THE MESSENGER.
All-wise, Hast thou seen all there is to see with thy two eyes? Dost thou know all there is to know, and so, Omniscient, Darest thou still to say thy brother lies?
R. W. C.
"The bullet entered here," said Max Fortin, and he placed his middlefinger over a smooth hole exactly in the centre of the forehead.
I sat down upon a mound of dry seaweed and unslung my fowling piece.
The little chemist cautiously felt the edges of the shot-hole, firstwith his middle finger, then with his thumb.
"Let me see the skull again," said I.
Max Fortin picked it up from the sod.
"It's like all the others," he observed. I nodded, without offering totake it from him. After a moment he thoughtfully replaced it upon thegrass at my feet.
"It's like all the others," he repeated, wiping his glasses on hishandkerchief. "I thought you might care to see one of the skulls, soI brought this over from the gravel pit. The men from Bannalec aredigging yet. They ought to stop."
"How many skulls are there altogether?" I inquired.
"They found thirty-eight skulls; there are thirty-nine noted in thelist. They lie piled up in the gravel pit on the edge of Le Bihan'swheat field. The men are at work yet. Le Bihan is going to stop them."
"Let's go over," said I; and I picked up my gun and started across thecliffs, Fortin on one side, Mome on the other.
"Who has the list?" I asked, lighting my pipe. "You say there is alist?"
"The list was found rolled up in a brass cylinder," said the littlechemist. He added: "You should not smoke here. You know that if asingle spark drifted into the wheat----"
"Ah, but I have a cover to my pipe," said I, smiling.
Fortin watched me as I closed the pepper-box arrangement over theglowing bowl of the pipe. Then he continued:
"The list was made out on thick yellow paper; the brass tube haspreserved it. It is as fresh to-day as it was in 1760. You shall seeit."
"Is that the date?"
"The list is dated 'April, 1760.' The Brigadier Durand has it. It isnot written in French."
"Not written in French!" I exclaimed.
"No," replied Fortin solemnly, "it is written in Breton."
"But," I protested, "the Breton language was never written or printedin 1760."
"Except by priests," said the chemist.
"I have heard of but one priest who ever wrote the Breton language," Ibegan.
Fortin stole a glance at my face.
"You mean--the Black Priest?" he asked.
I nodded.
Fortin opened his mouth to speak again, hesitated, and finally shut histeeth obstinately over the wheat stem that he was chewing.
"And the Black Priest?" I suggested encouragingly. But I knew it wasuseless; for it is easier to move the stars from their courses thanto make an obstinate Breton talk. We walked on for a minute or two insilence.
"Where is the Brigadier Durand?" I asked, motioning Mome to come out ofthe wheat, which he was trampling as though it were heather. As I spokewe came in sight of the farther edge of the wheat field and the dark,wet mass of cliffs beyond.
"Durand is down there--you can see him; he stands just behind the Mayorof St. Gildas."
"I see," said I; and we struck straight down, following a sun-bakedcattle path across the heather.
When we reached the edge of the wheat field, Le Bihan, the Mayor of St.Gildas, called to me, and I tucked my gun under my arm and skirted thewheat to where he stood.
"Thirty-eight skulls," he said in his thin, high-pitched voice; "thereis but one more, and I am opposed to further search. I suppose Fortintold you?"
I shook hands with him, and returned the salute of the Brigadier Durand.
"I am opposed to further search," repeated Le Bihan, nervously pickingat the mass of silver buttons which covered the front of his velvet andbroadcloth jacket like a breastplate of scale armour.
Durand pursed up his lips, twisted his tremendous mustache, and hookedhis thumbs in his sabre belt.
"As for me," he said, "I am in favour of further search."
"Further search for what--for the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked.
Le Bihan nodded. Durand frowned at the sunlit sea, rocking like a bowlof molten gold from the cliffs to the horizon. I followed his eyes. Onthe dark glistening cliffs, silhouetted against the glare of the sea,sat a cormorant, black, motionless, its horrible head raised towardheaven.
"Where is that list, Durand?" I asked.
The gendarme rummaged in his despatch pouch and produced a brasscylinder about a foot long. Very gravely he unscrewed the head anddumped out a scroll of thick yellow paper closely covered with writingon both sides. At a nod from Le Bihan he handed me the scroll. But Icould make nothing of the coarse writing, now faded to a dull brown.
"Come, come, Le Bihan," I said impatiently, "translate it, won't you?You and Max Fortin make a lot of mystery out of nothing, it seems."
Le Bihan went to the edge of the pit where the three Bannalec men weredigging, gave an order or two in Breton, and turned to me.
As I came to the edge of the pit the Bannalec men were removinga square piece of sail-cloth from what appeared to be a pile ofcobblestones.
"Look!" said Le Bihan shrilly. I looked. The pile below was a heap ofskulls. After a moment I clambered down the gravel sides of the pit andwalked over to the men of Bannalec. They saluted me gravely, leaning ontheir picks and shovels, and wiping their sweating faces with sunburnedhands.
"How many?" said I in Breton.
"Thirty-eight," they replied.
I glanced around. Beyond the heap of skulls lay two piles of humanbones. Beside these was a mound of broken, rusted bits of iron andsteel. Looking closer, I saw that this mound was composed of rustybayonets, sabre blades, scythe blades, with here and there a tarnishedbuckle attached to a bit of leather hard as iron.
I picked up a couple of buttons and a belt plate. The buttons bore theroyal arms of England; the belt plate was emblazoned with the Englisharms, and also with the number "27."
"I have heard my grandfather speak of the terrible English regiment,the 27th Foot, which landed and stormed the fort up there," said one ofthe Bannalec men.
"Oh!" said I; "then these are the bones of English soldiers?"
"Yes," said the men of Bannalec.
Le Bihan was calling to me from the edge of the pit above, and I handedthe belt plate and buttons to the men and climbed the side of theexcavation.
"Well," said I, trying to prevent Mome from leaping up and licking myface as I emerged from the pit, "I suppose you know what these bonesare. What are you going to do with them?"
"There was a man," said Le Bihan angrily, "an Englishman, who passedhere in a dog-cart on his way to Quimper about an hour ago, and what doyou suppose he wished to do?"
"Buy the relics?" I asked, smiling.
"Exactly--the pig!" piped the mayor of St. Gildas. "Jean Marie Tregunc,who found the bones, was standing there where Max Fortin stands, and doyou know what he answered? He spat upon the ground, and said: 'Pig ofan Englishman, do you take me for a desecrator of graves?'"
I knew Tregunc, a sober, blue-eyed Breton, who lived from one year'send to the other without being able to afford a single bit of meat fora meal.
"How much did the Englishman offer Tregunc?" I asked.
"Two hundred francs for the skulls alone."
I thought of the relic hunters and the relic buyers on the battlefieldsof our civil war.
"Seventeen hundred and sixty is long ago," I said.
"Respect for the dead can never die," said Fortin.
"And the English soldiers came here to kill your fathers and burn yourhomes," I continued.
"They were murderers and thieves, but--they are dead," said Tregunc,coming up from the beach below, his long sea rake balanced on hisdripping jersey.
"How much do you earn every year, Jean Ma
rie?" I asked, turning toshake hands with him.
"Two hundred and twenty francs, monsieur."
"Forty-five dollars a year," I said. "Bah! you are worth more, Jean.Will you take care of my garden for me? My wife wished me to ask you.I think it would be worth one hundred francs a month to you and to me.Come on, Le Bihan--come along, Fortin--and you, Durand. I want somebodyto translate that list into French for me."
Tregunc stood gazing at me, his blue eyes dilated.
"You may begin at once," I said, smiling, "if the salary suits you?"
"It suits," said Tregunc, fumbling for his pipe in a silly way thatannoyed Le Bihan.
"Then go and begin your work," cried the mayor impatiently; andTregunc started across the moors toward St. Gildas, taking off hisvelvet-ribboned cap to me and gripping his sea rake very hard.
"You offer him more than my salary," said the mayor, after a moment'scontemplation of his silver buttons.
"Pooh!" said I, "what do you do for your salary except play dominoeswith Max Fortin at the Groix Inn?"
Le Bihan turned red, but Durand rattled his sabre and winked at MaxFortin, and I slipped my arm through the arm of the sulky magistrate,laughing.
"There's a shady spot under the cliff," I said; "come on, Le Bihan, andread me what is in the scroll."
In a few moments we reached the shadow of the cliff, and I threw myselfupon the turf, chin on hand, to listen.
The gendarme, Durand, also sat down, twisting his mustache intoneedlelike points. Fortin leaned against the cliff, polishing hisglasses and examining us with vague, near-sighted eyes; and Le Bihan,the mayor, planted himself in our midst, rolling up the scroll andtucking it under his arm.
"First of all," he began in a shrill voice, "I am going to light mypipe, and while lighting it I shall tell you what I have heard aboutthe attack on the fort yonder. My father told me; his father told him."
He jerked his head in the direction of the ruined fort, a small, squarestone structure on the sea cliff, now nothing but crumbling walls. Thenhe slowly produced a tobacco pouch, a bit of flint and tinder, and along-stemmed pipe fitted with a microscopical bowl of baked clay. Tofill such a pipe requires ten minutes' close attention. To smoke it toa finish takes but four puffs. It is very Breton, this Breton pipe. Itis the crystallization of everything Breton.
"Go on," said I, lighting a cigarette.
"The fort," said the mayor, "was built by Louis XIV, and was dismantledtwice by the English. Louis XV restored it in 1739. In 1760 it wascarried by assault by the English. They came across from the islandof Groix--three shiploads--and they stormed the fort and sacked St.Julien yonder, and they started to burn St. Gildas--you can see themarks of their bullets on my house yet; but the men of Bannalec and themen of Lorient fell upon them with pike and scythe and blunderbuss,and those who did not run away lie there below in the gravel pitnow--thirty-eight of them."
"And the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked, finishing my cigarette.
The mayor had succeeded in filling his pipe, and now he began to puthis tobacco pouch away.
"The thirty-ninth skull," he mumbled, holding the pipestem between hisdefective teeth--"the thirty-ninth skull is no business of mine. I havetold the Bannalec men to cease digging."
"But what is--whose is the missing skull?" I persisted curiously.
The mayor was busy trying to strike a spark to his tinder. Presently heset it aglow, applied it to his pipe, took the prescribed four puffs,knocked the ashes out of the bowl, and gravely replaced the pipe in hispocket.
"The missing skull?" he asked.
"Yes," said I impatiently.
The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read, translatingfrom the Breton into French. And this is what he read:
"ON THE CLIFFS OF ST. GILDAS,
"_April 13, 1760_.
"On this day, by order of the Count of Soisic, general in chief of the Breton forces now lying in Kerselec Forest, the bodies of thirty-eight English soldiers of the 27th, 50th, and 72d regiments of Foot were buried in this spot, together with their arms and equipments."
The mayor paused and glanced at me reflectively.
"Go on, Le Bihan," I said.
"With them," continued the mayor, turning the scroll and reading on theother side, "was buried the body of that vile traitor who betrayed thefort to the English. The manner of his death was as follows: By orderof the most noble Count of Soisic, the traitor was first branded uponthe forehead with the brand of an arrowhead. The iron burned throughthe flesh, and was pressed heavily so that the brand should even burninto the bone of the skull. The traitor was then led out and bidden tokneel. He admitted having guided the English from the island of Groix.Although a priest and a Frenchman, he had violated his priestly officeto aid him in discovering the password to the fort. This password heextorted during confession from a young Breton girl who was in thehabit of rowing across from the island of Groix to visit her husbandin the fort. When the fort fell, this young girl, crazed by the deathof her husband, sought the Count of Soisic and told how the priest hadforced her to confess to him all she knew about the fort. The priestwas arrested at St. Gildas as he was about to cross the river toLorient. When arrested he cursed the girl, Marie Trevec----"
"What!" I exclaimed, "Marie Trevec!"
"Marie Trevec," repeated Le Bihan; "the priest cursed Marie Trevec, andall her family and descendants. He was shot as he knelt, having a maskof leather over his face, because the Bretons who composed the squad ofexecution refused to fire at a priest unless his face was concealed.The priest was l'Abbe Sorgue, commonly known as the Black Priest onaccount of his dark face and swarthy eyebrows. He was buried with astake through his heart."
Le Bihan paused, hesitated, looked at me, and handed the manuscriptback to Durand. The gendarme took it and slipped it into the brasscylinder.
"So," said I, "the thirty-ninth skull is the skull of the Black Priest."
"Yes," said Fortin. "I hope they won't find it."
"I have forbidden them to proceed," said the mayor querulously. "Youheard me, Max Fortin."
I rose and picked up my gun. Mome came and pushed his head into my hand.
"That's a fine dog," observed Durand, also rising.
"Why don't you wish to find his skull?" I asked Le Bihan. "It would becurious to see whether the arrow brand really burned into the bone."
"There is something in that scroll that I didn't read to you," said themayor grimly. "Do you wish to know what it is?"
"Of course," I replied in surprise.
"Give me the scroll again, Durand," he said; then he read fromthe bottom: "I, l'Abbe Sorgue, forced to write the above by myexecutioners, have written it in my own blood; and with it I leave mycurse. My curse on St. Gildas, on Marie Trevec, and on her descendants.I will come back to St. Gildas when my remains are disturbed. Woe tothat Englishman whom my branded skull shall touch!"
"What rot!" I said. "Do you believe it was really written in his ownblood?"
"I am going to test it," said Fortin, "at the request of Monsieur leMaire. I am not anxious for the job, however."
"See," said Le Bihan, holding out the scroll to me, "it is signed,'l'Abbe Sorgue.'"
I glanced curiously over the paper.
"It must be the Black Priest," I said. "He was the only man who wrotein the Breton language. This is a wonderfully interesting discovery,for now, at last, the mystery of the Black Priest's disappearance iscleared up. You will, of course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?"
"No," said the mayor obstinately, "it shall be buried in the pit belowwhere the rest of the Black Priest lies."
I looked at him and recognised that argument would be useless. Butstill I said, "It will be a loss to history, Monsieur Le Bihan."
"All the worse for history, then," said the enlightened Mayor of St.Gildas.
We had sauntered back to the gravel pit while speaking. The men ofBannalec were carry
ing the bones of the English soldiers toward theSt. Gildas cemetery, on the cliffs to the east, where already a knot ofwhite-coiffed women stood in attitudes of prayer; and I saw the sombrerobe of a priest among the crosses of the little graveyard.
"They were thieves and assassins; they are dead now," muttered MaxFortin.
"Respect the dead," repeated the Mayor of St. Gildas, looking after theBannalec men.
"It was written in that scroll that Marie Trevec, of Groix Island, wascursed by the priest--she and her descendants," I said, touching LeBihan on the arm. "There was a Marie Trevec who married an Yves Trevecof St. Gildas----"
"It is the same," said Le Bihan, looking at me obliquely.
"Oh!" said I; "then they were ancestors of my wife."
"Do you fear the curse?" asked Le Bihan.
"What?" I laughed.
"There was the case of the Purple Emperor," said Max Fortin timidly.
Startled for a moment, I faced him, then shrugged my shoulders andkicked at a smooth bit of rock which lay near the edge of the pit,almost embedded in gravel.
"Do you suppose the Purple Emperor drank himself crazy because he wasdescended from Marie Trevec?" I asked contemptuously.
"Of course not," said Max Fortin hastily.
"Of course not," piped the mayor. "I only---- Hello! what's that you'rekicking?"
"What?" said I, glancing down, at the same time involuntarily givinganother kick. The smooth bit of rock dislodged itself and rolled out ofthe loosened gravel at my feet.
"The thirty-ninth skull!" I exclaimed. "By jingo, its the noddle of theBlack Priest! See! there is the arrowhead branded on the front!"
The mayor stepped back. Max Fortin also retreated. There was a pause,during which I looked at them, and they looked anywhere but at me.
"I don't like it," said the mayor at last, in a husky, high voice. "Idon't like it! The scroll says he will come back to St. Gildas when hisremains are disturbed. I--I don't like it, Monsieur Darrel----"
"Bosh!" said I; "the poor wicked devil is where he can't get out. ForHeaven's sake, Le Bihan, what is this stuff you are talking in the yearof grace 1896?"
The mayor gave me a look.
"And he says 'Englishman.' You are an Englishman, Monsieur Darrel," heannounced.
"You know better. You know I'm an American."
"It's all the same," said the Mayor of St. Gildas, obstinately.
"No, it isn't!" I answered, much exasperated, and deliberately pushedthe skull till it rolled into the bottom of the gravel pit below.
"Cover it up," said I; "bury the scroll with it too, if you insist, butI think you ought to send it to Paris. Don't look so gloomy, Fortin,unless you believe in were-wolves and ghosts. Hey! what the--whatthe devil's the matter with you, anyway? What are you staring at, LeBihan?"
"Come, come," muttered the mayor in a low, tremulous voice, "it's timewe got out of this. Did you see? Did you see, Fortin?"
"I saw," whispered Max Fortin, pallid with fright.
The two men were almost running across the sunny pasture now, and Ihastened after them, demanding to know what was the matter.
"Matter!" chattered the mayor, gasping with exasperation and terror."The skull is rolling uphill again!" and he burst into a terrifiedgallop. Max Fortin followed close behind.
I watched them stampeding across the pasture, then turned toward thegravel pit, mystified, incredulous. The skull was lying on the edgeof the pit, exactly where it had been before I pushed it over theedge. For a second I stared at it; a singular chilly feeling crept upmy spinal column, and I turned and walked away, sweat starting fromthe root of every hair on my head. Before I had gone twenty paces theabsurdity of the whole thing struck me. I halted, hot with shame andannoyance, and retraced my steps.
There lay the skull.
"I rolled a stone down instead of the skull," I muttered to myself.Then with the butt of my gun I pushed the skull over the edge of thepit and watched it roll to the bottom; and as it struck the bottomof the pit, Mome, my dog, suddenly whipped his tail between his legs,whimpered, and made off across the moor.
"Mome!" I shouted, angry and astonished; but the dog only fled thefaster, and I ceased calling from sheer surprise.
"What the mischief is the matter with that dog!" I thought. He hadnever before played me such a trick.
Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the skull. Ilooked down. The skull lay at my feet again, touching them.
"Good heavens!" I stammered, and struck at it blindly with my gunstock.The ghastly thing flew into the air, whirling over and over, and rolledagain down the sides of the pit to the bottom. Breathlessly I stared atit, then, confused and scarcely comprehending, I stepped back from thepit, still facing it, one, ten, twenty paces, my eyes almost startingfrom my head, as though I expected to see the thing roll up from thebottom of the pit under my very gaze. At last I turned my back to thepit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland toward my home. AsI reached the road that winds from St. Gildas to St. Julien I gave onehasty glance at the pit over my shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sodabout the excavation. There was something white and bare and round onthe turf at the edge of the pit. It might have been a stone; there wereplenty of them lying about.
II.
When I entered my garden I saw Mome sprawling on the stone doorstep. Heeyed me sideways and flopped his tail.
"Are you not mortified, you idiot dog?" I said, looking about the upperwindows for Lys.
Mome rolled over on his back and raised one deprecating forepaw, asthough to ward off calamity.
"Don't act as though I was in the habit of beating you to death," Isaid, disgusted. I had never in my life raised whip to the brute. "Butyou are a fool dog," I continued. "No, you needn't come to be babiedand wept over; Lys can do that, if she insists, but I am ashamed ofyou, and you can go to the devil."
Mome slunk off into the house, and I followed, mounting directly to mywife's boudoir. It was empty.
"Where has she gone?" I said, looking hard at Mome, who had followedme. "Oh! I see you don't know. Don't pretend you do. Come off thatlounge! Do you think Lys wants tan-coloured hairs all over her lounge?"
I rang the bell for Catherine and 'Fine, but they didn't know where"madame" had gone; so I went into my room, bathed, exchanged mysomewhat grimy shooting clothes for a suit of warm, soft knickerbockers,and, after lingering some extra moments over my toilet--for I wasparticular, now that I had married Lys--I went down to the garden andtook a chair out under the fig-trees.
"Where can she be?" I wondered. Mome came sneaking out to be comforted,and I forgave him for Lys's sake, whereupon he frisked.
"You bounding cur," said I, "now what on earth started you off acrossthe moor? If you do it again I'll push you along with a charge of dustshot."
As yet I had scarcely dared think about the ghastly hallucination ofwhich I had been a victim, but now I faced it squarely, flushing alittle with mortification at the thought of my hasty retreat from thegravel pit.
"To think," I said aloud, "that those old woman's tales of Max Fortinand Le Bihan should have actually made me see what didn't exist at all!I lost my nerve like a schoolboy in a dark bedroom." For I knew nowthat I had mistaken a round stone for a skull each time, and had pusheda couple of big pebbles into the pit instead of the skull itself.
"By jingo!" said I, "I'm nervous; my liver must be in a devil of acondition if I see such things when I'm awake! Lys will know what togive me."
I felt mortified and irritated and sulky, and thought disgustedly of LeBihan and Max Fortin.
But after a while I ceased speculating, dismissed the mayor, thechemist, and the skull from my mind, and smoked pensively, watching thesun low dipping in the western ocean. As the twilight fell for a momentover ocean and moorland, a wistful, restless happiness filled my heart,the happiness that all men know--all men who have loved.
Slowly the purple mist crept out over the sea; the cliffs darkened; theforest was shrouded.
Sudd
enly the sky above burned with the afterglow, and the world wasalight again.
Cloud after cloud caught the rose dye; the cliffs were tinted withit; moor and pasture, heather and forest burned and pulsated with thegentle flush. I saw the gulls turning and tossing above the sand bar,their snowy wings tipped with pink; I saw the sea swallows sheeringthe surface of the still river, stained to its placid depths with warmreflections of the clouds. The twitter of drowsy hedge birds broke outin the stillness; a salmon rolled its shining side above tide-water.
The interminable monotone of the ocean intensified the silence. Isat motionless, holding my breath as one who listens to the first lowrumour of an organ. All at once the pure whistle of a nightingale cutthe silence, and the first moonbeam silvered the wastes of mist-hungwaters.
I raised my head.
Lys stood before me in the garden.
When we had kissed each other, we linked arms and moved up and downthe gravel walks, watching the moonbeams sparkle on the sand bar asthe tide ebbed and ebbed. The broad beds of white pinks about us wereatremble with hovering white moths; the October roses hung all abloom,perfuming the salt wind.
"Sweetheart," I said, "where is Yvonne? Has she promised to spendChristmas with us?"
"Yes, Dick; she drove me down from Plougat this afternoon. She sent herlove to you. I am not jealous. What did you shoot?"
"A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I told Catherinenot to touch them until you had seen them."
Now I suppose I knew that Lys could not be particularly enthusiasticover game or guns; but she pretended she was, and always scornfullydenied that it was for my sake and not for the pure love of sport. Soshe dragged me off to inspect the rather meagre game bag, and she paidme pretty compliments and gave a little cry of delight and pity as Ilifted the enormous hare out of the sack by his ears.
"He'll eat no more of our lettuce," I said, attempting to justify theassassination.
"Unhappy little bunny--and what a beauty! O Dick, you are a splendidshot, are you not?"
I evaded the question and hauled out a partridge.
"Poor little dead things!" said Lys in a whisper; "it seems apity--doesn't it, Dick? But then you are so clever----"
"We'll have them broiled," I said guardedly; "tell Catherine."
Catherine came in to take away the game, and presently 'Fine Lelocard,Lys's maid, announced dinner, and Lys tripped away to her boudoir.
I stood an instant contemplating her blissfully, thinking, "My boy,you're the happiest fellow in the world--you're in love with yourwife!"
I walked into the dining room, beamed at the plates, walked out again;met Tregunc in the hallway, beamed on him; glanced into the kitchen,beamed at Catherine, and went up stairs, still beaming.
Before I could knock at Lys's door it opened, and Lys came hastily out.When she saw me she gave a little cry of relief, and nestled close tomy breast.
"There is something peering in at my window," she said.
"What!" I cried angrily.
"A man, I think, disguised as a priest, and he has a mask on. He musthave climbed up by the bay tree."
I was down the stairs and out of doors in no time. The moonlit gardenwas absolutely deserted. Tregunc came up, and together we searched thehedge and shrubbery around the house and out to the road.
"Jean Marie," said I at length, "loose my bulldog--he knows you--andtake your supper on the porch where you can watch. My wife says thefellow is disguised as a priest, and wears a mask."
Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile. "He will not care to venturein here again, I think, Monsieur Darrel."
I went back and found Lys seated quietly at the table.
"The soup is ready, dear," she said. "Don't worry; it was only somefoolish lout from Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would dosuch a thing."
I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys treated it as astupid joke, and after a while I began to look at it in that light.
Lys told me about Yvonne, and reminded me of my promise to have HerbertStuart down to meet her.
"You wicked diplomat!" I protested. "Herbert is in Paris, and hard atwork for the Salon."
"Don't you think he might spare a week to flirt with the prettiest girlin Finistere?" inquired Lys innocently.
"Prettiest girl! Not much!" I said.
"Who is, then?" urged Lys.
I laughed a trifle sheepishly.
"I suppose you mean me, Dick," said Lys, colouring up.
"Now I bore you, don't I?"
"Bore me? Ah, no, Dick."
After coffee and cigarettes were served I spoke about Tregunc, and Lysapproved.
"Poor Jean! he will be glad, won't he? What a dear fellow you are!"
"Nonsense," said I; "we need a gardener; you said so yourself, Lys."
But Lys leaned over and kissed me, and then bent down and hugged Mome,who whistled through his nose in sentimental appreciation.
"I am a very happy woman," said Lys.
"Mome was a very bad dog to-day," I observed.
"Poor Mome!" said Lys, smiling.
When dinner was over and Mome lay snoring before the blaze--for theOctober nights are often chilly in Finistere--Lys curled up in thechimney corner with her embroidery, and gave me a swift glance fromunder her drooping lashes.
"You look like a schoolgirl, Lys," I said teasingly. "I don't believeyou are sixteen yet."
She pushed back her heavy burnished hair thoughtfully. Her wrist was aswhite as surf foam.
"Have we been married four years? I don't believe it," I said.
She gave me another swift glance and touched the embroidery on herknee, smiling faintly.
"I see," said I, also smiling at the embroidered garment. "Do you thinkit will fit?"
"Fit?" repeated Lys. Then she laughed.
"And," I persisted, "are you perfectly sure that you--er--we shall needit?"
"Perfectly," said Lys. A delicate colour touched her cheeks and neck.She held up the little garment, all fluffy with misty lace and wroughtwith quaint embroidery.
"It is very gorgeous," said I; "don't use your eyes too much, dearest.May I smoke a pipe?"
"Of course," she said, selecting a skein of pale blue silk.
For a while I sat and smoked in silence, watching her slender fingersamong the tinted silks and thread of gold.
Presently she spoke: "What did you say your crest is, Dick?"
"My crest? Oh, something or other rampant on a something or other----"
"Dick!"
"Dearest?"
"Don't be flippant."
"But I really forget. It's an ordinary crest; everybody in New York hasthem. No family should be without 'em."
"You are disagreeable, Dick. Send Josephine upstairs for my album."
"Are you going to put that crest on the--the--whatever it is?"
"I am; and my own crest, too."
I thought of the Purple Emperor and wondered a little.
"You didn't know I had one, did you?" she smiled.
"What is it?" I replied evasively.
"You shall see. Ring for Josephine."
I rang, and, when 'Fine appeared, Lys gave her some orders in a lowvoice, and Josephine trotted away, bobbing her white-coiffed head witha "Bien, madame!"
After a few minutes she returned, bearing a tattered, musty volume,from which the gold and blue had mostly disappeared.
I took the book in my hands and examined the ancient emblazoned covers.
"Lilies!" I exclaimed.
"Fleur-de-lis," said my wife demurely.
"Oh!" said I, astonished, and opened the book.
"You have never before seen this book?" asked Lys, with a touch ofmalice in her eyes.
"You know I haven't. Hello! what's this? Oho! So there should be a_de_ before Trevec? Lys de Trevec? Then why in the world did the PurpleEmperor----"
"Dick!" cried Lys.
"All right," said I. "Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec whorode to Saladin's te
nt alone to seek for medicine for St. Louis? orshall I read about--what is it? Oh, here it is, all down in black andwhite--about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva'seyes rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain?It's all written here. But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevecwho was killed in the old fort on the cliff yonder?"
"He dropped the _de_, and the Trevecs since then have beenRepublicans," said Lys--"all except me."
"That's quite right," said I; "it is time that we Republicans shouldagree upon some feudal system. My dear, I drink to the king!" and Iraised my wine-glass and looked at Lys.
"To the king," said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny garmenton her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were verysweet. I drained the glass to the king.
After a silence I said: "I will tell the king stories. His Majestyshall be amused."
"His Majesty," repeated Lys softly.
"Or hers," I laughed. "Who knows?"
"Who knows?" murmured Lys, with a gentle sigh.
"I know some stories about Jack the Giant-Killer," I announced. "Doyou, Lys?"
"I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the were-wolf,and Jeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters, and--O dear me! Iknow lots more."
"You are very wise," said I. "I shall teach his Majesty English."
"And I Breton," cried Lys jealously.
"I shall bring playthings to the king," said I--"big green lizards fromthe gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbitsfrom the forest of Kerselec----"
"And I," said Lys, "will bring the first primrose, the first branch ofaubepine, the first jonquil, to the king--my king."
"Our king," said I; and there was peace in Finistere.
I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume.
"I am looking," said I, "for the crest."
"The crest, dear? It is a priest's head with an arrow-shaped mark onthe forehead, on a field----"
I sat up and stared at my wife.
"Dick, whatever is the matter?" she smiled. "The story is there in thatbook. Do you care to read it? No? Shall I tell it to you? Well, then:It happened in the third crusade. There was a monk whom men called theBlack Priest. He turned apostate, and sold himself to the enemies ofChrist. A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head ofonly one hundred lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of thevery midst of their army."
"So that is how you come by the crest," I said quietly; but I thoughtof the branded skull in the gravel pit, and wondered.
"Yes," said Lys. "The Sieur de Trevec cut the Black Priest's head off,but first he branded him with an arrow mark on the forehead. The booksays it was a pious action, and the Sieur de Trevec got great merit byit. But I think it was cruel, the branding," she sighed.
"Did you ever hear of any other Black Priest?"
"Yes. There was one in the last century, here in St. Gildas. He cast awhite shadow in the sun. He wrote in the Breton language. Chronicles,too, I believe. I never saw them. His name was the same as that ofthe old chronicler, and of the other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some saidhe was a lineal descendant of the traitor. Of course the first BlackPriest was bad enough for anything. But if he did have a child, it neednot have been the ancestor of the last Jacques Sorgue. They say thisone was a holy man. They say he was so good he was not allowed to die,but was caught up to heaven one day," added Lys, with believing eyes.
I smiled.
"But he disappeared," persisted Lys.
"I'm afraid his journey was in another direction," I said jestingly,and thoughtlessly told her the story of the morning. I had utterlyforgotten the masked man at her window, but before I finished Iremembered him fast enough, and realized what I had done as I saw herface whiten.
"Lys," I urged tenderly, "that was only some clumsy clown's trick. Yousaid so yourself. You are not superstitious, my dear?"
Her eyes were on mine. She slowly drew the little gold cross from herbosom and kissed it. But her lips trembled as they pressed the symbolof faith.
III.
About nine o'clock the next morning I walked into the Groix Inn and satdown at the long discoloured oaken table, nodding good-day to MarianneBruyere, who in turn bobbed her white coiffe at me.
"My clever Bannalec maid," said I, "what is good for a stirrup-cup atthe Groix Inn?"
"Schist?" she inquired in Breton.
"With a dash of red wine, then," I replied.
She brought the delicious Quimperle cider, and I poured a littleBordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing black eyes.
"What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?" I asked. "Has Jean Mariebeen here?"
"We are to be married, Monsieur Darrel," she laughed.
"Ah! Since when has Jean Marie Tregunc lost his head?"
"His head? Oh, Monsieur Darrel--his heart, you mean!"
"So I do," said I. "Jean Marie is a practical fellow."
"It is all due to your kindness----" began the girl, but I raised myhand and held up the glass.
"It's due to himself. To your happiness, Marianne;" and I took a heartydraught of the schist. "Now," said I, "tell me where I can find LeBihan and Max Fortin."
"Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the broad room. Ibelieve they are examining the Red Admiral's effects."
"To send them to Paris? Oh, I know. May I go up, Marianne?"
"And God go with you," smiled the girl.
When I knocked at the door of the broad room above little Max Fortinopened it. Dust covered his spectacles and nose; his hat, with the tinyvelvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry.
"Come in, Monsieur Darrel," he said; "the mayor and I are packing upthe effects of the Purple Emperor and of the poor Red Admiral."
"The collections?" I asked, entering the room. "You must be verycareful in packing those butterfly cases; the slightest jar might breakwings and antennae, you know."
Le Bihan shook hands with me and pointed to the great pile of boxes.
"They're all cork lined," he said, "but Fortin and I are putting feltaround each box. The Entomological Society of Paris pays the freight."
The combined collections of the Red Admiral and the Purple Emperor madea magnificent display.
I lifted and inspected case after case set with gorgeous butterfliesand moths, each specimen carefully labelled with the name in Latin.There were cases filled with crimson tiger moths all aflame withcolour; cases devoted to the common yellow butterflies; symphonies inorange and pale yellow; cases of soft gray and dun-coloured sphinxmoths; and cases of garish nettle-bred butterflies of the numerousfamily of _Vanessa_.
All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple emperor, theApatura Iris, that fatal specimen that had given the Purple Emperor hisname and quietus.
I remembered the butterfly, and stood looking at it with bent eyebrows.
Le Bihan glanced up from the floor where he was nailing down the lid ofa box full of cases.
"It is settled, then," said he, "that madame, your wife, gives thePurple Emperor's entire collection to the city of Paris?"
I nodded.
"Without accepting anything for it?"
"It is a gift," I said.
"Including the purple emperor there in the case? That butterfly isworth a great deal of money," persisted Le Bihan.
"You don't suppose that we would wish to sell that specimen, do you?"I answered a trifle sharply.
"If I were you I should destroy it," said the mayor in his high-pitchedvoice.
"That would be nonsense," said I--"like your burying the brass cylinderand scroll yesterday."
"It was not nonsense," said Le Bihan doggedly, "and I should prefer notto discuss the subject of the scroll."
I looked at Max Fortin, who immediately avoided my eyes.
"You are a pair of superstitious old women," said I, digging my handsinto my pockets; "you swallow every nursery tale that is invented."
"What of it?" said Le Bih
an sulkily; "there's more truth than lies inmost of 'em."
"Oh!" I sneered, "does the Mayor of St. Gildas and St. Julien believein the Loup-garou?"
"No, not in the Loup-garou."
"In what, then--Jeanne-la-Flamme?"
"That," said Le Bihan with conviction, "is history."
"The devil it is!" said I; "and perhaps, monsieur the mayor, your faithin giants is unimpaired?"
"There were giants--everybody knows it," growled Max Fortin.
"And you a chemist!" I observed scornfully.
"Listen, Monsieur Darrel," squeaked Le Bihan; "you know yourself thatthe Purple Emperor was a scientific man. Now suppose I should tellyou that he always refused to include in his collection a Death'sMessenger?"
"A what?" I exclaimed.
"You know what I mean--that moth that flies by night; some call it theDeath's Head, but in St. Gildas we call it 'Death's Messenger.'"
"Oh!" said I, "you mean that big sphinx moth that is commonly known asthe 'death's-head moth.' Why the mischief should the people here callit death's messenger?"
"For hundreds of years it has been known as death's messenger inSt. Gildas," said Max Fortin. "Even Froissart speaks of it in hiscommentaries on Jacques Sorgue's Chronicles. The book is in yourlibrary."
"Sorgue? And who was Jacques Sorgue? I never read his book."
"Jacques Sorgue was the son of some unfrocked priest--I forget. It wasduring the crusades."
"Good Heavens!" I burst out, "I've been hearing of nothing but crusadesand priests and death and sorcery ever since I kicked that skull intothe gravel pit, and I am tired of it, I tell you frankly. One wouldthink we lived in the dark ages. Do you know what year of our Lord itis, Le Bihan?"
"Eighteen hundred and ninety-six," replied the mayor.
"And yet you two hulking men are afraid of a death's-head moth."
"I don't care to have one fly into the window," said Max Fortin; "itmeans evil to the house and the people in it."
"God alone knows why he marked one of his creatures with a yellowdeath's head on the back," observed Le Bihan piously, "but I take itthat he meant it as a warning; and I propose to profit by it," he addedtriumphantly.
"See here, Le Bihan," I said; "by a stretch of imagination one can makeout a skull on the thorax of a certain big sphinx moth. What of it?"
"It is a bad thing to touch," said the mayor, wagging his head.
"It squeaks when handled," added Max Fortin.
"Some creatures squeak all the time," I observed, looking hard at LeBihan.
"Pigs," added the mayor.
"Yes, and asses," I replied. "Listen, Le Bihan: do you mean to tell methat you saw that skull roll uphill yesterday?"
The mayor shut his mouth tightly and picked up his hammer.
"Don't be obstinate," I said; "I asked you a question."
"And I refuse to answer," snapped Le Bihan. "Fortin saw what I saw; lethim talk about it."
I looked searchingly at the little chemist.
"I don't say that I saw it actually roll up out of the pit, all byitself," said Fortin with a shiver, "but--but then, how did it come upout of the pit, if it didn't roll up all by itself?"
"It didn't come up at all; that was a yellow cobblestone that youmistook for the skull again," I replied. "You were nervous, Max."
"A--a very curious cobblestone, Monsieur Darrel," said Fortin.
"I also was a victim to the same hallucination," I continued, "and Iregret to say that I took the trouble to roll two innocent cobblestonesinto the gravel pit, imagining each time that it was the skull I wasrolling."
"It was," observed Le Bihan with a morose shrug.
"It just shows," said I, ignoring the mayor's remark, "how easy it isto fix up a train of coincidences so that the result seems to savourof the supernatural. Now, last night my wife imagined that she saw apriest in a mask peer in at her window----"
Fortin and Le Bihan scrambled hastily from their knees, dropping hammerand nails.
"W-h-a-t--what's that?" demanded the mayor.
I repeated what I had said. Max Fortin turned livid.
"My God!" muttered Le Bihan, "the Black Priest is in St. Gildas!"
"D-don't you--you know the old prophecy?" stammered Fortin; "Froissartquotes it from Jacques Sorgue:
'When the Black Priest rises from the dead, St. Gildas folk shall shriek in bed; When the Black Priest rises from his grave, May the good God St. Gildas save!'"
"Aristide Le Bihan," I said angrily, "and you, Max Fortin, I've gotenough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been inSt. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools like you. If you havenothing better to talk about than nursery legends I'll wait until youcome to your senses. Good-morning." And I walked out, more disturbedthan I cared to acknowledge to myself.
The day had become misty and overcast. Heavy, wet clouds hung in theeast. I heard the surf thundering against the cliffs, and the graygulls squealed as they tossed and turned high in the sky. The tidewas creeping across the river sands, higher, higher, and I saw theseaweed floating on the beach, and the _lancons_ springing from thefoam, silvery thread-like flashes in the gloom. Curlew were flying upthe river in twos and threes; the timid sea swallows skimmed across themoors toward some quiet, lonely pool, safe from the coming tempest. Inevery hedge field birds were gathering, huddling together, twitteringrestlessly.
When I reached the cliffs I sat down, resting my chin on my clenchedhands. Already a vast curtain of rain, sweeping across the ocean milesaway, hid the island of Groix. To the east, behind the white semaphoreon the hills, black clouds crowded up over the horizon. After a littlethe thunder boomed, dull, distant, and slender skeins of lightningunravelled across the crest of the coming storm. Under the cliff at myfeet the surf rushed foaming over the shore, and the _lancons_ jumpedand skipped and quivered until they seemed to be but the reflections ofthe meshed lightning.
I turned to the east. It was raining over Groix, it was raining atSainte Barbe, it was raining now at the semaphore. High in the stormwhirl a few gulls pitched; a nearer cloud trailed veils of rain in itswake; the sky was spattered with lightning; the thunder boomed.
As I rose to go, a cold raindrop fell upon the back of my hand, andanother, and yet another on my face. I gave a last glance at the sea,where the waves were bursting into strange white shapes that seemed tofling out menacing arms toward me. Then something moved on the cliff,something black as the black rock it clutched--a filthy cormorant,craning its hideous head at the sky.
Slowly I plodded homeward across the sombre moorland, where thegorse stems glimmered with a dull metallic green, and the heather,no longer violet and purple, hung drenched and dun-coloured amongthe dreary rocks. The wet turf creaked under my heavy boots, theblack-thorn scraped and grated against knee and elbow. Over all laya strange light, pallid, ghastly, where the sea spray whirled acrossthe landscape and drove into my face until it grew numb with the cold.In broad bands, rank after rank, billow on billow, the rain burst outacross the endless moors, and yet there was no wind to drive it at sucha pace.
Lys stood at the door as I turned into the garden, motioning me tohasten; and then for the first time I became conscious that I wassoaked to the skin.
"How ever in the world did you come to stay out when such a stormthreatened?" she said. "Oh, you are dripping! Go quickly and change; Ihave laid your warm underwear on the bed, Dick."
I kissed my wife, and went upstairs to change my dripping clothes forsomething more comfortable.
When I returned to the morning room there was a driftwood fire on thehearth, and Lys sat in the chimney corner embroidering.
"Catherine tells me that the fishing fleet from Lorient is out. Do youthink they are in danger, dear?" asked Lys, raising her blue eyes tomine as I entered.
"There is no wind, and there will be no sea," said I, looking out ofthe window. Far across the moor I could see the black cliffs looming inthe mist.
"How it rains!" murmured Lys; "come to the fire, D
ick."
I threw myself on the fur rug, my hands in my pockets, my head on Lys'sknees.
"Tell me a story," I said. "I feel like a boy of ten."
Lys raised a finger to her scarlet lips. I always waited for her to dothat.
"Will you be very still, then?" she said.
"Still as death."
"Death," echoed a voice, very softly.
"Did you speak, Lys?" I asked, turning so that I could see her face.
"No; did you, Dick?"
"Who said 'death'?" I asked, startled.
"Death," echoed a voice, softly.
I sprang up and looked about. Lys rose too, her needles and embroideryfalling to the floor. She seemed about to faint, leaning heavily on me,and I led her to the window and opened it a little way to give her air.As I did so the chain lightning split the zenith, the thunder crashed,and a sheet of rain swept into the room, driving with it something thatfluttered--something that flapped, and squeaked, and beat upon the rugwith soft, moist wings.
We bent over it together, Lys clinging to me, and we saw that it was adeath's-head moth drenched with rain.
The dark day passed slowly as we sat beside the fire, hand in hand,her head against my breast, speaking of sorrow and mystery and death.For Lys believed that there were things on earth that none mightunderstand, things that must be nameless forever and ever, until Godrolls up the scroll of life and all is ended. We spoke of hope and fearand faith, and the mystery of the saints; we spoke of the beginning andthe end, of the shadow of sin, of omens, and of love. The moth stilllay on the floor, quivering its sombre wings in the warmth of the fire,the skull and ribs clearly etched upon its neck and body.
"If it is a messenger of death to this house," I said, "why should wefear, Lys?"
"Death should be welcome to those who love God," murmured Lys, and shedrew the cross from her breast and kissed it.
"The moth might die if I threw it out into the storm," I said after asilence.
"Let it remain," sighed Lys.
Late that night my wife lay sleeping, and I sat beside her bed and readin the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue. I shaded the candle, but Lys grewrestless, and finally I took the book down into the morning room, wherethe ashes of the fire rustled and whitened on the hearth.
The death's-head moth lay on the rug before the fire where I had leftit. At first I thought it was dead, but, when I looked closer I sawa lambent fire in its amber eyes. The straight white shadow it castacross the floor wavered as the candle flickered.
The pages of the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue were damp and sticky; theilluminated gold and blue initials left flakes of azure and gilt wheremy hand brushed them.
"It is not paper at all; it is thin parchment," I said to myself;and I held the discoloured page close to the candle flame and read,translating laboriously:
"I, Jacques Sorgue, saw all these things. And I saw the Black Masscelebrated in the chapel of St. Gildas-on-the-Cliff. And it was said bythe Abbe Sorgue, my kinsman: for which deadly sin the apostate priestwas seized by the most noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him condemnedto be burned with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body andfly to its master the devil. But when the Black Priest lay in the cryptof Plougastel, his master Satan came at night and set him free, andcarried him across land and sea to Mahmoud, which is Soldan or Saladin.And I, Jacques Sorgue, travelling afterward by sea, beheld with my owneyes my kinsman, the Black Priest of St. Gildas, borne along in theair upon a vast black wing, which was the wing of his master Satan. Andthis was seen also by two men of the crew."
I turned the page. The wings of the moth on the floor began to quiver.I read on and on, my eyes blurring under the shifting candle flame.I read of battles and of saints, and I learned how the great Soldanmade his pact with Satan, and then I came to the Sieur de Trevec, andread how he seized the Black Priest in the midst of Saladin's tentsand carried him away and cut off his head, first branding him on theforehead. "And before he suffered," said the Chronicle, "he cursed theSieur de Trevec and his descendants, and he said he would surely returnto St. Gildas. 'For the violence you do to me, I will do violence toyou. For the evil I suffer at your hands, I will work evil on you andyour descendants. Woe to your children, Sieur de Trevec!'" There wasa whirr, a beating of strong wings, and my candle flashed up as in asudden breeze. A humming filled the room; the great moth darted hitherand thither, beating, buzzing, on ceiling and wall. I flung down mybook and stepped forward. Now it lay fluttering upon the window sill,and for a moment I had it under my hand, but the thing squeaked andI shrank back. Then suddenly it darted across the candle flame; thelight flared and went out, and at the same moment a shadow moved inthe darkness outside. I raised my eyes to the window. A masked face waspeering in at me.
Quick as thought I whipped out my revolver and fired every cartridge,but the face advanced beyond the window, the glass melting away beforeit like mist, and through the smoke of my revolver I saw somethingcreep swiftly into the room. Then I tried to cry out, but the thing wasat my throat, and I fell backward among the ashes of the hearth.
* * * * *
When my eyes unclosed I was lying on the hearth, my head among the coldashes. Slowly I got on my knees, rose painfully, and groped my wayto a chair. On the floor lay my revolver, shining in the pale lightof early morning. My mind clearing by degrees, I looked, shuddering,at the window. The glass was unbroken. I stooped stiffly, picked upmy revolver and opened the cylinder. Every cartridge had been fired.Mechanically I closed the cylinder and placed the revolver in mypocket. The book, the Chronicles of Jacques Sorgue, lay on the tablebeside me, and as I started to close it I glanced at the page. It wasall splashed with rain, and the lettering had run, so that the page wasmerely a confused blur of gold and red and black. As I stumbled towardthe door I cast a fearful glance over my shoulder. The death's-headmoth crawled shivering on the rug.
IV.
The sun was about three hours high. I must have slept, for I wasaroused by the sudden gallop of horses under our window. People wereshouting and calling in the road. I sprang up and opened the sash.Le Bihan was there, an image of helplessness, and Max Fortin stoodbeside him, polishing his glasses. Some gendarmes had just arrivedfrom Quimperle, and I could hear them around the corner of the house,stamping, and rattling their sabres and carbines, as they led theirhorses into my stable.
Lys sat up, murmuring half-sleepy, half-anxious questions.
"I don't know," I answered. "I am going out to see what it means."
"It is like the day they came to arrest you," Lys said, giving me atroubled look. But I kissed her, and laughed at her until she smiledtoo. Then I flung on coat and cap and hurried down the stairs.
The first person I saw standing in the road was the Brigadier Durand.
"Hello!" said I, "have you come to arrest me again? What the devil isall this fuss about, anyway?"
"We were telegraphed for an hour ago," said Durand briskly, "and for asufficient reason, I think. Look there, Monsieur Darrel!"
He pointed to the ground almost under my feet.
"Good heavens!" I cried, "where did that puddle of blood come from?"
"That's what I want to know, Monsieur Darrel. Max Fortin found it atdaybreak. See, it's splashed all over the grass, too. A trail of itleads into your garden, across the flower beds to your very window, theone that opens from the morning room. There is another trail leadingfrom this spot across the road to the cliffs, then to the gravel pit,and thence across the moor to the forest of Kerselec. We are going tomount in a minute and search the bosquets. Will you join us? Bon Dieu!but the fellow bled like an ox. Max Fortin says it's human blood, or Ishould not have believed it."
The little chemist of Quimperle came up at that moment, rubbing hisglasses with a coloured handkerchief.
"Yes, it is human blood," he said, "but one thing puzzles me: thecorpuscles are yellow. I never saw any human blood before with yellowcorpuscles. But your English Doctor Thompson asserts that he has----"
"Well, it's human blood, anyway--isn't it?" insisted Durand,impatiently.
"Ye-es," admitted Max Fortin.
"Then it's my business to trail it," said the big gendarme, and hecalled his men and gave the order to mount.
"Did you hear anything last night?" asked Durand of me.
"I heard the rain. I wonder the rain did not wash away these traces."
"They must have come after the rain ceased. See this thick splash, howit lies over and weighs down the wet grass blades. Pah!"
It was a heavy, evil-looking clot, and I stepped back from it, mythroat closing in disgust.
"My theory," said the brigadier, "is this: Some of those Biribifishermen, probably the Icelanders, got an extra glass of cognac intotheir hides and quarrelled on the road. Some of them were slashed, andstaggered to your house. But there is only one trail, and yet--and yet,how could all that blood come from only one person? Well, the woundedman, let us say, staggered first to your house and then back here, andhe wandered off, drunk and dying, God knows where. That's my theory."
"A very good one," said I calmly. "And you are going to trail him?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"At once. Will you come?"
"Not now. I'll gallop over by-and-bye. You are going to the edge of theKerselec forest?"
"Yes; you will hear us calling. Are you coming, Max Fortin? And you, LeBihan? Good; take the dog-cart."
The big gendarme tramped around the corner to the stable and presentlyreturned mounted on a strong gray horse; his sabre shone on his saddle;his pale yellow and white facings were spotless. The little crowd ofwhite-coiffed women with their children fell back, as Durand touchedspurs and clattered away followed by his two troopers. Soon after LeBihan and Max Fortin also departed in the mayor's dingy dog-cart.
"Are you coming?" piped Le Bihan shrilly.
"In a quarter of an hour," I replied, and went back to the house.
When I opened the door of the morning room the death's-head moth wasbeating its strong wings against the window. For a second I hesitated,then walked over and opened the sash. The creature fluttered out,whirred over the flower beds a moment, then darted across the moorlandtoward the sea. I called the servants together and questioned them.Josephine, Catherine, Jean Marie Tregunc, not one of them had heardthe slightest disturbance during the night. Then I told Jean Marie tosaddle my horse, and while I was speaking Lys came down.
"Dearest," I began, going to her.
"You must tell me everything you know, Dick," she interrupted, lookingme earnestly in the face.
"But there is nothing to tell--only a drunken brawl, and some onewounded."
"And you are going to ride--where, Dick?"
"Well, over to the edge of Kerselec forest. Durand and the mayor, andMax Fortin, have gone on, following a--a trail."
"What trail?"
"Some blood."
"Where did they find it?"
"Out in the road there." Lys crossed herself.
"Does it come near our house?"
"Yes."
"How near?"
"It comes up to the morning-room window," said I, giving in.
Her hand on my arm grew heavy. "I dreamed last night----"
"So did I----" but I thought of the empty cartridges in my revolver,and stopped.
"I dreamed that you were in great danger, and I could not move hand orfoot to save you; but you had your revolver, and I called out to you tofire----"
"I did fire!" I cried excitedly.
"You--you fired?"
I took her in my arms. "My darling," I said, "something strange hashappened--something that I can not understand as yet. But, of course,there is an explanation. Last night I thought I fired at the BlackPriest."
"Ah!" gasped Lys.
"Is that what you dreamed?"
"Yes, yes, that was it! I begged you to fire----"
"And I did."
Her heart was beating against my breast. I held her close in silence.
"Dick," she said at length, "perhaps you killed the--the thing."
"If it was human I did not miss," I answered grimly. "And it washuman," I went on, pulling myself together, ashamed of having so nearlygone to pieces. "Of course it was human! The whole affair is plainenough. Not a drunken brawl, as Durand thinks; it was a drunken lout'spractical joke, for which he has suffered. I suppose I must have filledhim pretty full of bullets, and he has crawled away to die in Kerselecforest. It's a terrible affair; I'm sorry I fired so hastily; but thatidiot Le Bihan and Max Fortin have been working on my nerves till I amas hysterical as a schoolgirl," I ended angrily.
"You fired--but the window glass was not shattered," said Lys in a lowvoice.
"Well, the window was open, then. And as for the--the rest--I've gotnervous indigestion, and a doctor will settle the Black Priest for me,Lys."
I glanced out of the window at Tregunc waiting with my horse at thegate.
"Dearest, I think I had better go to join Durand and the others."
"I will go too."
"Oh, no!"
"Yes, Dick."
"Don't, Lys."
"I shall suffer every moment you are away."
"The ride is too fatiguing, and we can't tell what unpleasant sightyou may come upon. Lys, you don't really think there is anythingsupernatural in this affair?"
"Dick," she answered gently, "I am a Bretonne." With both arms aroundmy neck, my wife said, "Death is the gift of God. I do not fear it whenwe are together. But alone--oh, my husband, I should fear a God whocould take you away from me!"
We kissed each other soberly, simply, like two children. Then Lyshurried away to change her gown, and I paced up and down the gardenwaiting for her.
She came, drawing on her slender gauntlets. I swung her into thesaddle, gave a hasty order to Jean Marie, and mounted.
Now, to quail under thoughts of terror on a morning like this, with Lysin the saddle beside me, no matter what had happened or might happen,was impossible. Moreover, Mome came sneaking after us. I asked Treguncto catch him, for I was afraid he might be brained by our horses' hoofsif he followed, but the wily puppy dodged and bolted after Lys, whowas trotting along the high-road. "Never mind," I thought; "if he's hithe'll live, for he has no brains to lose."
Lys was waiting for me in the road beside the Shrine of Our Lady of St.Gildas when I joined her. She crossed herself, I doffed my cap, then weshook out our bridles and galloped toward the forest of Kerselec.
We said very little as we rode. I always loved to watch Lys in thesaddle. Her exquisite figure and lovely face were the incarnation ofyouth and grace; her curling hair glistened like threaded gold.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the spoiled puppy Mome come boundingcheerfully alongside, oblivious of our horses' heels. Our road swungclose to the cliffs. A filthy cormorant rose from the black rocks andflapped heavily across our path. Lys's horse reared, but she pulled himdown, and pointed at the bird with her riding crop.
"I see," said I; "it seems to be going our way. Curious to see acormorant in a forest, isn't it?"
"It is a bad sign," said Lys. "You know the Morbihan proverb: 'Whenthe cormorant turns from the sea, Death laughs in the forest, and wisewoodsmen build boats.'"
"I wish," said I sincerely, "that there were fewer proverbs inBrittany."
We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could seethe sparkle of gendarmes' trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan'ssilver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took it withoutdifficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durandstood gesticulating.
They bowed ceremoniously to Lys as we rode up.
"The trail is horrible--it is a river," said the mayor in his squeakyvoice. "Monsieur Darrel, I think perhaps madame would scarcely care tocome any nearer."
Lys drew bridle and looked at me.
"It is horrible!" said Durand, walking up beside me; "it looks asthough a bleeding regiment had passed this way. The trail winds andwinds about th
ere in the thickets; we lose it at times, but we alwaysfind it again. I can't understand how one man--no, nor twenty--couldbleed like that!"
A halloo, answered by another, sounded from the depths of the forest.
"It's my men; they are following the trail," muttered the brigadier."God alone knows what is at the end!"
"Shall we gallop back, Lys?" I asked.
"No; let us ride along the western edge of the woods and dismount. Thesun is so hot now, and I should like to rest for a moment," she said.
"The western forest is clear of anything disagreeable," said Durand.
"Very well," I answered; "call me, Le Bihan, if you find anything."
Lys wheeled her mare, and I followed across the springy heather, Mometrotting cheerfully in the rear.
We entered the sunny woods about a quarter of a kilometre from wherewe left Durand. I took Lys from her horse, flung both bridles over alimb, and, giving my wife my arm, aided her to a flat mossy rock whichoverhung a shallow brook gurgling among the beech trees. Lys sat downand drew off her gauntlets. Mome pushed his head into her lap, receivedan undeserved caress, and came doubtfully toward me. I was weak enoughto condone his offence, but I made him lie down at my feet, greatly tohis disgust.
I rested my head on Lys's knees, looking up at the sky through thecrossed branches of the trees.
"I suppose I have killed him," I said. "It shocks me terribly, Lys."
"You could not have known, dear. He may have been a robber,and--if--not---- Did--have you ever fired your revolver since that dayfour years ago, when the Red Admiral's son tried to kill you? But Iknow you have not."
"No," said I, wondering. "It's a fact, I have not. Why?"
"And don't you remember that I asked you to let me load it for you theday when Yves went off, swearing to kill you and his father?"
"Yes, I do remember. Well?"
"Well, I--I took the cartridges first to St. Gildas chapel and dippedthem in holy water. You must not laugh, Dick," said Lys gently, layingher cool hands on my lips.
"Laugh, my darling!"
Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst, and the sunlight burnedlike orange flame through the yellow leaves of beech and oak. Gnatsand midges danced and wavered overhead; a spider dropped from a twighalfway to the ground and hung suspended on the end of his gossamerthread.
"Are you sleepy, dear?" asked Lys, bending over me.
"I am--a little; I scarcely slept two hours last night," I answered.
"You may sleep, if you wish," said Lys, and touched my eyes caressingly.
"Is my head heavy on your knees?"
"No, Dick."
I was already in a half doze; still I heard the brook babbling underthe beeches and the humming of forest flies overhead. Presently eventhese were stilled.
The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears ringing witha scream, and I saw Lys cowering beside me, covering her white facewith both hands.
As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my knees. I saw mydog rush growling into a thicket, then I heard him whimper, and he camebacking out, whining, ears flat, tail down. I stooped and disengagedLys's hand.
"Don't go, Dick!" she cried. "O God, it's the Black Priest!"
In a moment I had leaped across the brook and pushed my way into thethicket. It was empty. I stared about me; I scanned every tree trunk,every bush. Suddenly I saw him. He was seated on a fallen log, his headresting in his hands, his rusty black robe gathered around him. Fora moment my hair stirred under my cap; sweat started on forehead andcheek-bone; then I recovered my reason, and understood that the man washuman and was probably wounded to death. Ay, to death; for there, at myfeet, lay the wet trail of blood, over leaves and stones, down into thelittle hollow, across to the figure in black resting silently under thetrees.
I saw that he could not escape even if he had the strength, for beforehim, almost at his very feet, lay a deep, shining swamp.
As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig. At the sound the figurestarted a little, then its head fell forward again. Its face wasmasked. Walking up to the man, I bade him tell where he was wounded.Durand and the others broke through the thicket at the same moment andhurried to my side.
"Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest's robe?" said thegendarme loudly.
There was no answer.
"See--see the stiff blood all over his robe!" muttered Le Bihan toFortin.
"He will not speak," said I.
"He may be too badly wounded," whispered Le Bihan.
"I saw him raise his head," I said; "my wife saw him creep up here."
Durand stepped forward and touched the figure.
"Speak!" he said.
"Speak!" quavered Fortin.
Durand waited a moment, then with a sudden upward movement he strippedoff the mask and threw back the man's head. We were looking into theeye sockets of a skull. Durand stood rigid; the mayor shrieked. Theskeleton burst out from its rotting robes and collapsed on the groundbefore us. From between the staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurteda torrent of black blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then thething shuddered, and fell over into the black ooze of the bog. Littlebubbles of iridescent air appeared from the mud; the bones were slowlyengulfed, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight, up from thedepths and along the bank crept a creature, shiny, shivering, quiveringits wings.
It was a death's-head moth.
* * * * *
I wish I had time to tell you how Lys outgrew superstitions--for shenever knew the truth about the affair, and she never will know, sinceshe has promised not to read this book. I wish I might tell you aboutthe king and his coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted. I wishthat I were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boarhunt in Quimperle, and how the hounds raced the quarry right throughthe town, overturning three gendarmes, the notary, and an old woman.But I am becoming garrulous, and Lys is calling me to come and hear theking say that he is sleepy. And his Highness shall not be kept waiting.
* * * * *
THE KING'S CRADLE SONG.
Seal with a seal of gold The scroll of a life unrolled; Swathe him deep in his purple stole; Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal, Drops of gold in each scented fold.
Crimson wings of the Little Death, Stir his hair with your silken breath; Flaming wings of sins to be, Splendid pinions of prophecy, Smother his eyes with hues and dyes, While the white moon spins and the winds arise, And the stars drip through the skies.
Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Seal his sight and stifle his breath, Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed; From north to north, from west to west, Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies, And the ghosts of God arise.