seen +a real ghost, you know, and they belonged to a +certain set of people who believed nothing they +had not seen themselves,—which always seemed +to me <i>very</i> conceited. Well, they knew that we +had lots of beautiful castles here in the "lower +valley," and they assumed, and rightly, that +every castle has at least <i>one</i> ghost story connected +with it, so they chose this as their hunting +ground, only the game they sought was +ghosts, not chamois. Their plan was to visit +every place that was supposed to be haunted, +and to meet every reputed ghost, and prove that +it really was no ghost at all.</p> + +<p>There was a little inn down in the village then, +kept by an old man named Peter Rosskopf, and +the two young men made this their headquarters.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +The very first night they began to draw from +the old innkeeper all that he knew of legends +and ghost stories connected with Brixleg and +its castles, and as he was a most garrulous old +gentleman he filled them with the wildest delight +by his stories of the ghosts of the castles about +the mouth of the Zillerthal. Of course the old +man believed every word he said, and you can +imagine his horror and amazement when, after +telling his guests the particularly blood-curdling +story of Kropfsberg and its haunted keep, the +elder of the two boys, whose surname I have forgotten, +but whose Christian name was Rupert, +calmly said, "Your story is most satisfactory: +we will sleep in Kropfsberg Keep to-morrow +night, and you must provide us with all that +we may need to make ourselves comfortable."</p> + +<p>The old man nearly fell into the fire. "What +for a blockhead are you?" he cried, with big +eyes. "The keep is haunted by Count Albert's +ghost, I tell you!"</p> + +<p>"That is why we are going there to-morrow +night; we wish to make the acquaintance of +Count Albert."</p> + +<p>"But there was a man stayed there once, and +in the morning he was dead."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Very silly of him; there are two of us, and +we carry revolvers."</p> + +<p>"But it's a <i>ghost</i>, I tell you," almost screamed +the innkeeper; "are ghosts afraid of firearms?"</p> + +<p>"Whether they are or not, we are <i>not</i> afraid +of <i>them</i>."</p> + +<p>Here the younger boy broke in,—he was +named Otto von Kleist. I remember the name, +for I had a music teacher once by that name. +He abused the poor old man shamefully; told +him that they were going to spend the night in +Kropfsberg in spite of Count Albert and Peter +Rosskopf, and that he might as well make the +most of it and earn his money with cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>In a word, they finally bullied the old fellow +into submission, and when the morning came +he set about preparing for the suicide, as he +considered it, with sighs and mutterings and +ominous shakings of the head.</p> + +<p>You know the condition of the castle now,—nothing +but scorched walls and crumbling piles +of fallen masonry. Well, at the time I tell you +of, the keep was still partially preserved. It was +finally burned out only a few years ago by some +wicked boys who came over from Jenbach to +have a good time. But when the ghost hunters<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +came, though the two lower floors had fallen +into the crypt, the third floor remained. The +peasants said it <i>could</i> not fall, but that it would +stay until the Day of Judgment, because it was +in the room above that the wicked Count Albert +sat watching the flames destroy the great castle +and his imprisoned guests, and where he finally +hung himself in a suit of armor that had belonged +to his mediæval ancestor, the first Count +Kropfsberg.</p> + +<p>No one dared touch him, and so he hung +there for twelve years, and all the time venturesome +boys and daring men used to creep up +the turret steps and stare awfully through the +chinks in the door at that ghostly mass of +steel that held within itself the body of a murderer +and suicide, slowly returning to the dust +from which it was made. Finally it disappeared, +none knew whither, and for another dozen years +the room stood empty but for the old furniture +and the rotting hangings.</p> + +<p>So, when the two men climbed the stairway to +the haunted room, they found a very different +state of things from what exists now. The room +was absolutely as it was left the night Count +Albert burned the castle, except that all trace<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +of the suspended suit of armor and its ghastly +contents had vanished.</p> + +<p>No one had dared to cross the threshold, and +I suppose that for forty years no living thing had +entered that dreadful room.</p> + +<p>On one side stood a vast canopied bed of +black wood, the damask hangings of which +were covered with mould and mildew. All the +clothing of the bed was in perfect order, and on +it lay a book, open, and face downward. The +only other furniture in the room consisted of +several old chairs, a carved oak chest, and a big +inlaid table covered with books and papers, and +on one corner two or three bottles with dark +solid sediment at the bottom, and a glass, also +dark with the dregs of wine that had been poured +out almost half a century before. The tapestry +on the walls was green with mould, but hardly +torn or otherwise defaced, for although the heavy +dust of forty years lay on everything the room +had been preserved from further harm. No +spider web was to be seen, no trace of nibbling +mice, not even a dead moth or fly on the +sills of the diamond-paned windows; life seemed +to have shunned the room utterly and finally.</p> + +<p>The men looked at the room curiously, and, I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +am sure, not without some feelings of awe and +unacknowledged fear; but, whatever they may +have felt of instinctive shrinking, they said +nothing, and quickly set to work to make the +room passably inhabitable. They decided to +touch nothing that had not absolutely to be +changed, and therefore they made for themselves +a bed in one corner with the mattress +and linen from the inn. In the great fireplace +they piled a lot of wood on the caked ashes of +a fire dead for forty years, turned the old chest +into a table, and laid out on it all their arrangements +for the evening's amusement: food, two +or three bottles of wine, pipes and tobacco, and +the chess-board that was their inseparable travelling +companion.</p> + +<p>All this they did themselves: the innkeeper +would not even come within the walls of the +outer court; he insisted that he had washed +his hands of the whole affair, the silly dunderheads +might go to their death their own way. +<i>He</i> would not aid and abet them. One of +the stable boys brought the basket of food +and the wood and the bed up the winding +stone stairs, to be sure, but neither money nor +prayers nor threats would bring him within<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +the walls of the accursed place, and he stared +fearfully at the hare-brained boys as they worked +around the dead old room preparing for the night +that was coming so fast.</p> + +<p>At length everything was in readiness, and +after a final visit to the inn for dinner Rupert +and Otto started at sunset for the Keep. Half +the village went with them, for Peter Rosskopf +had babbled the whole story to an open-mouthed +crowd of wondering men and women, and as to +an execution the awe-struck crowd followed the +two boys dumbly, curious to see if they surely +would put their plan into execution. But none +went farther than the outer doorway of the stairs, +for it was already growing twilight. In absolute +silence they watched the two foolhardy youths +with their lives in their hands enter the terrible +Keep, standing like a tower in the midst of the +piles of stones that had once formed walls joining +it with the mass of the castle beyond. When +a moment later a light showed itself in the high +windows above, they sighed resignedly and went +their ways, to wait stolidly until morning should +come and prove the truth of their fears and +warnings.</p> + +<p>In the mean time the ghost hunters built a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +huge fire, lighted their many candles, and sat +down to await developments. Rupert afterwards +told my uncle that they really felt no fear whatever, +only a contemptuous curiosity, and they +ate their supper with good appetite and an unusual +relish. It was a long evening. They +played many games of chess, waiting for midnight. +Hour passed after hour, and nothing +occurred to interrupt the monotony of the evening. +Ten, eleven, came and went,—it was +almost midnight. They piled more wood in +the fireplace, lighted new candles, looked to +their pistols—and waited. The clocks in the +village struck twelve; the sound coming muffled +through the high, deep-embrasured windows. +Nothing happened, nothing to break the heavy +silence; and with a feeling of disappointed +relief they looked at each other and acknowledged +that they had met another rebuff.</p> + +<p>Finally they decided that there was no use in +sitting up and boring themselves any longer, +they had much better rest; so Otto threw himself +down on the mattress, falling almost immediately +asleep. Rupert sat a little longer, +smoking, and watching the stars creep along +behind the shattered glass and the bent leads<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +of the lofty windows; watching the fire fall +together, and the strange shadows move mysteriously +on the mouldering walls. The iron +hook in the oak beam, that crossed the ceiling +midway, fascinated him, not with fear, but +morbidly. So, it was from that hook that for +twelve years, twelve long years of changing +summer and winter, the body of Count Albert, +murderer and suicide, hung in its strange casing +of mediæval steel; moving a little at first, and +turning gently while the fire died out on the +hearth, while the ruins of the castle grew cold, +and horrified peasants sought for the bodies of +the score of gay, reckless, wicked guests whom +Count Albert had gathered in Kropfsberg for +a last debauch, gathered to their terrible and +untimely death. What a strange and fiendish +idea it was, the young, handsome noble who +had ruined himself and his family in the society +of the splendid debauchees, gathering them all +together, men and women who had known only +love and pleasure, for a glorious and awful riot +of luxury, and then, when they were all dancing +in the great ballroom, locking the doors and +burning the whole castle about them, the while +he sat in the great keep listening to their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +screams of agonized fear, watching the fire +sweep from wing to wing until the whole mighty +mass was one enormous and awful pyre, and +then, clothing himself in his great-great-grandfather's +armor, hanging himself in the midst +of the ruins of what had been a proud and +noble castle. So ended a great family, a great +house.</p> + +<p>But that was forty years ago.</p> + +<p>He was growing drowsy; the light flickered +and flared in the fireplace; one by one the candles +went out; the shadows grew thick in the +room. Why did that great iron hook stand out +so plainly? why did that dark shadow dance +and quiver so mockingly behind it?—why— But +he ceased to wonder at anything. He was +asleep.</p> + +<p>It seemed to him that he woke almost immediately; +the fire still burned, though low +and fitfully on the hearth. Otto was sleeping, +breathing quietly and regularly; the shadows +had gathered close around him, thick and +murky; with every passing moment the light +died in the fireplace; he felt stiff with cold. +In the utter silence he heard the clock in the +village strike two. He shivered with a sudden<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +and irresistible feeling of fear, and abruptly +turned and looked towards the hook in the +ceiling.</p> + +<p>Yes, It was there. He knew that It would +be. It seemed quite natural, he would have +been disappointed had he seen nothing; but +now he knew that the story was true, knew that +he was wrong, and that the dead <i>do</i> sometimes +return to earth, for there, in the fast-deepening +shadow, hung the black mass of wrought steel, +turning a little now and then, with the light +flickering on the tarnished and rusty metal. +He watched it quietly; he hardly felt afraid; +it was rather a sentiment of sadness and fatality +that filled him, of gloomy forebodings +of something unknown, unimaginable. He sat +and watched the thing disappear in the gathering +dark, his hand on his pistol as it lay by him +on the great chest. There was no sound but +the regular breathing of the sleeping boy on the +mattress.</p> + +<p>It had grown absolutely dark; a bat fluttered +against the broken glass of the window. He +wondered if he was growing mad, for—he hesitated +to acknowledge it to himself—he heard +music; far, curious music, a strange and luxurious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +dance, very faint, very vague, but unmistakable.</p> + +<p>Like a flash of lightning came a jagged line +of fire down the blank wall opposite him, a line +that remained, that grew wider, that let a pale +cold light into the room, showing him now all +its details,—the empty fireplace, where a thin +smoke rose in a spiral from a bit of charred +wood, the mass of the great bed, and, in the +very middle, black against the curious brightness, +the armored man, or ghost, or devil, standing, +not suspended, beneath the rusty hook. +And with the rending of the wall the music +grew more distinct, though sounding still very, +very far away.</p> + +<p>Count Albert raised his mailed hand and +beckoned to him; then turned, and stood in +the riven wall.</p> + +<p>Without a word, Rupert rose and followed +him, his pistol in hand. Count Albert passed +through the mighty wall and disappeared in +the unearthly light. Rupert followed mechanically. +He felt the crushing of the mortar +beneath his feet, the roughness of the jagged +wall where he rested his hand to steady +himself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> + +<p>The keep rose absolutely isolated among the +ruins, yet on passing through the wall Rupert +found himself in a long, uneven corridor, the +floor of which was warped and sagging, while +the walls were covered on one side with big +faded portraits of an inferior quality, like those +in the corridor that connects the Pitti and Uffizzi +in Florence. Before him moved the figure of +Count Albert,—a black silhouette in the ever-increasing +light. And always the music grew +stronger and stranger, a mad, evil, seductive +dance that bewitched even while it disgusted.</p> + +<p>In a final blaze of vivid, intolerable light, in +a burst of hellish music that might have come +from Bedlam, Rupert stepped from the corridor +into a vast and curious room where at +first he saw nothing, distinguished nothing but +a mad, seething whirl of sweeping figures, +white, in a white room, under white light, +Count Albert standing before him, the only +dark object to be seen. As his eyes grew +accustomed to the fearful brightness, he knew +that he was looking on a dance such as the +damned might see in hell, but such as no living +man had ever seen before.</p> + +<p>Around the long, narrow hall, under the fearful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +light that came from nowhere, but was omnipresent, +swept a rushing stream of unspeakable +horrors, dancing insanely, laughing, gibbering +hideously; the dead of forty years. White, +polished skeletons, bare of flesh and vesture, +skeletons clothed in the dreadful rags of dried +and rattling sinews, the tags of tattering grave-clothes +flaunting behind them. These were the +dead of many years ago. Then the dead of more +recent times, with yellow bones showing only +here and there, the long and insecure hair of +their hideous heads writhing in the beating +air. Then green and gray horrors, bloated +and shapeless, stained with earth or dripping +with spattering water; and here and there +white, beautiful things, like chiselled ivory, the +dead of yesterday, locked it may be, in the +mummy arms of rattling skeletons.</p> + +<p>Round and round the cursed room, a swaying, +swirling maelstrom of death, while the air grew +thick with miasma, the floor foul with shreds of +shrouds, and yellow parchment, clattering bones, +and wisps of tangled hair.</p> + +<p>And in the very midst of this ring of death, a +sight not for words nor for thought, a sight to +blast forever the mind of the man who looked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +upon it: a leaping, writhing dance of Count +Albert's victims, the score of beautiful women +and reckless men who danced to their awful +death while the castle burned around them, +charred and shapeless now, a living charnel-house +of nameless horror.</p> + +<p>Count Albert, who had stood silent and +gloomy, watching the dance of the damned, +turned to Rupert, and for the first time spoke.</p> + +<p>"We are ready for you now; dance!"</p> + +<p>A prancing horror, dead some dozen years, +perhaps, flaunted from the rushing river of +the dead, and leered at Rupert with eyeless +skull.</p> + +<p>"Dance!"</p> + +<p>Rupert stood frozen, motionless.</p> + +<p>"Dance!"</p> + +<p>His hard lips moved. "Not if the devil came +from hell to make me."</p> + +<p>Count Albert swept his vast two-handed +sword into the fœtid air while the tide of +corruption paused in its swirling, and swept +down on Rupert with gibbering grins.</p> + +<p>The room, and the howling dead, and the +black portent before him circled dizzily around, +as with a last effort of departing consciousness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +he drew his pistol and fired full in the face of +Count Albert.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>Perfect silence, perfect darkness; not a +breath, not a sound: the dead stillness of a +long-sealed tomb. Rupert lay on his back, +stunned, helpless, his pistol clenched in his +frozen hand, a smell of powder in the black +air. Where was he? Dead? In hell? He +reached his hand out cautiously; it fell on +dusty boards. Outside, far away, a clock +struck three. Had he dreamed? Of course; +but how ghastly a dream! With chattering +teeth he called softly,—</p> + +<p>"Otto!"</p> + +<p>There was no reply, and none when he called +again and again. He staggered weakly to his +feet, groping for matches and candles. A panic +of abject terror came on him; the matches +were gone! He turned towards the fireplace: +a single coal glowed in the white ashes. He +swept a mass of papers and dusty books from +the table, and with trembling hands cowered +over the embers, until he succeeded in lighting +the dry tinder. Then he piled the old books +on the blaze, and looked fearfully around.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> + +<p>No: It was gone,—thank God for that; the +hook was empty.</p> + +<p>But why did Otto sleep so soundly; why did +he not awake?</p> + +<p>He stepped unsteadily across the room in the +flaring light of the burning books, and knelt by +the mattress.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>So they found him in the morning, when no +one came to the inn from Kropfsberg Keep, +and the quaking Peter Rosskopf arranged a +relief party;—found him kneeling beside the +mattress where Otto lay, shot in the throat +and quite dead.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE WHITE VILLA.</h2> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> +<h2><big>The White Villa.</big></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">When</span> we left Naples on the 8.10 train for +Pæstum, Tom and I, we fully intended returning +by the 2.46. Not because two hours time +seemed enough wherein to exhaust the interests +of those deathless ruins of a dead civilization, +but simply for the reason that, as our <i>Indicatore</i> +informed us, there was but one other train, and +that at 6.11, which would land us in Naples too +late for the dinner at the Turners and the San +Carlo afterwards. Not that I cared in the +least for the dinner or the theatre; but then, I +was not so obviously in Miss Turner's good +graces as Tom Rendel was, which made a +difference.</p> + +<p>However, we had promised, so that was an +end of it.</p> + +<p>This was in the spring of '88, and at that +time the railroad, which was being pushed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +onward to Reggio, whereby travellers to Sicily +might be spared the agonies of a night on the +fickle Mediterranean, reached no farther than +Agropoli, some twenty miles beyond Pæstum; +but although the trains were as yet few and +slow, we accepted the half-finished road with +gratitude, for it penetrated the very centre of +Campanian brigandage, and made it possible for +us to see the matchless temples in safety, while +a few years before it was necessary for intending +visitors to obtain a military escort from the +Government; and military escorts are not for +young architects.</p> + +<p>So we set off contentedly, that white May +morning, determined to make the best of our +few hours, little thinking that before we saw +Naples again we were to witness things that +perhaps no American had ever seen before.</p> + +<p>For a moment, when we left the train at +"Pesto," and started to walk up the flowery +lane leading to the temples, we were almost +inclined to curse this same railroad. We had +thought, in our innocence, that we should be +alone, that no one else would think of enduring +the long four hours' ride from Naples just to spend +two hours in the ruins of these temples; but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +the event proved our unwisdom. We were <i>not</i> +alone. It was a compact little party of conventional +sight-seers that accompanied us. The inevitable +English family with the three daughters, +prominent of teeth, flowing of hair, aggressive of +scarlet Murrays and Baedekers; the two blond +and untidy Germans; a French couple from the +pages of <i>La Vie Parisienne</i>; and our "old man +of the sea," the white-bearded Presbyterian +minister from Pennsylvania who had made our +life miserable in Rome at the time of the Pope's +Jubilee. Fortunately for us, this terrible old man +had fastened himself upon a party of American +school-teachers travelling <i>en Cook</i>, and +for the time we were safe; but our vision of +two hours of dreamy solitude faded lamentably +away.</p> + +<p>Yet how beautiful it was! this golden meadow +walled with far, violet mountains, breathless +under a May sun; and in the midst, rising from +tangles of asphodel and acanthus, vast in the +vacant plain, three temples, one silver gray, one +golden gray, and one flushed with intangible +rose. And all around nothing but velvet +meadows stretching from the dim mountains +behind, away to the sea, that showed only as a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> +thin line of silver just over the edge of the still +grass.</p> + +<p>The tide of tourists swept noisily through +the Basilica and the temple of Poseidon across +the meadow to the distant temple of Ceres, and +Tom and I were left alone to drink in all the +fine wine of dreams that was possible in the +time left us. We gave but little space to +examining the temples the tourists had left, but +in a few moments found ourselves lying in the +grass to the east of Poseidon, looking dimly out +towards the sea, heard now, but not seen,—a +vague and pulsating murmur that blended with +the humming of bees all about us.</p> + +<p>A small shepherd boy, with a woolly dog, +made shy advances of friendship, and in a little +time we had set him to gathering flowers for us: +asphodels and bee-orchids, anemones, and the +little thin green iris so fairylike and frail. The +murmur of the tourist crowd had merged itself +in the moan of the sea, and it was very still; +suddenly I heard the words I had been waiting +for,—the suggestion I had refrained from making +myself, for I knew Thomas.</p> + +<p>"I say, old man, shall we let the 2.46 go to +thunder?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> + +<p>I chuckled to myself. "But the Turners?"</p> + +<p>"They be blowed, we can tell them we +missed the train."</p> + +<p>"That is just exactly what we shall do," I +said, pulling out my watch, "unless we start for +the station right now."</p> + +<p>But Tom drew an acanthus leaf across his +face and showed no signs of moving; so I filled +my pipe again, and we missed the train.</p> + +<p>As the sun dropped lower towards the sea, +changing its silver line to gold, we pulled ourselves +together, and for an hour or more +sketched vigorously; but the mood was not on +us. It was "too jolly fine to waste time working," +as Tom said; so we started off to explore +the single street of the squalid town of Pesto +that was lost within the walls of dead Poseidonia. +It was not a pretty village,—if you +can call a rut-riven lane and a dozen houses a +village,—nor were the inhabitants thereof reassuring +in appearance. There was no sign of +a church,—nothing but dirty huts, and in the +midst, one of two stories, rejoicing in the name +of <i>Albergo del Sole</i>, the first story of which was +a black and cavernous smithy, where certain +swarthy knaves, looking like banditti out of a +job, sat smoking sulkily.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> + +<p>"We might stay here all night," said Tom, +grinning askance at this choice company; but +his suggestion was not received with enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>Down where the lane from the station joined +the main road stood the only sign of modern +civilization,—a great square structure, half +villa, half fortress, with round turrets on its +four corners, and a ten-foot wall surrounding it. +There were no windows in its first story, so far +as we could see, and it had evidently been at +one time the fortified villa of some Campanian +noble. Now, however, whether because brigandage +had been stamped out, or because the +villa was empty and deserted, it was no longer +formidable; the gates of the great wall hung +sagging on their hinges, brambles growing all +over them, and many of the windows in the +upper story were broken and black. It was a +strange place, weird and mysterious, and we +looked at it curiously. "There is a story about +that place," said Tom, with conviction.</p> + +<p>It was growing late: the sun was near the +edge of the sea as we walked down the ivy-grown +walls of the vanished city for the last +time, and as we turned back, a red flush poured +from the west, and painted the Doric temples<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +in pallid rose against the evanescent purple of +the Apennines. Already a thin mist was rising +from the meadows, and the temples hung pink +in the misty grayness.</p> + +<p>It was a sorrow to leave the beautiful things, +but we could run no risk of missing this last +train, so we walked slowly back towards the +temples.</p> + +<p>"What is that Johnny waving his arm at us +for?" asked Tom, suddenly.</p> + +<p>"How should I know? We are not on his +land, and the walls don't matter."</p> + +<p>We pulled out our watches simultaneously.</p> + +<p>"What time are you?" I said.</p> + +<p>"Six minutes before six."</p> + +<p>"And I am seven minutes. It can't take us +all that time to walk to the station."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure the train goes at 6.11?"</p> + +<p>"Dead sure," I answered; and showed him +the <i>Indicatore</i>.</p> + +<p>By this time a woman and two children were +shrieking at us hysterically; but what they said +I had no idea, their Italian being of a strange +and awful nature.</p> + +<p>"Look here," I said, "let's run; perhaps our +watches are both slow."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Or—perhaps the time-table is changed."</p> + +<p>Then we ran, and the populace cheered and +shouted with enthusiasm; our dignified run +became a panic-stricken rout, for as we turned +into the lane, smoke was rising from beyond +the bank that hid the railroad; a bell rang; +we were so near that we could hear the interrogative +<i>Pronte?</i> the impatient <i>Partenza!</i> +and the definitive <i>Andiamo!</i> But the train +was five hundred yards away, steaming towards +Naples, when we plunged into the station as the +clock struck six, and yelled for the station-master.</p> + +<p>He came, and we indulged in crimination and +recrimination.</p> + +<p>When we could regard the situation calmly, it +became apparent that the time-table <i>had</i> been +changed two days before, the 6.11 now leaving +at 5.58. A <i>facchino</i> came in, and we four +sat down and regarded the situation judicially.</p> + +<p>"Was there any other train?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Could we stay at the Albergo del Sole?"</p> + +<p>A forefinger drawn across the throat by the +Capo Stazione with a significant "cluck" closed +that question.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Then we must stay with you here at the +station."</p> + +<p>"But, Signori, I am not married. I live here +only with the <i>facchini</i>. I have only one room +to sleep in. It is impossible!"</p> + +<p>"But we must sleep somewhere, likewise eat. +What can we do?" and we shifted the responsibility +deftly on the shoulders of the poor old +man, who was growing excited again.</p> + +<p>He trotted nervously up and down the station +for a minute, then he called the <i>facchino</i>. "Giuseppe, +go up to the villa and ask if two <i>forestieri</i> +who have missed the last train can stay there all +night!"</p> + +<p>Protests were useless. The <i>facchino</i> was +gone, and we waited anxiously for his return. +It seemed as though he would never come. +Darkness had fallen, and the moon was rising +over the mountains. At last he appeared.</p> + +<p>"The Signori may stay all night, and welcome; +but they cannot come to dinner, for +there is nothing in the house to eat!"</p> + +<p>This was not reassuring, and again the old +station-master lost himself in meditation. The +results were admirable, for in a little time the +table in the waiting-room had been transformed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +into a dining-table, and Tom and I +were ravenously devouring a big omelette, and +bread and cheese, and drinking a most shocking +sour wine as though it were Château Yquem. +A <i>facchino</i> served us, with clumsy good-will; and +when we had induced our nervous old host to +sit down with us and partake of his own hospitality, +we succeeded in forming a passably jolly +dinner-party, forgetting over our sour wine and +cigarettes the coming hours from ten until sunrise, +which lay before us in a dubious mist.</p> + +<p>It was with crowding apprehensions which we +strove in vain to joke away that we set out at +last to retrace our steps to the mysterious villa, +the <i>facchino</i> Giuseppe leading the way. By +this time the moon was well overhead, and just +behind us as we tramped up the dewy lane, +white in the moonlight between the ink-black +hedgerows on either side. How still it was! +Not a breath of air, not a sound of life; only +the awful silence that had lain almost unbroken +for two thousand years over this vast graveyard +of a dead world.</p> + +<p>As we passed between the shattered gates +and wound our way in the moonlight through +the maze of gnarled fruit-trees, decaying farm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +implements and piles of lumber, towards the +small door that formed the only opening in +the first story of this deserted fortress, the +cold silence was shattered by the harsh baying +of dogs somewhere in the distance to the +right, beyond the barns that formed one side +of the court. From the villa came neither +light nor sound. Giuseppe knocked at the +weather-worn door, and the sound echoed cavernously +within; but there was no other reply. +He knocked again and again, and at length +we heard the rasping jar of sliding bolts, and +the door opened a little, showing an old, old +man, bent with age and gaunt with malaria. +Over his head he held a big Roman lamp, +with three wicks, that cast strange shadows +on his face,—a face that was harmless in its +senility, but intolerably sad. He made no +reply to our timid salutations, but motioned +tremblingly to us to enter; and with a last +"good-night" to Giuseppe we obeyed, and +stood half-way up the stone stairs that led +directly from the door, while the old man +tediously shot every bolt and adjusted the +heavy bar.</p> + +<p>Then we followed him in the semi-darkness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +up the steps into what had been the great +hall of the villa. A fire was burning in a +great fireplace so beautiful in design that +Tom and I looked at each other with interest. +By its fitful light we could see that we were +in a huge circular room covered by a flat, +saucer-shaped dome,—a room that must once +have been superb and splendid, but that now +was a lamentable wreck. The frescoes on the +dome were stained and mildewed, and here +and there the plaster was gone altogether; the +carved doorways that led out on all sides had lost +half the gold with which they had once been +covered, and the floor was of brick, sunken +into treacherous valleys. Rough chests, piles +of old newspapers, fragments of harnesses, +farm implements, a heap of rusty carbines and +cutlasses, nameless litter of every possible kind, +made the room into a wilderness which under +the firelight seemed even more picturesque than +it really was. And on this inexpressible confusion +of lumber the pale shapes of the seventeenth-century +nymphs, startling in their +weather-stained nudity, looked down with vacant +smiles.</p> + +<p>For a few moments we warmed ourselves<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +before the fire; and then, in the same dejected +silence, the old man led the way to one of the +many doors, handed us a brass lamp, and with +a stiff bow turned his back on us.</p> + +<p>Once in our room alone, Tom and I looked at +each other with faces that expressed the most +complex emotions.</p> + +<p>"Well, of all the rum goes," said Tom, "this +is the rummiest go I ever experienced!"</p> + +<p>"Right, my boy; as you very justly remark, we +are in for it. Help me shut this door, and then +we will reconnoitre, take account of stock, and +size up our chances."</p> + +<p>But the door showed no sign of closing; it +grated on the brick floor and stuck in the +warped casing, and it took our united efforts +to jam the two inches of oak into its place, and +turn the enormous old key in its rusty lock.</p> + +<p>"Better now, much better now," said Tom; +"now let us see where we are."</p> + +<p>The room was easily twenty-five feet square, +and high in proportion; evidently it had been +a state apartment, for the walls were covered +with carved panelling that had once been white +and gold, with mirrors in the panels, the wood +now stained every imaginable color, the mirrors<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +cracked and broken, and dull with mildew. A +big fire had just been lighted in the fireplace, +the shutters were closed, and although the only +furniture consisted of two massive bedsteads, +and a chair with one leg shorter than the others, +the room seemed almost comfortable.</p> + +<p>I opened one of the shutters, that closed the +great windows that ran from the floor almost to +the ceiling, and nearly fell through the cracked +glass into the floorless balcony. "Tom, come +here, quick," I cried; and for a few minutes +neither of us thought about our dubious surroundings, +for we were looking at Pæstum by +moonlight.</p> + +<p>A flat, white mist, like water, lay over the entire +meadow; from the midst rose against the +blue-black sky the three ghostly temples, black +and silver in the vivid moonlight, floating, it +seemed, in the fog; and behind them, seen in +broken glints between the pallid shafts, stretched +the line of the silver sea.</p> + +<p>Perfect silence,—the silence of implacable +death.</p> + +<p>We watched the white tide of mist rise around +the temples, until we were chilled through, and +so presently went to bed. There was but one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +door in the room, and that was securely locked; +the great windows were twenty feet from the +ground, so we felt reasonably safe from all +possible attack.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes Tom was asleep and breathing +audibly; but my constitution is more nervous +than his, and I lay awake for some +little time, thinking of our curious adventure +and of its possible outcome. Finally, I fell +asleep,—for how long I do not know: but I +woke with the feeling that some one had tried +the handle of the door. The fire had fallen into +a heap of coals which cast a red glow in the +room, whereby I could see dimly the outline of +Tom's bed, the broken-legged chair in front of +the fireplace, and the door in its deep casing by +the chimney, directly in front of my bed. I sat +up, nervous from my sudden awakening under +these strange circumstances, and stared at the +door. The latch rattled, and the door swung +smoothly open. I began to shiver coldly. That +door was locked; Tom and I had all we could +do to jam it together and lock it. But we <i>did</i> +lock it; and now it was opening silently. In +a minute more it as silently closed.</p> + +<p>Then I heard a footstep,—I swear I heard a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +footstep <i>in the room</i>, and with it the <i>frou-frou</i> +of trailing skirts; my breath stopped and my +teeth grated against each other as I heard the +soft footfalls and the feminine rustle pass along +the room towards the fireplace. My eyes saw +nothing; yet there was enough light in the room +for me to distinguish the pattern on the carved +panels of the door. The steps stopped by the +fire, and I saw the broken-legged chair lean to +the left, with a little jar as its short leg touched +the floor.</p> + +<p>I sat still, frozen, motionless, staring at the +vacancy that was filled with such terror for me; +and as I looked, the seat of the chair creaked, +and it came back to its upright position again.</p> + +<p>And then the footsteps came down the room +lightly, towards the window; there was a pause, +and then the great shutters swung back, and +the white moonlight poured in. Its brilliancy +was unbroken by any shadow, by any sign of +material substance.</p> + +<p>I tried to cry out, to make some sound, to +awaken Tom; this sense of utter loneliness in +the presence of the Inexplicable was maddening. +I don't know whether my lips obeyed my will +or no; at all events, Tom lay motionless, with +his deaf ear up, and gave no sign.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> + +<p>The shutters closed as silently as they had +opened; the moonlight was gone, the firelight +also, and in utter darkness I waited. If I could +only <i>see</i>! If something were visible, I should +not mind it so much; but this ghastly hearing of +every little sound, every rustle of a gown, every +breath, yet seeing nothing, was soul-destroying. +I think in my abject terror I prayed that I might +see, only see; but the darkness was unbroken.</p> + +<p>Then the footsteps began to waver fitfully, +and I heard the rustle of garments sliding to +the floor, the clatter of little shoes flung down, +the rattle of buttons, and of metal against wood.</p> + +<p>Rigors shot over me, and my whole body +shivered with collapse as I sank back on the +pillow, waiting with every nerve tense, listening +with all my life.</p> + +<p>The coverlid was turned back beside me, and +in another moment the great bed sank a little as +something slipped between the sheets with an +audible sigh.</p> + +<p>I called to my aid every atom of remaining +strength, and, with a cry that shivered between +my clattering teeth, I hurled myself headlong +from the bed on to the floor.</p> + +<p>I must have lain for some time stunned and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +unconscious, for when I finally came to myself +it was cold in the room, there was no last glow +of lingering coals in the fireplace, and I was stiff +with chill.</p> + +<p>It all flashed over me like the haunting of a +heavy dream. I laughed a little at the dim +memory, with the thought, "I must try to recollect +all the details; they will do to tell Tom," +and rose stiffly to return to bed, when—there +it was again, and my heart stopped,—the hand +on the door.</p> + +<p>I paused and listened. The door opened +with a muffled creak, closed again, and I heard +the lock turn rustily. I would have died now +before getting into that bed again; but there +was terror equally without; so I stood trembling +and listened,—listened to heavy, stealthy +steps creeping along on the other side of the +bed. I clutched the coverlid, staring across +into the dark.</p> + +<p>There was a rush in the air by my face, the +sound of a blow, and simultaneously a shriek, so +awful, so despairing, so blood-curdling that I +felt my senses leaving me again as I sank +crouching on the floor by the bed.</p> + +<p>And then began the awful duel, the duel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +of invisible, audible shapes; of things that +shrieked and raved, mingling thin, feminine +cries with low, stifled curses and indistinguishable +words. Round and round the room, footsteps +chasing footsteps in the ghastly night, +now away by Tom's bed, now rushing swiftly +down the great room until I felt the flash of +swirling drapery on my hard lips. Round +and round, turning and twisting till my brain +whirled with the mad cries.</p> + +<p>They were coming nearer. I felt the jar of +their feet on the floor beside me. Came one +long, gurgling moan close over my head, and +then, crushing down upon me, the weight of a +collapsing body; there was long hair over my +face, and in my staring eyes; and as awful silence +succeeded the less awful tumult, life went out, +and I fell unfathomable miles into nothingness.</p> + +<p>The gray dawn was sifting through the chinks +in the shutters when I opened my eyes again. +I lay stunned and faint, staring up at the mouldy +frescoes on the ceiling, struggling to gather +together my wandering senses and knit them +into something like consciousness. But now +as I pulled myself little by little together there +was no thought of dreams before me. One<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +after another the awful incidents of that unspeakable +night came back, and I lay incapable +of movement, of action, trying to piece together +the whirling fragments of memory that +circled dizzily around me.</p> + +<p>Little by little it grew lighter in the room. I +could see the pallid lines struggling through +the shutters behind me, grow stronger along +the broken and dusty floor. The tarnished +mirrors reflected dirtily the growing daylight; +a door closed, far away, and I heard the crowing +of a cock; then by and by the whistle of a +passing train.</p> + +<p>Years seemed to have passed since I first came +into this terrible room. I had lost the use of +my tongue, my voice refused to obey my panic-stricken +desire to cry out; once or twice I tried +in vain to force an articulate sound through my +rigid lips; and when at last a broken whisper +rewarded my feverish struggles, I felt a strange +sense of great victory. How soundly he slept! +Ordinarily, rousing him was no easy task, and +now he revolted steadily against being awakened +at this untimely hour. It seemed to me that I +had called him for ages almost, before I heard +him grunt sleepily and turn in bed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Tom," I cried weakly, "Tom, come and +help me!"</p> + +<p>"What do you want? what is the matter with +you?"</p> + +<p>"Don't ask, come and help me!"</p> + +<p>"Fallen out of bed I guess;" and he laughed +drowsily.</p> + +<p>My abject terror lest he should go to sleep +again gave me new strength. Was it the actual +physical paralysis born of killing fear that held +me down? I could not have raised my head +from the floor on my life; I could only cry out +in deadly fear for Tom to come and help me.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you get up and get into bed?" +he answered, when I implored him to come to +me. "You have got a bad nightmare; wake +up!"</p> + +<p>But something in my voice roused him at last, +and he came chuckling across the room, stopping +to throw open two of the great shutters and +let a burst of white light into the room. He +climbed up on the bed and peered over jeeringly. +With the first glance the laugh died, and he +leaped the bed and bent over me.</p> + +<p>"My God, man, what is the matter with you? +You are hurt!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't know what is the matter; lift me +up, get me away from here, and I'll tell you all +I know."</p> + +<p>"But, old chap, you must be hurt awfully; +the floor is covered with blood!"</p> + +<p>He lifted my head and held me in his powerful +arms. I looked down: a great red stain +blotted the floor beside me.</p> + +<p>But, apart from the black bruise on my head, +there was no sign of a wound on my body, nor +stain of blood on my lips. In as few words as +possible I told him the whole story.</p> + +<p>"Let's get out of this," he said when I had +finished; "this is no place for us. Brigands I +can stand, but—"</p> + +<p>He helped me to dress, and as soon as possible +we forced open the heavy door, the door I +had seen turn so softly on its hinges only a few +hours before, and came out into the great circular +hall, no less strange and mysterious now +in the half light of dawn than it had been by +firelight. The room was empty, for it must +have been very early, although a fire already +blazed in the fireplace. We sat by the fire +some time, seeing no one. Presently slow footsteps +sounded in the stairway, and the old man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +entered, silent as the night before, nodding to +us civilly, but showing by no sign any surprise +which he may have felt at our early rising. In +absolute silence he moved around, preparing +coffee for us; and when at last the frugal breakfast +was ready, and we sat around the rough +table munching coarse bread and sipping the +black coffee, he would reply to our overtures +only by monosyllables.</p> + +<p>Any attempt at drawing from him some facts +as to the history of the villa was received with +a grave and frigid repellence that baffled us; and +we were forced to say <i>addio</i> with our hunger for +some explanation of the events of the night still +unsatisfied.</p> + +<p>But we saw the temples by sunrise, when the +mistlike lambent opals bathed the bases of the +tall columns salmon in the morning light! It +was a rhapsody in the pale and unearthly colors +of Puvis de Chavannes vitalized and made glorious +with splendid sunlight; the apotheosis of +mist; a vision never before seen, never to be forgotten. +It was so beautiful that the memory of +my ghastly night paled and faded, and it was Tom +who assailed the station-master with questions +while we waited for the train from Agropoli.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p> + +<p>Luckily he was more than loquacious, he was +voluble under the ameliorating influence of the +money we forced upon him; and this, in few +words, was the story he told us while we sat on +the platform smoking, marvelling at the mists +that rose to the east, now veiling, now revealing +the lavender Apennines.</p> + +<p>"Is there a story of <i>La Villa Bianca</i>?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, Signori, certainly; and a story very +strange and very terrible. It was much time +ago, a hundred,—two hundred years; I do +not know. Well, the Duca di San Damiano +married a lady so fair, so most beautiful that +she was called <i>La Luna di Pesto</i>; but she was +of the people,—more, she was of the banditti: +her father was of Calabria, and a terror of the +Campagna. But the Duke was young, and he +married her, and for her built the white villa; +and it was a wonder throughout Campania,—you +have seen? It is splendid now, even if a ruin. +Well, it was less than a year after they came to +the villa before the Duke grew jealous,—jealous +of the new captain of the banditti who took the +place of the father of <i>La Luna</i>, himself killed in +a great battle up there in the mountains. Was +there cause? Who shall know? But there were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +stories among the people of terrible things in the +villa, and how <i>La Luna</i> was seen almost never +outside the walls. Then the Duke would go for +many days to Napoli, coming home only now and +then to the villa that was become a fortress, +so many men guarded its never-opening gates. +And once—it was in the spring—the Duke came +silently down from Napoli, and there, by the +three poplars you see away towards the north, +his carriage was set upon by armed men, and +he was almost killed; but he had with him +many guards, and after a terrible fight the brigands +were beaten off; but before him, wounded, +lay the captain,—the man whom he feared and +hated. He looked at him, lying there under the +torchlight, and in his hand saw <i>his own sword</i>. +Then he became a devil: with the same sword +he ran the brigand through, leaped in the carriage, +and, entering the villa, crept to the chamber +of <i>La Luna</i>, and killed her with the sword +she had given to her lover.</p> + +<p>"This is all the story of the White Villa, +except that the Duke came never again to +Pesto. He went back to the king at Napoli, +and for many years he was the scourge of +the banditti of Campania; for the King made<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +him a general, and San Damiano was a name +feared by the lawless and loved by the peaceful, +until he was killed in a battle down by +Mormanno.</p> + +<p>"And <i>La Luna</i>? Some say she comes back +to the villa, once a year, when the moon is full, +in the month when she was slain; for the Duke +buried her, they say, with his own hands, in the +garden that was once under the window of her +chamber; and as she died unshriven, so was she +buried without the pale of the Church. Therefore +she cannot sleep in peace,—<i>non è vero</i>? I +do not know if the story is true, but this is the +story, Signori, and there is the train for Napoli. +<i>Ah, grazie! Signori, grazie tanto! A rivederci! +Signori, a rivederci!</i>"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> +<h2>SISTER MADDELENA.</h2> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> +<h2><big>Sister Maddelena.</big></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">Across</span> the valley of the Oreto from Monreale, +on the slopes of the mountains just +above the little village of Parco, lies the old +convent of Sta. Catarina. From the cloister +terrace at Monreale you can see its pale walls +and the slim campanile of its chapel rising from +the crowded citron and mulberry orchards that +flourish, rank and wild, no longer cared for by +pious and loving hands. From the rough road +that climbs the mountains to Assunto, the convent +is invisible, a gnarled and ragged olive +grove intervening, and a spur of cliffs as well, +while from Palermo one sees only the speck of +white, flashing in the sun, indistinguishable from +the many similar gleams of desert monastery or +pauper village.</p> + +<p>Partly because of this seclusion, partly by +reason of its extreme beauty, partly, it may be,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +because the present owners are more than +charming and gracious in their pressing hospitality, +Sta. Catarina seems to preserve an +element of the poetic, almost magical; and as +I drove with the Cavaliere Valguanera one +evening in March out of Palermo, along the +garden valley of the Oreto, then up the mountain +side where the warm light of the spring +sunset swept across from Monreale, lying +golden and mellow on the luxuriant growth of +figs, and olives, and orange-trees, and fantastic +cacti, and so up to where the path of the convent +swung off to the right round a dizzy point +of cliff that reached out gaunt and gray from the +olives below,—as I drove thus in the balmy air, +and saw of a sudden a vision of creamy walls and +orange roofs, draped in fantastic festoons of +roses, with a single curving palm-tree stuck +black and feathery against the gold sunset, it +is hardly to be wondered at that I should slip +into a mood of visionary enjoyment, looking +for a time on the whole thing as the misty +phantasm of a summer dream.</p> + +<p>The Cavaliere had introduced himself to +us,—Tom Rendel and me,—one morning +soon after we reached Palermo, when, in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> +first bewilderment of architects in this paradise +of art and color, we were working nobly at +our sketches in that dream of delight, the Capella +Palatina. He was himself an amateur archæologist, +he told us, and passionately devoted to his +island; so he felt impelled to speak to any one +whom he saw appreciating the almost—and +in a way fortunately—unknown beauties of +Palermo. In a little time we were fully acquainted, +and talking like the oldest friends. +Of course he knew acquaintances of Rendel's,—some +one always does: this time they were +officers on the tubby U. S. S. "Quinebaug," that, +during the summer of 1888, was trying to uphold +the maritime honor of the United States +in European waters. Luckily for us, one of +the officers was a kind of cousin of Rendel's, +and came from Baltimore as well, so, as he had +visited at the Cavaliere's place, we were soon +invited to do the same. It was in this way +that, with the luck that attends Rendel wherever +he goes, we came to see something of +domestic life in Italy, and that I found myself +involved in another of those adventures for +which I naturally sought so little.</p> + +<p>I wonder if there is any other place in Sicily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +so faultless as Sta. Catarina? Taormina is a +paradise, an epitome of all that is beautiful in +Italy,—Venice excepted. Girgenti is a solemn +epic, with its golden temples between the sea and +hills. Cefalù is wild and strange, and Monreale +a vision out of a fairy tale; but Sta. Catarina!—</p> + +<p>Fancy a convent of creamy stone and rose-red +brick perched on a ledge of rock midway +between earth and heaven, the cliff falling +almost sheer to the valley two hundred feet +and more, the mountain rising behind straight +towards the sky; all the rocks covered with cactus +and dwarf fig-trees, the convent draped in +smothering roses, and in front a terrace with a +fountain in the midst; and then—nothing—between +you and the sapphire sea, six miles +away. Below stretches the Eden valley, the +Concha d'Oro, gold-green fig orchards alternating +with smoke-blue olives, the mountains rising +on either hand and sinking undulously away +towards the bay where, like a magic city of ivory +and nacre, Palermo lies guarded by the twin +mountains, Monte Pellegrino and Capo Zafferano, +arid rocks like dull amethysts, rose in +sunlight, violet in shadow: lions couchant, guarding +the sleeping town.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p> + +<p>Seen as we saw it for the first time that hot +evening in March, with the golden lambent light +pouring down through the valley, making it in +verity a "shell of gold," sitting in Indian chairs +on the terrace, with the perfume of roses and +jasmines all around us, the valley of the Oreto, +Palermo, Sta. Catarina, Monreale,—all were but +parts of a dreamy vision, like the heavenly city +of Sir Percivale, to attain which he passed +across the golden bridge that burned after him +as he vanished in the intolerable light of the +Beatific Vision.</p> + +<p>It was all so unreal, so phantasmal, that I +was not surprised in the least when, late in +the evening after the ladies had gone to their +rooms, and the Cavaliere, Tom, and I were +stretched out in chairs on the terrace, smoking +lazily under the multitudinous stars, the Cavaliere +said, "There is something I really must tell +you both before you go to bed, so that you may +be spared any unnecessary alarm."</p> + +<p>"You are going to say that the place is +haunted," said Rendel, feeling vaguely on the +floor beside him for his glass of Amaro: "thank +you; it is all it needs."</p> + +<p>The Cavaliere smiled a little: "Yes, that is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +just it. Sta. Catarina is really haunted; and +much as my reason revolts against the idea as +superstitious and savoring of priestcraft, yet I +must acknowledge I see no way of avoiding the +admission. I do not presume to offer any explanations, +I only state the fact; and the fact is that +to-night one or other of you will, in all human—or +unhuman—probability, receive a visit from +Sister Maddelena. You need not be in the +least afraid, the apparition is perfectly gentle +and harmless; and, moreover, having seen it +once, you will never see it again. No one +sees the ghost, or whatever it is, but once, +and that usually the first night he spends in +the house. I myself saw the thing eight—nine +years ago, when I first bought the place +from the Marchese di Muxaro; all my people +have seen it, nearly all my guests, so I think you +may as well be prepared."</p> + +<p>"Then tell us what to expect," I said; "what +kind of a ghost is this nocturnal visitor?"</p> + +<p>"It is simple enough. Some time to-night you +will suddenly awake and see before you a Carmelite +nun who will look fixedly at you, say distinctly +and very sadly, 'I cannot sleep,' and +then vanish. That is all, it is hardly worth<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +speaking of, only some people are terribly +frightened if they are visited unwarned by +strange apparitions; so I tell you this that you +may be prepared."</p> + +<p>"This was a Carmelite convent, then?" I +said.</p> + +<p>"Yes; it was suppressed after the unification +of Italy, and given to the House of Muxaro; but +the family died out, and I bought it. There is +a story about the ghostly nun, who was only a +novice, and even that unwillingly, which gives +an interest to an otherwise very commonplace +and uninteresting ghost."</p> + +<p>"I beg that you will tell it us," cried Rendel.</p> + +<p>"There is a storm coming," I added. "See, +the lightning is flashing already up among the +mountains at the head of the valley; if the story +is tragic, as it must be, now is just the time for +it. You will tell it, will you not?"</p> + +<p>The Cavaliere smiled that slow, cryptic smile +of his that was so unfathomable.</p> + +<p>"As you say, there is a shower coming, and +as we have fierce tempests here, we might not +sleep; so perhaps we may as well sit up a little +longer, and I will tell you the story."</p> + +<p>The air was utterly still, hot and oppressive;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> +the rich, sick odor of the oranges just bursting +into bloom came up from the valley in a gently +rising tide. The sky, thick with stars, seemed +mirrored in the rich foliage below, so numerous +were the glow-worms under the still trees, and +the fireflies that gleamed in the hot air. Lightning +flashed fitfully from the darkening west; but +as yet no thunder broke the heavy silence.</p> + +<p>The Cavaliere lighted another cigar, and +pulled a cushion under his head so that he +could look down to the distant lights of the +city. "This is the story," he said.</p> + +<p>"Once upon a time, late in the last century, +the Duca di Castiglione was attached to +the court of Charles III., King of the Two +Sicilies, down at Palermo. They tell me he +was very ambitious, and, not content with +marrying his son to one of the ladies of the +House of Tuscany, had betrothed his only +daughter, Rosalia, to Prince Antonio, a cousin +of the king. His whole life was wrapped up +in the fame of his family, and he quite forgot +all domestic affection in his madness for dynastic +glory. His son was a worthy scion, cold +and proud; but Rosalia was, according to legend, +utterly the reverse,—a passionate, beautiful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +girl, wilful and headstrong, and careless of her +family and the world.</p> + +<p>"The time had nearly come for her to marry +Prince Antonio, a typical <i>roué</i> of the Spanish +court, when, through the treachery of a servant, +the Duke discovered that his daughter was in +love with a young military officer whose name +I don't remember, and that an elopement had +been planned to take place the next night. +The fury and dismay of the old autocrat passed +belief; he saw in a flash the downfall of all his +hopes of family aggrandizement through union +with the royal house, and, knowing well the +spirit of his daughter, despaired of ever +bringing her to subjection. Nevertheless, he +attacked her unmercifully, and, by bullying and +threats, by imprisonment, and even bodily +chastisement, he tried to break her spirit and +bend her to his indomitable will. Through his +power at court he had the lover sent away to +the mainland, and for more than a year he held +his daughter closely imprisoned in his palace +on the Toledo,—that one, you may remember, +on the right, just beyond the Via del Collegio +dei Gesuiti, with the beautiful iron-work grilles +at all the windows, and the painted frieze.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +But nothing could move her, nothing bend +her stubborn will; and at last, furious at the +girl he could not govern, Castiglione sent her to +this convent, then one of the few houses of +barefoot Carmelite nuns in Italy. He stipulated +that she should take the name of Maddelena, +that he should never hear of her again, +and that she should be held an absolute prisoner +in this conventual castle.</p> + +<p>"Rosalia—or Sister Maddelena, as she was +now—believed her lover dead, for her father had +given her good proofs of this, and she believed +him; nevertheless she refused to marry another, +and seized upon the convent life as a blessed +relief from the tyranny of her maniacal father.</p> + +<p>"She lived here for four or five years; her +name was forgotten at court and in her father's +palace. Rosalia di Castiglione was dead, and +only Sister Maddelena lived, a Carmelite nun, +in her place.</p> + +<p>"In 1798 Ferdinand IV. found himself driven +from his throne on the mainland, his kingdom +divided, and he himself forced to flee to Sicily. +With him came the lover of the dead Rosalia, +now high in military honor. He on his part +had thought Rosalia dead, and it was only by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +accident that he found that she still lived, a +Carmelite nun. Then began the second act of +the romance that until then had been only sadly +commonplace, but now became dark and tragic. +Michele—Michele Biscari,—that was his +name; I remember now—haunted the region +of the convent, striving to communicate with +Sister Maddelena; and at last, from the cliffs +over us, up there among the citrons—you will +see by the next flash of lightning—he saw her +in the great cloister, recognized her in her white +habit, found her the same dark and splendid +beauty of six years before, only made more +beautiful by her white habit and her rigid life. +By and by he found a day when she was alone, +and tossed a ring to her as she stood in the +midst of the cloister. She looked up, saw him, +and from that moment lived only to love him +in life as she had loved his memory in the death +she had thought had overtaken him.</p> + +<p>"With the utmost craft they arranged their +plans together. They could not speak, for a +word would have aroused the other inmates of +the convent. They could make signs only +when Sister Maddelena was alone. Michele +could throw notes to her from the cliff,—a feat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +demanding a strong arm, as you will see, if you +measure the distance with your eye,—and she +could drop replies from the window over the +cliff, which he picked up at the bottom. +Finally he succeeded in casting into the cloister +a coil of light rope. The girl fastened it to the +bars of one of the windows, and—so great is +the madness of love—Biscari actually climbed +the rope from the valley to the window of the +cell, a distance of almost two hundred feet, with +but three little craggy resting-places in all that +height. For nearly a month these nocturnal +visits were undiscovered, and Michele had +almost completed his arrangements for carrying +the girl from Sta. Catarina and away to Spain, +when unfortunately one of the sisters, suspecting +some mystery, from the changed face of Sister +Maddelena, began investigating, and at length +discovered the rope neatly coiled up by the +nun's window, and hidden under some clinging +vines. She instantly told the Mother Superior; +and together they watched from a window in +the crypt of the chapel,—the only place, as you +will see to-morrow, from which one could see the +window of Sister Maddelena's cell. They saw +the figure of Michele daringly ascending the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +slim rope; watched hour after hour, the Sister +remaining while the Superior went to say the +hours in the chapel, at each of which Sister +Maddelena was present; and at last, at prime, +just as the sun was rising, they saw the figure slip +down the rope, watched the rope drawn up and +concealed, and knew that Sister Maddelena was +in their hands for vengeance and punishment,—a +criminal.</p> + +<p>"The next day, by the order of the Mother +Superior, Sister Maddelena was imprisoned in +one of the cells under the chapel, charged with +her guilt, and commanded to make full and +complete confession. But not a word would +she say, although they offered her forgiveness +if she would tell the name of her lover. At +last the Superior told her that after this fashion +would they act the coming night: she herself +would be placed in the crypt, tied in front of +the window, her mouth gagged; that the rope +would be lowered, and the lover allowed to +approach even to the sill of her window, and at +that moment the rope would be cut, and before +her eyes her lover would be dashed to death on +the ragged cliffs. The plan was feasible, and +Sister Maddelena knew that the Mother was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +perfectly capable of carrying it out. Her stubborn +spirit was broken, and in the only way possible; +she begged for mercy, for the sparing of +her lover. The Mother Superior was deaf at +first; at last she said, 'It is your life or his. +I will spare him on condition that you sacrifice +your own life.' Sister Maddelena accepted +the terms joyfully, wrote a last farewell to +Michele, fastened the note to the rope, and +with her own hands cut the rope and saw it +fall coiling down to the valley bed far below.</p> + +<p>"Then she silently prepared for death; and at +midnight, while her lover was wandering, mad +with the horror of impotent fear, around the +white walls of the convent, Sister Maddelena, +for love of Michele, gave up her life. How, was +never known. That she was indeed dead was +only a suspicion, for when Biscari finally compelled +the civil authorities to enter the convent, +claiming that murder had been done there, they +found no sign. Sister Maddelena had been +sent to the parent house of the barefoot Carmelites +at Avila in Spain, so the Superior +stated, because of her incorrigible contumacy. +The old Duke of Castiglione refused to stir +hand or foot in the matter, and Michele, after<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +fruitless attempts to prove that the Superior of +Sta. Catarina had caused the death, was forced +to leave Sicily. He sought in Spain for very +long; but no sign of the girl was to be found, +and at last he died, exhausted with suffering +and sorrow.</p> + +<p>"Even the name of Sister Maddelena was forgotten, +and it was not until the convents were +suppressed, and this house came into the hands +of the Muxaros, that her story was remembered. +It was then that the ghost began to appear; and, +an explanation being necessary, the story, or +legend, was obtained from one of the nuns who +still lived after the suppression. I think the +fact—for it is a fact—of the ghost rather +goes to prove that Michele was right, and that +poor Rosalia gave her life a sacrifice for love,—whether +in accordance with the terms of the +legend or not, I cannot say. One or the other of +you will probably see her to-night. You might +ask her for the facts. Well, that is all the +story of Sister Maddelena, known in the world +as Rosalia di Castiglione. Do you like it?"</p> + +<p>"It is admirable," said Rendel, enthusiastically. +"But I fancy I should rather look on it +simply as a story, and not as a warning of what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +is going to happen. I don't much fancy real +ghosts myself."</p> + +<p>"But the poor Sister is quite harmless;" and +Valguanera rose, stretching himself. "My servants +say she wants a mass said over her, or +something of that kind; but I haven't much love +for such priestly hocus-pocus,—I beg your pardon" +(turning to me), "I had forgotten that you +were a Catholic: forgive my rudeness."</p> + +<p>"My dear Cavaliere, I beg you not to +apologize. I am sorry you cannot see things +as I do; but don't for a moment think I am +hypersensitive."</p> + +<p>"I have an excuse,—perhaps you will say only +an explanation; but I live where I see all the absurdities +and corruptions of the Church."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you let the accidents blind you to the +essentials; but do not let us quarrel to-night,—see, +the storm is close on us. Shall we go in?"</p> + +<p>The stars were blotted out through nearly all +the sky; low, thunderous clouds, massed at the +head of the valley, were sweeping over so close +that they seemed to brush the black pines on +the mountain above us. To the south and east +the storm-clouds had shut down almost to the sea, +leaving a space of black sky where the moon in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +its last quarter was rising just to the left of Monte +Pellegrino,—a black silhouette against the pallid +moonlight. The rosy lightning flashed almost +incessantly, and through the fitful darkness came +the sound of bells across the valley, the rushing +torrent below, and the dull roar of the approaching +rain, with a deep organ point of solemn thunder +through it all.</p> + +<p>We fled indoors from the coming tempest, +and taking our candles, said "good-night," and +sought each his respective room.</p> + +<p>My own was in the southern part of the old +convent, giving on the terrace we had just +quitted, and about over the main doorway. +The rushing storm, as it swept down the +valley with the swelling torrent beneath, was +very fascinating, and after wrapping myself +in a dressing-gown I stood for some time by +the deeply embrasured window, watching the +blazing lightning and the beating rain whirled +by fitful gusts of wind around the spurs of the +mountains. Gradually the violence of the +shower seemed to decrease, and I threw myself +down on my bed in the hot air, wondering +if I really was to experience the ghostly visit the +Cavaliere so confidently predicted.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p> + +<p>I had thought out the whole matter to my own +satisfaction, and fancied I knew exactly what +I should do, in case Sister Maddelena came +to visit me. The story touched me: the thought +of the poor faithful girl who sacrificed herself for +her lover,—himself, very likely, quite unworthy,—and +who now could never sleep for reason of +her unquiet soul, sent out into the storm of eternity +without spiritual aid or counsel. I could not +sleep; for the still vivid lightning, the crowding +thoughts of the dead nun, and the shivering +anticipation of my possible visitation, made +slumber quite out of the question. No suspicion +of sleepiness had visited me, when, perhaps +an hour after midnight, came a sudden +vivid flash of lightning, and, as my dazzled +eyes began to regain the power of sight, I +saw her as plainly as in life,—a tall figure, +shrouded in the white habit of the Carmelites, +her head bent, her hands clasped before +her. In another flash of lightning she slowly +raised her head and looked at me long and +earnestly. She was very beautiful, like the +Virgin of Beltraffio in the National Gallery,—more +beautiful than I had supposed possible, +her deep, passionate eyes very tender and pitiful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +in their pleading, beseeching glance. I +hardly think I was frightened, or even startled, +but lay looking steadily at her as she stood +in the beating lightning.</p> + +<p>Then she breathed, rather than articulated, +with a voice that almost brought tears, so +infinitely sad and sorrowful was it, "I cannot +sleep!" and the liquid eyes grew more pitiful +and questioning as bright tears fell from them +down the pale dark face.</p> + +<p>The figure began to move slowly towards the +door, its eyes fixed on mine with a look that was +weary and almost agonized. I leaped from the +bed and stood waiting. A look of utter gratitude +swept over the face, and, turning, the figure +passed through the doorway.</p> + +<p>Out into the shadow of the corridor it moved, +like a drift of pallid storm-cloud, and I followed, +all natural and instinctive fear or nervousness +quite blotted out by the part I felt I was to +play in giving rest to a tortured soul. The corridors +were velvet black; but the pale figure +floated before me always, an unerring guide, +now but a thin mist on the utter night, now +white and clear in the bluish lightning through +some window or doorway.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> + +<p>Down the stairway into the lower hall, across +the refectory, where the great frescoed Crucifixion +flared into sudden clearness under the fitful +lightning, out into the silent cloister.</p> + +<p>It was very dark. I stumbled along the heaving +bricks, now guiding myself by a hand on the +whitewashed wall, now by a touch on a column +wet with the storm. From all the eaves the rain +was dripping on to the pebbles at the foot of the +arcade: a pigeon, startled from the capital where +it was sleeping, beat its way into the cloister close. +Still the white thing drifted before me to the farther +side of the court, then along the cloister at +right angles, and paused before one of the many +doorways that led to the cells.</p> + +<p>A sudden blaze of fierce lightning, the last +now of the fleeting trail of storm, leaped around +us, and in the vivid light I saw the white face +turned again with the look of overwhelming +desire, of beseeching pathos, that had choked +my throat with an involuntary sob when first +I saw Sister Maddelena. In the brief interval +that ensued after the flash, and before the roaring +thunder burst like the crash of battle over +the trembling convent, I heard again the sorrowful +words, "I cannot sleep," come from the impenetrable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +darkness. And when the lightning +came again, the white figure was gone.</p> + +<p>I wandered around the courtyard, searching +in vain for Sister Maddelena, even until the +moonlight broke through the torn and sweeping +fringes of the storm. I tried the door where +the white figure vanished: it was locked; but I +had found what I sought, and, carefully noting +its location, went back to my room, but not to +sleep.</p> + +<p>In the morning the Cavaliere asked Rendel +and me which of us had seen the ghost, and I +told him my story; then I asked him to grant +me permission to sift the thing to the bottom; +and he courteously gave the whole matter into +my charge, promising that he would consent to +anything.</p> + +<p>I could hardly wait to finish breakfast; but no +sooner was this done than, forgetting my morning +pipe, I started with Rendel and the Cavaliere +to investigate.</p> + +<p>"I am sure there is nothing in that cell," said +Valguanera, when we came in front of the door +I had marked. "It is curious that you should +have chosen the door of the very cell that +tradition assigns to Sister Maddelena; but I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +have often examined that room myself, and I +am sure that there is no chance for anything to +be concealed. In fact, I had the floor taken up +once, soon after I came here, knowing the room +was that of the mysterious Sister, and thinking +that there, if anywhere, the monastic crime +would have taken place; still, we will go in, if +you like."</p> + +<p>He unlocked the door, and we entered, one +of us, at all events, with a beating heart. The +cell was very small, hardly eight feet square. +There certainly seemed no opportunity for concealing +a body in the tiny place; and although I +sounded the floor and walls, all gave a solid, +heavy answer,—the unmistakable sound of +masonry.</p> + +<p>For the innocence of the floor the Cavaliere +answered. He had, he said, had it all removed, +even to the curving surfaces of the vault below; +yet somewhere in this room the body of the +murdered girl was concealed,—of this I was certain. +But where? There seemed no answer; +and I was compelled to give up the search for +the moment, somewhat to the amusement of +Valguanera, who had watched curiously to see +if I could solve the mystery.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> + +<p>But I could not forget the subject, and towards +noon started on another tour of investigation. +I procured the keys from the Cavaliere, +and examined the cells adjoining; they +were apparently the same, each with its window +opposite the door, and nothing— Stay, were +they the same? I hastened into the suspected +cell; it was as I thought: this cell, being on the +corner, could have had two windows, yet only +one was visible, and that to the left, at right +angles with the doorway. Was it imagination? +As I sounded the wall opposite the door, where +the other window should be, I fancied that the +sound was a trifle less solid and dull. I was +becoming excited. I dashed back to the cell on +the right, and, forcing open the little window, +thrust my head out.</p> + +<p>It was found at last! In the smooth surface +of the yellow wall was a rough space, following +approximately the shape of the other cell windows, +not plastered like the rest of the wall, but +showing the shapes of bricks through its thick +coatings of whitewash. I turned with a gasp +of excitement and satisfaction: yes, the embrasure +of the wall was deep enough; what a wall +it was!—four feet at least, and the opening of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +the window reached to the floor, though the +window itself was hardly three feet square. I +felt absolutely certain that the secret was solved, +and called the Cavaliere and Rendel, too +excited to give them an explanation of my +theories.</p> + +<p>They must have thought me mad when I +suddenly began scraping away at the solid wall +in front of the door; but in a few minutes they +understood what I was about, for under the +coatings of paint and plaster appeared the +original bricks; and as my architectural knowledge +had led me rightly, the space I had +cleared was directly over a vertical joint between +firm, workmanlike masonry on one hand, +and rough amateurish work on the other, bricks +laid anyway, and without order or science.</p> + +<p>Rendel seized a pick, and was about to assail +the rude wall, when I stopped him.</p> + +<p>"Let us be careful," I said; "who knows +what we may find?" So we set to work digging +out the mortar around a brick at about the +level of our eyes.</p> + +<p>How hard the mortar had become! But a +brick yielded at last, and with trembling fingers +I detached it. Darkness within, yet beyond<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +question there was a cavity there, not a solid +wall; and with infinite care we removed another +brick. Still the hole was too small to +admit enough light from the dimly illuminated +cell. With a chisel we pried at the sides of +a large block of masonry, perhaps eight bricks +in size. It moved, and we softly slid it from +its bed.</p> + +<p>Valguanera, who was standing watching us +as we lowered the bricks to the floor, gave a +sudden cry, a cry like that of a frightened +woman,—terrible, coming from him. Yet there +was cause.</p> + +<p>Framed by the ragged opening of the bricks, +hardly seen in the dim light, was a face, an +ivory image, more beautiful than any antique +bust, but drawn and distorted by unspeakable +agony: the lovely mouth half open, as though +gasping for breath; the eyes cast upward; and +below, slim chiselled hands crossed on the +breast, but clutching the folds of the white +Carmelite habit, torture and agony visible in +every tense muscle, fighting against the determination +of the rigid pose.</p> + +<p>We stood there breathless, staring at the pitiful +sight, fascinated, bewitched. So this was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +the secret. With fiendish ingenuity, the rigid +ecclesiastics had blocked up the window, then +forced the beautiful creature to stand in the +alcove, while with remorseless hands and iron +hearts they had shut her into a living tomb. I +had read of such things in romance; but to find +the verity here, before my eyes—</p> + +<p>Steps came down the cloister, and with a +simultaneous thought we sprang to the door +and closed it behind us. The room was sacred; +that awful sight was not for curious eyes. The +gardener was coming to ask some trivial question +of Valguanera. The Cavaliere cut him +short. "Pietro, go down to Parco and ask +Padre Stefano to come here at once." (I +thanked him with a glance.) "Stay!" He +turned to me: "Signore, it is already two +o'clock and too late for mass, is it not?"</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>Valguanera thought a moment, then he said, +"Bring two horses; the Signor Americano will +go with you,—do you understand?" Then, +turning to me, "You will go, will you not? I +think you can explain matters to Padre Stefano +better than I."</p> + +<p>"Of course I will go, more than gladly."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +So it happened that after a hasty luncheon I +wound down the mountain to Parco, found +Padre Stefano, explained my errand to him, +found him intensely eager and sympathetic, +and by five o'clock had him back at the convent +with all that was necessary for the resting +of the soul of the dead girl.</p> + +<p>In the warm twilight, with the last light of +the sunset pouring into the little cell through +the window where almost a century ago Rosalia +had for the last time said farewell to her +lover, we gathered together to speed her tortured +soul on its journey, so long delayed. +Nothing was omitted; all the needful offices +of the Church were said by Padre Stefano, +while the light in the window died away, and +the flickering flames of the candles carried by +two of the acolytes from San Francesco threw +fitful flashes of pallid light into the dark recess +where the white face had prayed to Heaven for +a hundred years.</p> + +<p>Finally, the Padre took the asperge from the +hands of one of the acolytes, and with a sign of +the cross in benediction while he chanted the +<i>Asperges</i>, gently sprinkled the holy water on +the upturned face. Instantly the whole vision<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +crumbled to dust, the face was gone, and where +once the candlelight had flickered on the perfect +semblance of the girl dead so very long, +it now fell only on the rough bricks which +closed the window, bricks laid with frozen +hearts by pitiless hands.</p> + +<p>But our task was not done yet. It had been +arranged that Padre Stefano should remain at +the convent all night, and that as soon as midnight +made it possible he should say the first +mass for the repose of the girl's soul. We sat +on the terrace talking over the strange events +of the last crowded hours, and I noted with +satisfaction that the Cavaliere no longer spoke +of the Church with that hardness, which had +hurt me so often. It is true that the Padre was +with us nearly all the time; but not only was +Valguanera courteous, he was almost sympathetic; +and I wondered if it might not prove +that more than one soul benefited by the untoward +events of the day.</p> + +<p>With the aid of the astonished and delighted +servants, and no little help as well from Signora +Valguanera, I fitted up the long cold Altar in +the chapel, and by midnight we had the gloomy +sanctuary beautiful with flowers and candles.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +It was a curiously solemn service, in the first +hour of the new day, in the midst of blazing +candles and the thick incense, the odor of the +opening orange-blooms drifting up in the fresh +morning air, and mingling with the incense +smoke and the perfume of flowers within. +Many prayers were said that night for the +soul of the dead girl, and I think many afterwards; +for after the benediction I remained for +a little time in my place, and when I rose from +my knees and went towards the chapel door, +I saw a figure kneeling still, and, with a start, +recognized the form of the Cavaliere. I smiled +with quiet satisfaction and gratitude, and went +away softly, content with the chain of events +that now seemed finished.</p> + +<p>The next day the alcove was again walled up, +for the precious dust could not be gathered together +for transportation to consecrated ground; +so I went down to the little cemetery at Parco +for a basket of earth, which we cast in over the +ashes of Sister Maddelena.</p> + +<p>By and by, when Rendel and I went away, +with great regret, Valguanera came down to +Palermo with us; and the last act that we performed +in Sicily was assisting him to order<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +a tablet of marble, whereon was carved this +simple inscription:—</p> + +<div class="hd2">HERE LIES THE BODY OF<br /> +ROSALIA DI CASTIGLIONI,<br /> +CALLED<br /> +SISTER MADDELENA.<br /> +HER SOUL<br /> +IS WITH HIM WHO GAVE IT.</div> + +<p>To this I added in thought:—</p> + +<p>"Let him that is without sin among you cast +the first stone."</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> +<h2>NOTRE DAME DES EAUX.</h2> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> +<h2><big>Notre Dame des Eaux.</big></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">West</span> of St. Pol de Leon, on the sea-cliffs of +Finisterre, stands the ancient church of Notre +Dame des Eaux. Five centuries of beating +winds and sweeping rains have moulded its +angles, and worn its carvings and sculpture +down to the very semblance of the ragged cliffs +themselves, until even the Breton fisherman, +looking lovingly from his boat as he makes for +the harbor of Morlaix, hardly can say where +the crags end, and where the church begins. +The teeth of the winds of the sea have devoured, +bit by bit, the fine sculpture of the +doorway and the thin cusps of the window +tracery; gray moss creeps caressingly over the +worn walls in ineffectual protection; gentle +vines, turned crabbed by the harsh beating of +the fierce winds, clutch the crumbling buttresses,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +climb up over the sinking roof, reach +in even at the louvres of the belfry, holding the +little sanctuary safe in desperate arms against +the savage warfare of the sea and sky.</p> + +<p>Many a time you may follow the rocky highway +from St. Pol even around the last land of +France, and so to Brest, yet never see sign of +Notre Dame des Eaux; for it clings to a cliff +somewhat lower than the road, and between +grows a stunted thicket of harsh and ragged +trees, their skeleton white branches, tortured +and contorted, thrusting sorrowfully out of the +hard, dark foliage that still grows below, where +the rise of land below the highway gives some +protection. You must leave the wood by the +two cottages of yellow stone, about twenty +miles beyond St. Pol, and go down to the right, +around the old stone quarry; then, bearing to +the left by the little cliff path, you will, in a +moment, see the pointed roof of the tower of +Notre Dame, and, later, come down to the side +porch among the crosses of the arid little graveyard.</p> + +<p>It is worth the walk, for though the church +has outwardly little but its sad picturesqueness +to repay the artist, within it is a dream and a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +delight. A Norman nave of round, red stone +piers and arches, a delicate choir of the richest +flamboyant, a High Altar of the time of Francis +I., form only the mellow background and frame +for carven tombs and dark old pictures, hanging +lamps of iron and brass, and black, heavily +carved choir-stalls of the Renaissance.</p> + +<p>So has the little church lain unnoticed for +many centuries; for the horrors and follies of +the Revolution have never come near, and the +hardy and faithful people of Finisterre have +feared God and loved Our Lady too well to harm +her church. For many years it was the church +of the Comtes de Jarleuc; and these are their +tombs that mellow year by year under the warm +light of the painted windows, given long ago +by Comte Robert de Jarleuc, when the heir +of Poullaouen came safely to shore in the harbor +of Morlaix, having escaped from the Isle +of Wight, where he had lain captive after the +awful defeat of the fleet of Charles of Valois +at Sluys. And now the heir of Poullaouen lies +in a carven tomb, forgetful of the world where +he fought so nobly: the dynasty he fought to +establish, only a memory; the family he made +glorious, a name; the Château Poullaouen a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +single crag of riven masonry in the fields of +M. du Bois, mayor of Morlaix.</p> + +<p>It was Julien, Comte de Bergerac, who rediscovered +Notre Dame des Eaux, and by his picture +of its dreamy interior in the Salon of '86 +brought once more into notice this forgotten +corner of the world. The next year a party of +painters settled themselves near by, roughing it +as best they could, and in the year following, +Mme. de Bergerac and her daughter Héloïse +came with Julien, and, buying the old farm of +Pontivy, on the highway over Notre Dame, +turned it into a summer house that almost +made amends for their lost château on the +Dordogne, stolen from them as virulent Royalists +by the triumphant Republic in 1794.</p> + +<p>Little by little a summer colony of painters +gathered around Pontivy, and it was not until +the spring of 1890 that the peace of the colony +was broken. It was a sorrowful tragedy. Jean +d'Yriex, the youngest and merriest devil of all the +jolly crew, became suddenly moody and morose. +At first this was attributed to his undisguised +admiration for Mlle. Héloïse, and was looked +on as one of the vagaries of boyish passion; but +one day, while riding with M. de Bergerac, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +suddenly seized the bridle of Julien's horse, +wrenched it from his hand, and, turning his +own horse's head towards the cliffs, lashed the +terrified animals into a gallop straight towards +the brink. He was only thwarted in his mad +object by Julien, who with a quick blow sent +him headlong in the dry grass, and reined in +the terrified animals hardly a yard from the +cliffs. When this happened, and no word of explanation +was granted, only a sullen silence that +lasted for days, it became clear that poor Jean's +brain was wrong in some way. Héloïse devoted +herself to him with infinite patience,—though she +felt no special affection for him, only pity,—and +while he was with her he seemed sane and +quiet. But at night some strange mania took +possession of him. If he had worked on his +Prix de Rome picture in the daytime, while +Héloïse sat by him, reading aloud or singing a +little, no matter how good the work, it would +have vanished in the morning, and he would +again begin, only to erase his labor during +the night.</p> + +<p>At last his growing insanity reached its +climax; and one day in Notre Dame, when he +had painted better than usual, he suddenly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +stopped, seized a palette knife, and slashed the +great canvas in strips. Héloïse sprang forward +to stop him, and in crazy fury he turned on her, +striking at her throat with the palette knife. +The thin steel snapped, and the white throat +showed only a scarlet scratch. Héloïse, without +that ordinary terror that would crush most +women, grasped the thin wrists of the madman, +and, though he could easily have wrenched his +hands away, d'Yriex sank on his knees in a +passion of tears. He shut himself in his room +at Pontivy, refusing to see any one, walking for +hours up and down, fighting against growing +madness. Soon Dr. Charpentier came from +Paris, summoned by Mme. de Bergerac; and +after one short, forced interview, left at once +for Paris, taking M. d'Yriex with him.</p> + +<p>A few days later came a letter for Mme. de +Bergerac, in which Dr. Charpentier confessed +that Jean had disappeared, that he had allowed +him too much liberty, owing to his apparent +calmness, and that when the train stopped at +Le Mans he had slipped from him and utterly +vanished.</p> + +<p>During the summer, word came occasionally +that no trace had been found of the unhappy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> +man, and at last the Pontivy colony realized that +the merry boy was dead. Had he lived he +<i>must</i> have been found, for the exertions of the +police were perfect; yet not the slightest trace +was discovered, and his lamentable death was +acknowledged, not only by Mme. de Bergerac +and Jean's family,—sorrowing for the death +of their first-born, away in the warm hills of +Lozère,—but by Dr. Charpentier as well.</p> + +<p>So the summer passed, and the autumn came, +and at last the cold rains of November—the +skirmish line of the advancing army of winter—drove +the colony back to Paris.</p> + +<p>It was the last day at Pontivy, and Mlle. +Héloïse had come down to Notre Dame for a +last look at the beautiful shrine, a last prayer +for the repose of the tortured soul of poor Jean +d'Yriex. The rains had ceased for a time, and +a warm stillness lay over the cliffs and on the +creeping sea, swaying and lapping around the +ragged shore. Héloïse knelt very long before +the Altar of Our Lady of the Waters; and when +she finally rose, could not bring herself to leave +as yet that place of sorrowful beauty, all warm +and golden with the last light of the declining +sun. She watched the old verger, Pierre Polou,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> +stumping softly around the darkening building, +and spoke to him once, asking the hour; +but he was very deaf, as well as nearly blind, +and he did not answer.</p> + +<p>So she sat in the corner of the aisle by the +Altar of Our Lady of the Waters, watching the +checkered light fade in the advancing shadows, +dreaming sad day-dreams of the dead summer, +until the day-dreams merged in night-dreams, +and she fell asleep.</p> + +<p>Then the last light of the early sunset died +in the gleaming quarries of the west window; +Pierre Polou stumbled uncertainly through the +dusky shadow, locked the sagging doors of the +mouldering south porch, and took his way +among the leaning crosses up to the highway +and his little cottage, a good mile away,—the +nearest house to the lonely Church of Notre +Dame des Eaux.</p> + +<p>With the setting of the sun great clouds rose +swiftly from the sea; the wind freshened, and +the gaunt branches of the weather-worn trees +in the churchyard lashed themselves beseechingly +before the coming storm. The tide turned, +and the waters at the foot of the rocks swept +uneasily up the narrow beach and caught at the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +weary cliffs, their sobbing growing and deepening +to a threatening, solemn roar. Whirls of +dead leaves rose in the churchyard, and threw +themselves against the blank windows. The +winter and the night came down together.</p> + +<p>Héloïse awoke, bewildered and wondering; +in a moment she realized the situation, and without +fear or uneasiness. There was nothing to +dread in Notre Dame by night; the ghosts, if +there were ghosts, would not trouble her, and +the doors were securely locked. It was foolish +of her to fall asleep, and her mother would be +most uneasy at Pontivy if she realized before +dawn that Héloïse had not returned. On the +other hand, she was in the habit of wandering +off to walk after dinner, often not coming home +until late, so it was quite possible that she +might return before Madame knew of her +absence, for Polou came always to unlock the +church for the low mass at six o'clock; so she +arose from her cramped position in the aisle, +and walked slowly up to the choir-rail, entered +the chancel, and felt her way to one of the +stalls, on the south side, where there were +cushions and an easy back.</p> + +<p>It was really very beautiful in Notre Dame<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +by night; she had never suspected how strange +and solemn the little church could be when the +moon shone fitfully through the south windows, +now bright and clear, now blotted out by sweeping +clouds. The nave was barred with the long +shadows of the heavy pillars, and when the +moon came out she could see far down almost +to the west end. How still it was! Only a +soft low murmur without of the restless limbs +of the trees, and of the creeping sea.</p> + +<p>It was very soothing, almost like a song; and +Héloïse felt sleep coming back to her as the +clouds shut out the moon, and all the church +grew black.</p> + +<p>She was drifting off into the last delicious +moment of vanishing consciousness, when she +suddenly came fully awake, with a shock that +made every nerve tingle. In the midst of the +far faint sounds of the tempestuous night she +had heard a footstep! Yet the church was +utterly empty, she was sure. And again! A +footstep dragging and uncertain, stealthy and +cautious, but an unmistakable step, away in +the blackest shadow at the end of the church.</p> + +<p>She sat up, frozen with the fear that comes +at night and that is overwhelming, her hands<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +clutching the coarse carving of the arms of the +stall, staring down into the dark.</p> + +<p>Again the footstep, and again,—slow, measured, +one after another at intervals of perhaps +half a minute, growing a little louder each time, +a little nearer.</p> + +<p>Would the darkness never be broken? +Would the cloud never pass? Minute after +minute went like weary hours, and still the +moon was hid, still the dead branches rattled +clatteringly on the high windows. Unconsciously +she moved, as under a magician's spell, +down to the choir-rail, straining her eyes to +pierce the thick night. And the step, it was +very near! Ah, the moon at last! A white ray +fell through the westernmost window, painting +a bar of light on the floor of sagging stone. +Then a second bar, then a third, and a fourth, +and for a moment Héloïse could have cried out +with relief, for nothing broke the lines of light,—no +figure, no shadow. In another moment came +a step, and from the shadow of the last column +appeared in the pallid moonlight the figure of a +man. The girl stared breathless, the moonlight +falling on her as she stood rigid against +the low parapet. Another step and another,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +and she saw before her—was it ghost or living +man?—a white mad face staring from matted +hair and beard, a tall thin figure half clothed in +rags, limping as it stepped towards her with +wounded feet. From the dead face stared mad +eyes that gleamed like the eyes of a cat, fixed +on hers with insane persistence, holding her, +fascinating her as a cat fascinates a bird.</p> + +<p>One more step,—it was close before her now! +those awful, luminous eyes dilating and contracting +in awful palpitations. And the moon was +going out; the shadows swept one by one over the +windows; she stared at the moonlit face for a last +fascinated glance—Mother of God! it was—— The +shadow swept over them, and now only remained +the blazing eyes and the dim outline of +a form that crouched waveringly before her as +a cat crouches, drawing its vibrating body together +for the spring that blots out the life of +the victim.</p> + +<p>In another instant the mad thing would leap; +but just as the quiver swept over the crouching +body, Héloïse gathered all her strength into one +action of desperate terror.</p> + +<p>"Jean, stop!"</p> + +<p>The thing crouched before her paused, chattering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +softly to itself; then it articulated dryly, +and with all the trouble of a learning child, +the one word, "<i>Chantez!</i>"</p> + +<p>Without a thought, Héloïse sang; it was the +first thing that she remembered, an old Provençal +song that d'Yriex had always loved. While +she sang, the poor mad creature lay huddled at +her feet, separated from her only by the choir +parapet, its dilating, contracting eyes never moving +for an instant. As the song died away, came +again that awful tremor, indicative of the coming +death-spring, and again she sang,—this time +the old <i>Pange lingua</i>, its sonorous Latin sounding +in the deserted church like the voice of dead +centuries.</p> + +<p>And so she sang, on and on, hour after hour,—hymns +and <i>chansons</i>, folk-songs and bits from +comic operas, songs of the boulevards alternating +with the <i>Tantum ergo</i> and the <i>O Filii et +Filiæ</i>. It mattered little what she sang. At +last it seemed to her that it mattered little +whether she sang or no; for her brain whirled +round and round like a dizzy maelstrom, her +icy hands, griping the hard rail, alone supported +her dying body. She could hear no sound of her +song; her body was numb, her mouth parched,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +her lips cracked and bleeding; she felt the drops +of blood fall from her chin. And still she sang, +with the yellow palpitating eyes holding her as +in a vice. If only she could continue until dawn! +It must be dawn so soon! The windows were +growing gray, the rain lashed outside, she +could distinguish the features of the horror +before her; but the night of death was growing +with the coming day, blackness swept down +upon her; she could sing no more, her tortured +lips made one last effort to form the +words, "Mother of God, save me!" and night +and death came down like a crushing wave.</p> + +<p>But her prayer was heard; the dawn had +come, and Polou unlocked the porch-door for +Father Augustin just in time to hear the last +agonized cry. The maniac turned in the very +act of leaping on his victim, and sprang for +the two men, who stopped in dumb amazement. +Poor old Pierre Polou went down at a +blow; but Father Augustin was young and +fearless, and he grappled the mad animal with all +his strength and will. It would have gone ill +even with him,—for no one can stand against +the bestial fury of a man in whom reason is +dead,—had not some sudden impulse seized the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> +maniac, who pitched the priest aside with a +single movement, and, leaping through the door, +vanished forever.</p> + +<p>Did he hurl himself from the cliffs in the +cold wet morning, or was he doomed to wander, +a wild beast, until, captured, he beat himself +in vain against the walls of some asylum, an unknown +pauper lunatic? None ever knew.</p> + +<p>The colony at Pontivy was blotted out by +the dreary tragedy, and Notre Dame des Eaux +sank once more into silence and solitude. Once +a year Father Augustin said mass for the repose +of the soul of Jean d'Yriex; but no other memory +remained of the horror that blighted the lives of +an innocent girl and of a gray-haired mother +mourning for her dead boy in far Lozère.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE DEAD VALLEY.</h2> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p> +<h2><big>The Dead Valley.</big></h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> a friend, Olof Ehrensvärd, a Swede by +birth, who yet, by reason of a strange and melancholy +mischance of his early boyhood, has thrown +his lot with that of the New World. It is a +curious story of a headstrong boy and a proud +and relentless family: the details do not matter +here, but they are sufficient to weave a web of +romance around the tall yellow-bearded man +with the sad eyes and the voice that gives itself +perfectly to plaintive little Swedish songs remembered +out of childhood. In the winter evenings +we play chess together, he and I, and after some +close, fierce battle has been fought to a finish—usually +with my own defeat—we fill our pipes +again, and Ehrensvärd tells me stories of the +far, half-remembered days in the fatherland, +before he went to sea: stories that grow very +strange and incredible as the night deepens and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +the fire falls together, but stories that, nevertheless, +I fully believe.</p> + +<p>One of them made a strong impression on me, +so I set it down here, only regretting that I cannot +reproduce the curiously perfect English and +the delicate accent which to me increased the +fascination of the tale. Yet, as best I can remember +it, here it is.</p> + +<p>"I never told you how Nils and I went over +the hills to Hallsberg, and how we found the +Dead Valley, did I? Well, this is the way it +happened. I must have been about twelve +years old, and Nils Sjöberg, whose father's estate +joined ours, was a few months younger. +We were inseparable just at that time, and +whatever we did, we did together.</p> + +<p>"Once a week it was market day in Engelholm, +and Nils and I went always there to see +the strange sights that the market gathered +from all the surrounding country. One day we +quite lost our hearts, for an old man from across +the Elfborg had brought a little dog to sell, +that seemed to us the most beautiful dog in all +the world. He was a round, woolly puppy, so +funny that Nils and I sat down on the ground +and laughed at him, until he came and played<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +with us in so jolly a way that we felt that there +was only one really desirable thing in life, and +that was the little dog of the old man from +across the hills. But alas! we had not half +money enough wherewith to buy him, so we +were forced to beg the old man not to sell him +before the next market day, promising that we +would bring the money for him then. He gave +us his word, and we ran home very fast and implored +our mothers to give us money for the +little dog.</p> + +<p>"We got the money, but we could not wait +for the next market day. Suppose the puppy +should be sold! The thought frightened us so +that we begged and implored that we might be +allowed to go over the hills to Hallsberg where +the old man lived, and get the little dog ourselves, +and at last they told us we might go. +By starting early in the morning we should +reach Hallsberg by three o'clock, and it was +arranged that we should stay there that night +with Nils's aunt, and, leaving by noon the next +day, be home again by sunset.</p> + +<p>"Soon after sunrise we were on our way, after +having received minute instructions as to just +what we should do in all possible and impossible<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +circumstances, and finally a repeated injunction +that we should start for home at the same hour +the next day, so that we might get safely back +before nightfall.</p> + +<p>"For us, it was magnificent sport, and we +started off with our rifles, full of the sense of +our very great importance: yet the journey was +simple enough, along a good road, across the +big hills we knew so well, for Nils and I had +shot over half the territory this side of the dividing +ridge of the Elfborg. Back of Engelholm +lay a long valley, from which rose the low +mountains, and we had to cross this, and then +follow the road along the side of the hills for +three or four miles, before a narrow path +branched off to the left, leading up through +the pass.</p> + +<p>"Nothing occurred of interest on the way +over, and we reached Hallsberg in due season, +found to our inexpressible joy that the little dog +was not sold, secured him, and so went to the +house of Nils's aunt to spend the night.</p> + +<p>"Why we did not leave early on the following +day, I can't quite remember; at all events, I +know we stopped at a shooting range just outside +of the town, where most attractive pasteboard<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +pigs were sliding slowly through painted +foliage, serving so as beautiful marks. The +result was that we did not get fairly started for +home until afternoon, and as we found ourselves +at last pushing up the side of the mountain +with the sun dangerously near their summits, I +think we were a little scared at the prospect of +the examination and possible punishment that +awaited us when we got home at midnight.</p> + +<p>"Therefore we hurried as fast as possible up +the mountain side, while the blue dusk closed in +about us, and the light died in the purple sky. +At first we had talked hilariously, and the little +dog had leaped ahead of us with the utmost +joy. Latterly, however, a curious oppression +came on us; we did not speak or even whistle, +while the dog fell behind, following us with hesitation +in every muscle.</p> + +<p>"We had passed through the foothills and +the low spurs of the mountains, and were almost +at the top of the main range, when life +seemed to go out of everything, leaving the +world dead, so suddenly silent the forest became, +so stagnant the air. Instinctively we halted to +listen.</p> + +<p>"Perfect silence,—the crushing silence of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +deep forests at night; and more, for always, +even in the most impenetrable fastnesses of the +wooded mountains, is the multitudinous murmur +of little lives, awakened by the darkness, exaggerated +and intensified by the stillness of the +air and the great dark: but here and now the +silence seemed unbroken even by the turn of a +leaf, the movement of a twig, the note of night +bird or insect. I could hear the blood beat +through my veins; and the crushing of the +grass under our feet as we advanced with hesitating +steps sounded like the falling of trees.</p> + +<p>"And the air was stagnant,—dead. The +atmosphere seemed to lie upon the body like +the weight of sea on a diver who has ventured +too far into its awful depths. What we usually +call silence seems so only in relation to the din of +ordinary experience. This was silence in the +absolute, and it crushed the mind while it +intensified the senses, bringing down the awful +weight of inextinguishable fear.</p> + +<p>"I know that Nils and I stared towards each +other in abject terror, listening to our quick, +heavy breathing, that sounded to our acute +senses like the fitful rush of waters. And the +poor little dog we were leading justified our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +terror. The black oppression seemed to crush +him even as it did us. He lay close on the +ground, moaning feebly, and dragging himself +painfully and slowly closer to Nils's feet. I +think this exhibition of utter animal fear was +the last touch, and must inevitably have blasted +our reason—mine anyway; but just then, as we +stood quaking on the bounds of madness, came +a sound, so awful, so ghastly, so horrible, that +it seemed to rouse us from the dead spell that +was on us.</p> + +<p>"In the depth of the silence came a cry, +beginning as a low, sorrowful moan, rising to a +tremulous shriek, culminating in a yell that +seemed to tear the night in sunder and rend the +world as by a cataclysm. So fearful was it +that I could not believe it had actual existence: +it passed previous experience, the powers of +belief, and for a moment I thought it the result +of my own animal terror, an hallucination born +of tottering reason.</p> + +<p>"A glance at Nils dispelled this thought in a +flash. In the pale light of the high stars he +was the embodiment of all possible human fear, +quaking with an ague, his jaw fallen, his tongue +out, his eyes protruding like those of a hanged<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +man. Without a word we fled, the panic of +fear giving us strength, and together, the little +dog caught close in Nils's arms, we sped down +the side of the cursed mountains,—anywhere, +goal was of no account: we had but one impulse—to +get away from that place.</p> + +<p>"So under the black trees and the far white +stars that flashed through the still leaves overhead, +we leaped down the mountain side, regardless +of path or landmark, straight through +the tangled underbrush, across mountain +streams, through fens and copses, anywhere, +so only that our course was downward.</p> + +<p>"How long we ran thus, I have no idea, +but by and by the forest fell behind, and we +found ourselves among the foothills, and fell +exhausted on the dry short grass, panting like +tired dogs.</p> + +<p>"It was lighter here in the open, and presently +we looked around to see where we were, and +how we were to strike out in order to find the +path that would lead us home. We looked +in vain for a familiar sign. Behind us rose the +great wall of black forest on the flank of the +mountain: before us lay the undulating mounds +of low foothills, unbroken by trees or rocks,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +and beyond, only the fall of black sky bright +with multitudinous stars that turned its velvet +depth to a luminous gray.</p> + +<p>"As I remember, we did not speak to each +other once: the terror was too heavy on us for +that, but by and by we rose simultaneously and +started out across the hills.</p> + +<p>"Still the same silence, the same dead, +motionless air—air that was at once sultry +and chilling: a heavy heat struck through with +an icy chill that felt almost like the burning +of frozen steel. Still carrying the helpless +dog, Nils pressed on through the hills, and I +followed close behind. At last, in front of us, +rose a slope of moor touching the white stars. +We climbed it wearily, reached the top, and +found ourselves gazing down into a great, +smooth valley, filled half way to the brim with—what?</p> + +<p>"As far as the eye could see stretched a level +plain of ashy white, faintly phosphorescent, a +sea of velvet fog that lay like motionless water, +or rather like a floor of alabaster, so dense did +it appear, so seemingly capable of sustaining +weight. If it were possible, I think that sea of +dead white mist struck even greater terror into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +my soul than the heavy silence or the deadly +cry—so ominous was it, so utterly unreal, so +phantasmal, so impossible, as it lay there like a +dead ocean under the steady stars. Yet through +that mist <i>we must go</i>! there seemed no other +way home, and, shattered with abject fear, mad +with the one desire to get back, we started +down the slope to where the sea of milky mist +ceased, sharp and distinct around the stems of +the rough grass.</p> + +<p>"I put one foot into the ghostly fog. A chill +as of death struck through me, stopping my +heart, and I threw myself backward on the +slope. At that instant came again the shriek, +close, close, right in our ears, in ourselves, and +far out across that damnable sea I saw the cold +fog lift like a water-spout and toss itself high in +writhing convolutions towards the sky. The +stars began to grow dim as thick vapor swept +across them, and in the growing dark I saw a +great, watery moon lift itself slowly above the +palpitating sea, vast and vague in the gathering +mist.</p> + +<p>"This was enough: we turned and fled along +the margin of the white sea that throbbed now +with fitful motion below us, rising, rising, slowly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +and steadily, driving us higher and higher up +the side of the foothills.</p> + +<p>"It was a race for life; that we knew. How +we kept it up I cannot understand, but we did, +and at last we saw the white sea fall behind us +as we staggered up the end of the valley, and +then down into a region that we knew, and so +into the old path. The last thing I remember +was hearing a strange voice, that of Nils, but +horribly changed, stammer brokenly, 'The dog +is dead!' and then the whole world turned +around twice, slowly and resistlessly, and consciousness +went out with a crash.</p> + +<p>"It was some three weeks later, as I remember, +that I awoke in my own room, and found +my mother sitting beside the bed. I could not +think very well at first, but as I slowly grew +strong again, vague flashes of recollection began +to come to me, and little by little the whole sequence +of events of that awful night in the +Dead Valley came back. All that I could gain +from what was told me was that three weeks +before I had been found in my own bed, raging +sick, and that my illness grew fast into brain +fever. I tried to speak of the dread things that +had happened to me, but I saw at once that no<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +one looked on them save as the hauntings of a +dying frenzy, and so I closed my mouth and +kept my own counsel.</p> + +<p>"I must see Nils, however, and so I asked +for him. My mother told me that he also had +been ill with a strange fever, but that he was +now quite well again. Presently they brought +him in, and when we were alone I began to +speak to him of the night on the mountain. I +shall never forget the shock that struck me +down on my pillow when the boy denied everything: +denied having gone with me, ever having +heard the cry, having seen the valley, or +feeling the deadly chill of the ghostly fog. +Nothing would shake his determined ignorance, +and in spite of myself I was forced to admit +that his denials came from no policy of concealment, +but from blank oblivion.</p> + +<p>"My weakened brain was in a turmoil. Was +it all but the floating phantasm of delirium? Or +had the horror of the real thing blotted Nils's +mind into blankness so far as the events of the +night in the Dead Valley were concerned? The +latter explanation seemed the only one, else how +explain the sudden illness which in a night had +struck us both down? I said nothing more,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +either to Nils or to my own people, but waited, +with a growing determination that, once well +again, I would find that valley if it really +existed.</p> + +<p>"It was some weeks before I was really well +enough to go, but finally, late in September, I +chose a bright, warm, still day, the last smile of +the dying summer, and started early in the morning +along the path that led to Hallsberg. I was +sure I knew where the trail struck off to the +right, down which we had come from the valley +of dead water, for a great tree grew by the +Hallsberg path at the point where, with a sense +of salvation, we had found the home road. +Presently I saw it to the right, a little distance +ahead.</p> + +<p>"I think the bright sunlight and the clear air +had worked as a tonic to me, for by the time I +came to the foot of the great pine, I had quite +lost faith in the verity of the vision that haunted +me, believing at last that it was indeed but the +nightmare of madness. Nevertheless, I turned +sharply to the right, at the base of the tree, into +a narrow path that led through a dense thicket. +As I did so I tripped over something. A swarm +of flies sung into the air around me, and looking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +down I saw the matted fleece, with the poor +little bones thrusting through, of the dog we +had bought in Hallsberg.</p> + +<p>"Then my courage went out with a puff, and +I knew that it all was true, and that now I was +frightened. Pride and the desire for adventure +urged me on, however, and I pressed into the +close thicket that barred my way. The path +was hardly visible: merely the worn road of +some small beasts, for, though it showed in the +crisp grass, the bushes above grew thick and +hardly penetrable. The land rose slowly, and +rising grew clearer, until at last I came out on a +great slope of hill, unbroken by trees or shrubs, +very like my memory of that rise of land we had +topped in order that we might find the dead valley +and the icy fog. I looked at the sun; it was +bright and clear, and all around insects were +humming in the autumn air, and birds were +darting to and fro. Surely there was no danger, +not until nightfall at least; so I began to whistle, +and with a rush mounted the last crest of brown +hill.</p> + +<p>"There lay the Dead Valley! A great oval +basin, almost as smooth and regular as though +made by man. On all sides the grass crept over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +the brink of the encircling hills, dusty green on +the crests, then fading into ashy brown, and so +to a deadly white, this last color forming a thin +ring, running in a long line around the slope. +And then? Nothing. Bare, brown, hard earth, +glittering with grains of alkali, but otherwise +dead and barren. Not a tuft of grass, not a +stick of brushwood, not even a stone, but only +the vast expanse of beaten clay.</p> + +<p>"In the midst of the basin, perhaps a mile +and a half away, the level expanse was broken +by a great dead tree, rising leafless and gaunt +into the air. Without a moment's hesitation I +started down into the valley and made for this +goal. Every particle of fear seemed to have +left me, and even the valley itself did not look +so very terrifying. At all events, I was driven +by an overwhelming curiosity, and there seemed +to be but one thing in the world to do,—to get +to that Tree! As I trudged along over the +hard earth, I noticed that the multitudinous +voices of birds and insects had died away. No +bee or butterfly hovered through the air, no +insects leaped or crept over the dull earth. The +very air itself was stagnant.</p> + +<p>"As I drew near the skeleton tree, I noticed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +the glint of sunlight on a kind of white mound +around its roots, and I wondered curiously. It +was not until I had come close that I saw its +nature.</p> + +<p>"All around the roots and barkless trunk +was heaped a wilderness of little bones. Tiny +skulls of rodents and of birds, thousands of +them, rising about the dead tree and streaming +off for several yards in all directions, until the +dreadful pile ended in isolated skulls and scattered +skeletons. Here and there a larger bone +appeared,—the thigh of a sheep, the hoofs of +a horse, and to one side, grinning slowly, a +human skull.</p> + +<p>"I stood quite still, staring with all my eyes, +when suddenly the dense silence was broken by +a faint, forlorn cry high over my head. I looked +up and saw a great falcon turning and sailing +downward just over the tree. In a moment more +she fell motionless on the bleaching bones.</p> + +<p>"Horror struck me, and I rushed for home, +my brain whirling, a strange numbness growing +in me. I ran steadily, on and on. At last I +glanced up. Where was the rise of hill? I +looked around wildly. Close before me was the +dead tree with its pile of bones. I had circled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +it round and round, and the valley wall was still +a mile and a half away.</p> + +<p>"I stood dazed and frozen. The sun was +sinking, red and dull, towards the line of hills. +In the east the dark was growing fast. Was +there still time? <i>Time!</i> It was not <i>that</i> I +wanted, it was <i>will</i>! My feet seemed clogged +as in a nightmare. I could hardly drag them +over the barren earth. And then I felt the slow +chill creeping through me. I looked down. +Out of the earth a thin mist was rising, collecting +in little pools that grew ever larger until +they joined here and there, their currents swirling +slowly like thin blue smoke. The western +hills halved the copper sun. When it was dark +I should hear that shriek again, and then I should +die. I knew that, and with every remaining +atom of will I staggered towards the red west +through the writhing mist that crept clammily +around my ankles, retarding my steps.</p> + +<p>"And as I fought my way off from the Tree, +the horror grew, until at last I thought I was +going to die. The silence pursued me like dumb +ghosts, the still air held my breath, the hellish +fog caught at my feet like cold hands.</p> + +<p>"But I won! though not a moment too soon.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +As I crawled on my hands and knees up the +brown slope, I heard, far away and high in the +air, the cry that already had almost bereft me +of reason. It was faint and vague, but unmistakable +in its horrible intensity. I glanced behind. +The fog was dense and pallid, heaving +undulously up the brown slope. The sky was +gold under the setting sun, but below was the +ashy gray of death. I stood for a moment on +the brink of this sea of hell, and then leaped +down the slope. The sunset opened before +me, the night closed behind, and as I crawled +home weak and tired, darkness shut down on +the Dead Valley."</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> +<h2>POSTSCRIPT.</h2> + +<p>There seem to be certain well-defined roots +existing in all countries, from which spring +the current legends of the supernatural; and +therefore for the germs of the stories in this +book the Author claims no originality. These +legends differ one from the other only in local +color and in individual treatment. If the Author +has succeeded in clothing one or two of these +norms in some slightly new vesture, he is more +than content.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Boston</span>, <i>July 3, 1895</i>.</p> + +<div class="p1">THE END.</div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk2"><p><small>THE PRINTING WAS DONE AT +THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, +FOR STONE & KIMBALL, PUBLISHERS.</small></p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h2><big>Concerning the Books</big><br /> +<small><i>of</i></small><br /> +<big><i>Stone & Kimball</i></big></h2> + +<div class="center"><i><big>1895-1896</big></i></div> + +<div class="figc3"> +<img src="images/003.png" width="200" height="123" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="center"><i>CHICAGO & LONDON</i></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="hd2"><i>Cable Address:</i><br /> +"ESSANKAY, CHICAGO"<br /> +"EDITORSHIP, LONDON"</div> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE PUBLICATIONS<br /> +<span class="sp1">OF</span><br /> +<big>STONE & KIMBALL.</big></h2> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="p2">ADAMS, FRANCIS.</p> + +<p class="p3">Essays in Modernity. Crown 8vo. $1.25, +net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Shortly.</i></p> + +<p class="p2">ALLEN, GRANT.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Lower Slopes.</span> Reminiscences of +Excursions round the Base of Helicon, undertaken +for the most part in early manhood. With +a titlepage by J. Illingworth Kay. Printed by +T. & A. Constable, Edinburgh. Crown 8vo. +80 pp. $1.50, net.</p> + +<p class="p2">ARCHER, WILLIAM.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY">Green Tree Library, Vol. III.</a></p> + +<p class="p2">BELL, LILIAN.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">A Little Sister to the Wilderness.</span> By +the author of "The Love Affairs of an Old +Maid." With a cover designed by Bruce Rogers. +16mo. 267 pp. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Fourth thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p2">BROWNE, E. S.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#ENGLISH_CLASSICS">English Classics. Hajji Baba.</a></p> + +<p class="p2">BURGESS, GILBERT.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Love Letters of Mr. H. and Miss +R.</span> 1775-1779. Edited, with an introduction +by Gilbert Burgess. Small crown 8vo. 240 pp. +$1.50.</p> + +<p class="p2">CARMAN, BLISS.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span></p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Low Tide on Grand Pré.</span> Revised and +enlarged. With a titlepage designed by Martin +Mower. 18mo. Gilt top, deckled edges. +132 pp. $1.00, net.</p> + +<p class="p3">Also fifty copies on old English handmade +paper, each signed by the author. Square 8vo. +$3.50, net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Very few remain.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="CARNATION_SERIES" id="CARNATION_SERIES"></a>CARNATION SERIES.</p> + +<p class="p3">Bound in cloth, with carnation design on the +covers. 18mo. Rough edges. $1.00 a +volume.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. I. <span class="smcap">The Gypsy Christ and Other +Tales.</span> By William Sharp.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. II. <span class="smcap">The Sister of a Saint and +Other Stories.</span> By Grace Ellery Channing.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. III. <span class="smcap">Black Spirits and White.</span> +A book of ghost stories. By Ralph Adams +Cram.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. IV. <span class="smcap">The Sin Eater and Other +Stories.</span> By Fiona Macleod.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. V. <span class="smcap">The Gods Give My Donkey +Wings.</span> By Angus Evan Abbott.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Other volumes to follow.</i></p> + +<p class="p2">CHANNING, GRACE ELLERY.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Sister of a Saint and Other Stories.</span> +See <a href="#CARNATION_SERIES">Carnation Series</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">CHATFIELD-TAYLOR, H. C.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Two Women and a Fool.</span> With eight +pictures by C. D. Gibson. 232 pp. $1.50.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Seventh thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="CONGREVE" id="CONGREVE"></a>CONGREVE, WILLIAM.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Comedies of William Congreve.</span> +See <a href="#ENGLISH_CLASSICS">English Classics</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">CRAM, RALPH ADAMS.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Black Spirits and White.</span> A book of +ghost stories. See <a href="#CARNATION_SERIES">Carnation Series</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">DAVIDSON, JOHN.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Plays.</span> An Unhistorical Pastoral; a Romantic +Farce; Bruce, a Chronicle Play; Smith, +a Tragic Farce; Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime. +With a frontispiece and cover design +by Aubrey Beardsley. Printed at the Ballantyne +Press, London. Small 4to. 294 pp. $2.00, net.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">DeKOVEN</span>, MRS. REGINALD.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">A Sawdust Doll.</span> With cover and titlepage +designed by Frank Hazenplug. Printed +at the Lakeside Press. 16mo. 237 pp. +$1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Fifth thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p2">FIELD, EUGENE.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Holy Cross and Other Tales.</span> +With cover, titlepage, and initial-letter pieces +designed by Louis J. Rhead. Printed at the +University Press, on English laid paper. 18mo. +Gilt top, deckled edges. 191 pp. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Third thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p3">Also 110 copies, 100 for sale, on Holland +paper, with special dedications of the various +tales. 8vo. $5.00, net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Very few remain.</i></p> + +<p class="p2">GALE, NORMAN.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">A Country Muse.</span> First Series, revised +and enlarged. Printed by T. & A. Constable, +Edinburgh. Crown, 8vo. 145 pp. $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span><span class="smcap">A June Romance.</span> With a titlepage and +tailpiece designed by Basil Johnson. Printed +on antique paper at the Rugby Press. 107 pp. +Price, $1.00.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Third thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="ENGLISH_CLASSICS" id="ENGLISH_CLASSICS"></a>ENGLISH CLASSICS.</p> + +<p class="p3">Edited by William Ernest Henley. The +ordinary "cheap edition" appears to have +served its purpose; the public has found out +the artist-printers, and is now ready for something +better fashioned. This, then, is the +moment for the issue of such a series as, while +well within the reach of the average buyer, shall +be at once an ornament to the shelf of him that +owns, and a delight to the eye of him that reads.</p> + +<p class="p3">The series will confine itself to no single +period or department of literature. Poetry, +fiction, drama, biography, autobiography, letters, +essays,—in all these fields is the material +of many goodly volumes.</p> + +<p class="p3">The books are printed by Messrs. Constable, +of Edinburgh, on laid paper, with deckle edges, +and bound in crushed buckram, crown 8vo, at +$1.25 a volume, net.</p> + +<p class="p3"><big>THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF +TRISTRAM SHANDY.</big></p> + +<p class="p3">By Laurence Sterne. With an introduction +by Charles Whibley, and a portrait. 2 vols.</p> + +<p class="p3"><big>THE COMEDIES OF WILLIAM +CONGREVE.</big></p> + +<p class="p3">With an introduction by G. S. Street, and a +portrait. 2 vols.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span><big>THE ADVENTURES OF HAJJI BABA +OF ISPAHAN.</big></p> + +<p class="p3">By James Morier. With an introduction by +E. S. Browne, M. A., and a portrait. 2 vols.</p> + +<p class="p3"><big>ENGLISH SEAMEN.</big></p> + +<p class="p3">By Robert Southey. 1 vol.</p> + +<p class="p3"><big>LIVES OF DONNE, WOTTON, +HOOKER, HERBERT, AND SANDERSON.</big></p> + +<p class="p3">By Izaak Walton. With an introduction by +Vernon Blackburn, and a portrait. 1 vol.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Others to follow.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="GARLAND" id="GARLAND"></a>GARLAND, HAMLIN.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Prairie Songs.</span> Verses. With cover, head +and initial letter pieces designed by H. T. Carpenter. +Printed at the University Press on +specially made paper. 16mo. Buckram, gilt +top, edges uncut. 164 pp. $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p3">Also 110 numbered copies, 100 for sale, on +large paper, each signed by the author. 8vo. +$5.00, net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Very few remain.</i></p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Main-Travelled Roads.</span> Six stories of +the Mississippi Valley. A revised edition, with +an introduction by W. D. Howells, and frontispiece, +headpieces, and cover design by H. T. +Carpenter. Printed at the University Press on +specially made paper. 16mo. Buckram, gilt +top and uncut edges. 251 pp. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Twelfth thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p3"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span>Also 110 copies, 100 for sale, on large paper. +8vo. $5.00, net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Very few remain.</i></p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Crumbling Idols.</span> Twelve essays on Art, +dealing chiefly with Literature, Painting, and +the Drama. Printed at the University Press. +16mo. 192 pp. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p2">GOSSE, EDMUND.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">In Russet and Silver.</span> Printed at the +University Press on English laid paper. Cover +designed by Will H. Bradley. 16mo. 158 pp. +$1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Second edition.</i></p> + +<p class="p3">Also 75 copies on large paper, numbered +from 1 to 10 (Japanese vellum), at $6.00, and +11 to 75 (English handmade), at $3.50, net.</p> + +<p class="p2">GRAHAME, KENNETH.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Golden Age.</span> 16mo. Crushed buckram. +241 pp. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Third thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY" id="GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY"></a>GREEN TREE LIBRARY.</p> + +<p class="p3">A series of books representing what may +broadly be called the new movement in literature. +The intention is to publish uniformly +the best of the decadent writings of various +countries, done into English and consistently +brought together for the first time. The +volumes are all copyright, and are issued in a +uniform binding—The Green Tree—designed +by Henry McCarter.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. I. <span class="smcap">Vistas.</span> By William Sharp. 16mo. +183 pp. $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. II. <span class="smcap">The Plays of Maurice Maeterlinck.</span> +Princess Maleine; The Blind; The +Intruder; The Seven Princesses. Translated<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span> +by Richard Hovey. With an introductory +essay on Symbolism. 16mo. 369 pp. $1.25, +net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Second edition.</i></p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. III. <span class="smcap">Little Eyolf.</span> A play by Henrik +Ibsen. Translated by William Archer. +16mo. 164 pp. $1.50 net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Second edition.</i></p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. IV. <span class="smcap">Poems of Paul Verlaine.</span> +Translated by Gertrude Hall. With pictures +by Henry McCarter. 16mo. 110 pp. $1.50, +net.</p> + +<p class="p3">Also 100 numbered copies on Imperial +Japanese vellum, with artist's proofs of all the +pictures. Small 4to. Nos. 1 to 15, containing +an extra set of proofs on India paper, mounted, +$15.00, net. Nos. 16 to 100, $10.00, net.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. V. <span class="smcap">The Massacre of the Innocents +and Other Tales.</span> By Maeterlinck, +Eekhoudt, Van Lerbergh, and the leaders of +the Belgian Renaissance. Translated by Edith +Wingate Rinder. 16mo. $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. VI. <span class="smcap">Pharais.</span> A Celtic Romance. +By Fiona Macleod. 16mo. $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p3">Vol. VII. <span class="smcap">The Plays of Maurice Maeterlinck.</span> +Second series. Pelléas and Mélisande, +and Three Plays for Marionettes.</p> + +<p class="p3">Translated by Richard Hovey. With an +introduction by Maeterlinck. 16mo.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>In preparation.</i><br /> +<i>Other volumes to follow.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="HAKE" id="HAKE"></a>HAKE, THOMAS GORDON.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Selections from the Poems of Thomas +Gordon Hake.</span> Edited, with an introduction, +by Mrs. Meynell (Alice C. Thompson). With<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span> +a portrait after a drawing by Dante Gabriel +Rossetti. Printed by T. & A. Constable, Edinburgh. +Crown 8vo. 155 pp. $1.50, net.</p> + +<p class="p2">HALE, EDWARD EVERETT.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#TAYLOR">Taylor</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">HALL, GERTRUDE.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY">Green Tree Library, Vol. IV.</a></p> + +<p class="p2">HALL, TOM.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">When Hearts are Trumps.</span> Verses. +With decorations by Will H. Bradley. 16mo. +$1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Third thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p2">HEAD, FRANKLIN H.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#SWING">Swing</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">HOVEY, RICHARD.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Marriage of Guenevere.</span> With a +cover designed by T. B. Meteyard. 18mo. +$1.50.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY">Green Tree Library, Vols. II. and VII.</a></p> + +<p class="p2">HOWELLS, W. D.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#GARLAND">Garland</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">IBSEN, HENRIK.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Little Eyolf.</span> See <a href="#GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY">Green Tree Library, +Vol. III.</a></p> + +<p class="p2">MACKAY, ERIC.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">A Song of the Sea, My Lady of Dreams, +and Other Poems.</span> By the author of "The +Love Letters of a Violinist." 16mo. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p2">MAETERLINCK, MAURICE.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Plays of Maurice Maeterlinck.</span></p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY">Green Tree Library, Vols. II. and VII.</a></p> + +<p class="p2"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span><span class="smcap">McCULLOCH</span>, HUGH, JR.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Quest of Heracles and Other +Poems.</span> Titlepage designed by Pierre la +Rose. Printed at the De Vinne Press on Van +Gelder handmade paper. 16mo. 95 pp. +Cloth, $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p2">MEEKINS, LYNN R.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Robb's Island Wreck and Other +Stories.</span> Printed at the University Press, +16mo. 192 pp. $1.00.</p> + +<p class="p2">MEYNELL, MRS.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#HAKE">Hake</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">MILLER, JOAQUIN.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Building of the City Beautiful.</span> +A poetic romance. Printed at the University +Press on American laid paper. 18mo. Gilt +top, deckled edges. 196 pp. $1.50.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Third edition.</i></p> + +<p class="p3">Also 50 copies on large paper. $3.50, net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Very few remain.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="MOULTON" id="MOULTON"></a>MOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Arthur O'Shaughnessy.</span> His Life and +His Work, with selections from his poems. +With a portrait from a drawing by August F. +Jaccaci. Printed at the De Vinne Press on +English laid paper. 450 copies. 18mo. 120 +pp. Price, $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p3">Also, 60 numbered copies on Holland handmade +paper (only 50 being for sale), at $3.50.</p> + +<p class="p2">MORIER, JAMES.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Adventures of Hajji Baba of Ispahan.</span> +See <a href="#ENGLISH_CLASSICS">English Classics</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span>OSBOURNE, LLOYD.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#STEVENSON">Stevenson</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#MOULTON">Moulton</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">PARKER, GILBERT.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">A Lover's Diary.</span> Songs in Sequence. +With a frontispiece by Will H. Low. Printed +at the University Press on antique paper. 18mo. +147 pp. $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Second edition.</i></p> + +<p class="p3">Also 50 copies on Dickinson handmade +paper. $3.50 (all sold).</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Pierre and His People.</span> Tales of the Far +North. Printed at the University Press on laid +paper. 18mo. 318 pp. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Third edition.</i></p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">When Valmond Came to Pontiac.</span> The +Story of a Lost Napoleon. With a cover +designed by Bruce Rogers. 16mo. 222 pp. +$1.50.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Fifth thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="POE" id="POE"></a>POE, EDGAR ALLAN.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Complete Works of Edgar Allan +Poe.</span> Newly collected, edited, and for the +first time revised after the author's final manuscript +corrections, by Edmund Clarence Stedman +and George Edward Woodberry, with many +portraits, fac-similes, and pictures by Albert +Edward Sterner.</p> + +<p class="p3">This is the only complete edition of Poe's +works. The entire writings have been revised; +innumerable errors have been corrected; quotations +have been verified, and the work now +stands—for the first time—as Poe wished it to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span> +stand. The editors contribute a memoir, critical +introduction, and notes; the variorum texts are +given and new matter has been added. The +portraits include several which have never appeared +in book form before, and the printing has +been carefully done at the University Press in +Cambridge on specially made, deckled edge +paper.</p> + +<p class="p3">In fine, the edition aims to be definitive, and +is intended alike for the librarian, the student, +and the book-lover.</p> + +<p class="p3">In ten volumes, price $15.00, net, a set; or +separately, $1.50, net, per volume.</p> + +<p class="p3">The large-paper edition, limited to 250 numbered +sets for America, contains a series of +illustrations to the tales by Aubrey Beardsley, +and a signed etching by Mr. Sterner,—not +included in the small-paper edition,—proofs +of all the pictures printed on India paper, and, +in truth, is a luxurious edition. On handsome +paper, octavo. Price, $50.00, net. Sold only in +sets; numbers will be assigned as the orders are +received.</p> + +<div class="bq"><p class="p3">New York Tribune: "At no time in the future is +it probable that the labors of his present editors and +publishers will be superseded."</p> + +<p class="p3">New York Times: "Doubtless no other men in +this country were better fitted for this arduous and +delicate task than those who have, at length, undertaken +it."</p></div> + +<p class="p2">SANTAYANA, GEORGE.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Sonnets and Other Poems.</span> With titlepage +designed by the author. Printed at the +University Press on laid paper. 16mo. Buckram. +90 pp. Price, $1.25, net.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Out of print.</i></p> + +<p class="p2"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span>SHARP, WILLIAM.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Vistas.</span> See <a href="#GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY">Green Tree Library, Vol. I.</a></p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Gypsy Christ and Other Tales.</span> +See <a href="#CARNATION_SERIES">Carnation Series, Vol. I.</a></p> + +<p class="p2">SOUTHALL, J. E.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Story of Bluebeard.</span> Newly translated +and elaborately illustrated. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p2">SOUTHEY, ROBERT.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">English Seamen.</span> See <a href="#ENGLISH_CLASSICS">English Classics</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">STEDMAN, E. C.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#POE">Poe</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="STERNE" id="STERNE"></a>STERNE, LAURENCE.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Life and Opinions of Tristram +Shandy.</span> See <a href="#ENGLISH_CLASSICS">English Classics</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="STEVENSON" id="STEVENSON"></a>STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Later Works of Robert Louis Stevenson.</span> +Published in a uniform edition. 16mo. +Bound in green crushed buckram.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Amateur Emigrant.</span> 180 pp. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Fourth thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Vailima Letters.</span> From Robert Louis +Stevenson to Sidney Colvin. With an etched +portrait by William Strang and two portraits of +Stevenson in Samoa. In two volumes. 16mo. +$2.25.</p> + +<p class="p2">—— AND LLOYD OSBOURNE.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Ebb-Tide.</span> A Trio and Quartette. +204 pp. $1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Sixth thousand.</i></p> + +<p class="p2">—— AND WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Macaire.</span> A Melodramatic Farce. In three +acts. $1.00.</p> + +<p class="p2"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[xiii]</a></span>STREET, G. S.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#CONGREVE">Congreve</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="SWING" id="SWING"></a>SWING, DAVID.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Old Pictures of Life.</span> With an introduction +by Franklin H. Head. In two volumes. +16mo. Vol. I., 191 pp.; vol. II., 220 pp. +$2.00.</p> + +<p class="p2"><a name="TAYLOR" id="TAYLOR"></a>TAYLOR, WINNIE LOUISE.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">His Broken Sword.</span> A novel. With an +introduction by Edward Everett Hale. Printed +at the University Press on American laid paper. +12mo. Gilt top, deckled edges. 354 pp. +$1.25.</p> + +<p class="p4"><i>Third edition.</i></p> + +<p class="p2">THOMPSON, MAURICE.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Lincoln's Grave.</span> A Poem. With a titlepage +by George H. Hallowell. Printed at the +University Press. 16mo. 36 pp. Price, $1.00, +net.</p> + +<p class="p2">VERLAINE, PAUL.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">Poems of Paul Verlaine.</span> See <a href="#GREEN_TREE_LIBRARY">Green Tree +Library, Vol. IV.</a></p> + +<p class="p2">WHIBLEY, CHARLES.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#STERNE">Sterne</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">WOODBERRY, GEORGE EDWARD.</p> + +<p class="p3">See <a href="#POE">Poe</a>.</p> + +<p class="p2">YEATS, W. B.</p> + +<p class="p3"><span class="smcap">The Land of Heart's Desire.</span> A play. +With a frontispiece by Aubrey Beardsley. Printed +at the University Press. 16mo. 43 pp. +Price, $1.00, net.</p></div> + +<hr /> +<h2>The Chap-Book.</h2> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="center"><i><big>A Miniature Magazine and Review.</big></i></p> + +<p class="center"><i><big>Semi-Monthly.</big></i></p> + +<p class="p5"><big>STONE & KIMBALL<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Caxton Building, Chicago.</span></big></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><big>Price, 5 Cents. $1.00 a Year.</big></span></p></div> + +<div class='center'> +<table class="sp4" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td class="center" colspan="2"><big>CONTRIBUTORS.</big></td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Thomas Bailey Aldrich</td><td class="td3">Stéphane Mallarmé</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Maurice Maeterlinck</td><td class="td3">Eugene Field</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Richard Henry Stoddard</td><td class="td3">Hamlin Garland</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Gilbert Parker</td><td class="td3">I. Zangwill</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Kenneth Grahame</td><td class="td3">Louise Imogen Guiney</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Bliss Carman</td><td class="td3">Gertrude Hall</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">John Davidson</td><td class="td3">Maria Louise Pool</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Charles G. D. Roberts</td><td class="td3">William Sharp</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Paul Verlaine</td><td class="td3">Archibald Lampman</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Alice Brown</td><td class="td3">H. B. Marriott Watson</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Julian Hawthorne</td><td class="td3">Richard Burton</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Clyde Fitch</td><td class="td3">H. H. Boyesen</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Edmund Gosse</td><td class="td3">Lewis Gates</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Maurice Thompson</td><td class="td3">H. W. Mabie</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">C. F. Bragdon</td><td class="td3">F. Vallotton</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Will H. Bradley</td><td class="td3">J. F. Raffaelli</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Louise Chandler Moulton</td><td class="td3">C. D. Gibson</td></tr> +<tr><td class="td1">Robert Louis Stevenson</td><td class="td3">William Ernest Henley</td></tr> +<tr><td class="center" colspan="2">Theodore Wratislaw</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<div class="figc1" style="width: 25em;"><p class="p3">There is no question that the Chap-Book +is the best printed periodical in the world.</p> + +<p class="p4">—<i>Boston Traveller.</i></p> + +<p class="p3">The Chap-Book continues to be delightfully +clever and irresponsible.</p> + +<p class="p4">—<i>Charleston News and Courier.</i></p></div> + +<div class="trn"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b> +Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Black Spirits and White, by Ralph Adams Cram + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE *** + +***** This file should be named 26687-h.htm or 26687-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/6/8/26687/ + +Produced by David Clarke, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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