Among lilies and closed buds At dusk? Among lilies and closed buds At dusk.
Whom do you seek Little gray messenger. Robed in the awful panoply1 Of painted Death? — R.W. C.
All — wise. Hast thou seen all there is to see with thy two eyes? Dost thou know all there is to know and so. Omniscient2. Darest thou still to say thy brother lies?
— R.W.C.
“The bullet entered here,” said Max Fortin, and he placed his middle finger over a smooth hole exactly in the centre of the forehead.
I sat down upon a mound3 of dry seaweed and unslung my fowling4 piece.
The little chemist cautiously felt the edges of the shot-hole, first with his middle finger, then with his thumb.
“Let me see the skull5 again,” said I.
Max Fortin picked it up from the sod.
“It’s like all the others,” he observed. I nodded, without offering to take it from him. After a moment he thoughtfully replaced it upon the grass at my feet.
“It’s like all the others,” he repeated, wiping his glasses on his handkerchief. “I thought you might care to see one of the skulls6, so I brought this over from the gravel7 pit. The men from Bannalec are digging yet. They ought to stop.”
“How many skulls are there altogether?” I inquired.
“They found thirty-eight skulls; there are thirty-nine noted8 in the list. They lie piled up in the gravel pit on the edge of Le Bihan’s wheat 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 the cliffs, Fortin on one side, M?me on the other.
“Who has the list?” I asked, lighting9 my pipe. “You say there is a list?”
“The list was found rolled up in a brass10 cylinder11,” said the little chemist. He added: “You should not smoke here. You know that if a single 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 the glowing bowl of the pipe.
Then he continued:
“The list was made out on thick yellow paper; the brass tube has preserved it. It is as fresh to-day as it was in 1760. You shall see it.”
“Is that the date?”
“The list is dated ‘April, 1760.’ The Brigadier Durand has it. It is not written in French.”
“Nor written in French!” I exclaimed.
“No,” replied Fortin solemnly, “it is written in Breton.”
“But,” I protested, “the Breton language was never written or printed in 1760.”
“Except by priests,” said the chemist.
“I have heard of but one priest who ever wrote the Breton language,” I began.
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 his teeth obstinately13 over the wheat stem that he was chewing.
“And the Black Priest?” I suggested encouragingly. But I knew it was useless; for it is easier to move the stars from their courses than to make an obstinate12 Breton talk. We walked on for a minute or two in silence.
“Where is the Brigadier Durand?” I asked, motioning M?me to come out of the wheat, which he was trampling14 as though it were heather. As I spoke15 we 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 Mayor of St. Gildas.”
“I see,” said I; and we struck straight down, following a sun-baked cattle 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 the wheat to where he stood.
“Thirty-eight skulls,” he said in his thin, high-pitched voice; “there is but one more, and I am opposed to further search. I suppose Fortin told you?”
I shook hands with him, and returned the salute16 of the Brigadier Durand.
“I am opposed to further search,” repeated Le Bihan, nervously17 picking at the mass of silver buttons which covered the front of his velvet19 and broadcloth jacket like a breastplate of scale armour22.
Durand pursed up his lips, twisted his tremendous mustache, and hooked his 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 bowl of molten gold from the cliffs to the horizon. I followed his eyes. On the dark glistening23 cliffs, silhouetted24 against the glare of the sea, sat a cormorant25, black, motionless, its horrible head raised toward heaven.
“Where is that list, Durand?” I asked.
The gendarme27 rummaged28 in his despatch29 pouch31 and produced a brass cylinder about a foot long. Very gravely he unscrewed the head and dumped out a scroll32 of thick yellow paper closely covered with writing on both sides. At a nod from Le Bihan, he handed me the scroll. But I could 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 were digging, gave an order or two in Breton, and turned to me.
As I came to the edge of the pit the Bannalec men were removing a square piece of sailcloth from what appeared to be a pile of cobblestones.
“Look!” said Le Bihan shrilly34. I looked. The pile below was a heap of skulls. After a moment I clambered down the gravel sides of the pit and walked over to the men of Bannalec. They saluted36 me gravely, leaning on their picks and shovels37, and wiping their swearing faces with sunburned hands.
“How many?” said I in Breton.
“Thirty-eight,” they replied.
I glanced around. Beyond the heap of skulls lay two piles of human bones. Beside these was a mound of broken, rusted38 bits of iron and steel. Looking closer, I saw that this mound was composed of rusty39 bayonets, sabre blades, scythe40 blades, with here and there a tarnished41 buckle42 attached to a bit of leather hard as iron.
I picked up a couple of buttons and a belt plate. The buttons bore the royal arms of England; the belt plate was emblazoned with the English arms, and also with the number “27.”
“I have heard my grandfather speak of the terrible English regiment44, the 27th Foot, which landed and stormed the fort up there,” said one of the 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 handed the belt plate and buttons to the men and climbed the side of the excavation45.
“Well,” said I, trying to prevent M?me from leaping up and licking my face as I emerged from the pit, “I suppose you know what these bones are. What are you going to do with them?”
“There was a man,” said Le Bihan angrily, “an Englishman, who passed here in a dog-cart on his way to Quimper about an hour ago, and what do you suppose he wished to do?”
“Buy the relics47?” I asked, smiling.
“Exactly — the pig!” piped the mayor of St. Gildas. “Jean Marie Tregunc, who found the bones, was standing48 there where Max Fortin stands, and do you know what he answered? He spat30 upon the ground, and said: ‘Pig of an Englishman, do you take me for a desecrator49 of graves?’”
I knew Tregunc, a sober, blue-eyed Breton, who lived from one year’s end to the other without being able to afford a single bit of meat for a meal.
“How much did the Englishman offer Tregunc?” I asked.
“Two hundred francs for the skulls alone.”
I thought of the relic46 hunters and the relic buyers on the battlefields of 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 your homes,” 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 his dripping jersey50.
“How much do you earn every year, Jean Marie?” I asked, turning to shake 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 somebody to translate that list into French for me.”
Tregunc stood gazing at me, his blue eyes dilated51.
“You may begin at once,” I said, smiling. “If the salary suits you?”
“It suits,” said Tregunc, fumbling52 for his pipe in a silly way that annoyed Le Bihan.
“Then go and begin your work,” cried the mayor impatiently; and Tregunc started across the moors53 toward St. Gildas, taking off his velvet-ribboned cap to me and gripping his sea rake very hard.
“You offer him more than my salary,” said the mayor, after a moment’s contemplation of his silver buttons.
“Pooh!” said I, “what do you do for your salary except play dominoes with Max Fortin at the Groix Inn?”
Le Bihan turned red, but Durand rattled55 his sabre and winked56 at Max Fortin, and I slipped my arm through the arm of the sulky magistrate57, laughing.
“There’s a shady spot under the cliff,” I said; “come on, Le Bihan, and read me what is in the scroll.”
In a few moments we reached the shadow of the cliff, and I threw myself upon the turf, chin on hand, to listen.
The gendarme, Durand, also sat down, twisting his mustache into needlelike points. Fortin leaned against the cliff, polishing his glasses and examining us with vague, near-sighted eyes; and Le Bihan, the mayor, planted himself in our midst, rolling up the scroll and tucking it under his arm.
“First of all,” he began in a shrill33 voice, “I am going to light my pipe, and while lighting it I shall tell you what I have heard about the 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, square stone structure on the sea cliff, now nothing but crumbling58 walls. Then he slowly produced a tobacco pouch, a bit of flint and tinder, and a long-stemmed pipe fitted with a microscopical59 bowl of baked clay. To fill such a pipe requires ten minutes’ close attention. To smoke it to a finish takes but four puffs60. It is very Breton, this Breton pipe. It is the crystallization of everything Breton.
“Go on,” said I, lighting a cigarette.
“The fort,” said the mayor, “was built by Louis XI and was dismantled61 twice by the English. Louis XV restored it in 1739. In 1760 it was carried by assault by the English. They came across from the island of Groix — three shiploads — and they stormed the fort and sacked St. Julien yonder, and they started to burn St. Gildas — you can see the marks of their bullets on my house yet; but the men of Bannalec and the men of Lorient fell upon them with pike and scythe and blunderbuss, and those who did not run away lie there below in the gravel pit now — 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 put his tobacco pouch away.
“The thirty-ninth skull,” he mumbled62, holding the pipestem between his defective63 teeth —“the thirty-ninth skull is no business of mine. I have told the Bannalec men to cease digging.”
“But what is — whose is the missing skull?” I persisted curiously64.
The mayor was busy trying to strike a spark to his tinder. Presently he set it aglow65, applied66 it to his pipe, took the prescribed four puffs, knocked the ashes out of the bowl, and gravely replaced the pipe in his pocket.
“The missing skull?” he asked.
“Yes,” said I impatiently.
The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read, translating from 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 regiments67 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 the other side, “‘was buried the body of that vile68 traitor69 who betrayed the fort to the English. The manner of his death was as follows: By order of the most noble Count of Soisic, the traitor was first branded upon the forehead with the brand of an arrowhead. The iron burned through the flesh, and was pressed heavily so that the brand should even burn into the bone of the skull. The traitor was then led out and bidden to kneel. He admitted having guided the English from the island of Groix. Although a priest and a Frenchman, he had violated his priestly office to aid him in discovering the password to the fort. This password he extorted70 during confession71 from a young Breton girl who was in the habit of rowing across from the island of Groix to visit her husband in the fort. When the fort fell, this young girl, crazed by the death of her husband, sought the Count of Soisic and told how the priest had forced her to confess to him all she knew about the fort. The priest was arrested at St. Gildas as he was about to cross the river to Lorient. When arrested he cursed the girl, Marie Trevec —’”
“What!” I exclaimed, “Marie Trevec!”
“‘Marie Trevec,’” repeated Le Bihan; “‘the priest cursed Marie Trevec, and all her family and descendants. He was shot as he knelt, having a mask of leather over his face, because the Bretons who composed the squad72 of execution refused to fire at a priest unless his face was concealed73. The priest was l’Abbé Sorgue, commonly known as the Black Priest on account of his dark face and swarthy eyebrows74. He was buried with a stake through his heart.’“Le Bihan paused, hesitated, looked at me, and handed the manuscript back to Durand. The gendarme took it and slipped it into the brass cylinder.
“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. “You heard me, Max Fortin.”
I rose and picked up my gun. M?me 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 be curious 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 the mayor grimly. “Do you wish to know what it is?”
“Of course,” I replied in surprise.
“Give me the scroll again, Durand,” he said; then he read from the bottom:
“‘I, l’Abbé Sorgue, forced to write the above by my executioners, have written it in my own blood; and with it I leave my curse. My curse on St. Gildas, on Marie Trevec, and on her descendants. I will come back to St. Gildas when my remains75 are disturbed. Woe76 to that Englishman whom my branded skull shall touch!’”
“What rot!” I said. “Do you believe it was really written in his own blood?”
“I am going to test it,” said Fortin, “at the request of Monsieur le Maire. I am not anxious for the job, however.”
“See,” said Le Bihan, holding out the scroll to me, “it is signed, ‘l’Abbé Sorgue.’”
I glanced curiously over the paper.
“It must be the Black Priest,” I said. “He was the only man who wrote in the Breton language. This is a wonderfully interesting discovery, for now, at last, the mystery of the Black Priest’s disappearance77 is cleared up. You will, of course, send this scroll to Paris, Le Bihan?”
“No,” said the mayor obstinately, “it shall be buried in the pit below where the rest of the Black Priest lies.”
I looked at him and recognised that argument would be useless. But still 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 of Bannalec were carrying the bones of the English soldiers toward the St. Gildas cemetery78, on the cliffs to the east, where already a knot of white-coiffed women stood in attitudes of prayer; and I saw the sombre robe of a priest among the crosses of the little graveyard79.
“They were thieves and assassins; they are dead now,” muttered Max Fortin.
“Respect the dead,” repeated the Mayor of St. Gildas, looking after the Bannalec men.
“It was written in that scroll that Marie Trevec, of Groix Island, was cursed by the priest — she and her descendants,” I said, touching80 Le Bihan on the arm. “There was a Marie Trevec who married an Yves Trevec of St. Gildas —”
“It is the same,” said Le Bihan, looking at me obliquely81.
“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 shrugged82 my shoulders and kicked at a smooth bit of rock which lay near the edge of the pit, almost embedded84 in gravel.
“Do you suppose the Purple Emperor drank himself crazy because he was descended85 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’re kicking?”
“What?” said I, glancing down, at the same time involuntarily giving another kick. The smooth bit of rock dislodged itself and rolled out of the loosened gravel at my feet.
“The thirty-ninth skull!” I exclaimed. “By jingo, it’s the noddle of the Black 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. “I don’t like it! The scroll says he will come back to St. Gildas when his remains are disturbed. I— I don’t like it, Monsieur Darrel —”
“Bosh!” said I; “the poor wicked devil is where he can’t get out. For Heaven’s sake, Le Bihan, what is this stuff you are talking in the year of grace 1896?”
The mayor gave me a look.
“And he says ‘Englishman.’ You are an Englishman, Monsieur Darrel,” he announced.
“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 exasperated86, and deliberately87 pushed the 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, but I 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 — what the devil’s the matter with you, anyway? What are you staring at, Le Bihan?”
“Come, come,” muttered the mayor in a low, tremulous voice, “it’s time we got out of this. Did you see? Did you see, Fortin?”
“I saw,” whispered Max Fortin, pallid88 with fright.
The two men were almost running across the sunny pasture now, and I hastened after them, demanding to know what was the matter.
“Matter!” chattered89 the mayor, gasping90 with exasperation91 and terror. “The skull is rolling uphill again!” and he burst into a terrified gallop92. Max Fortin followed close behind.
I watched them stampeding across the pasture, then turned toward the gravel pit, mystified, incredulous. The skull was lying on the edge of the pit, exactly where it had been before I pushed it over the edge. For a second I stared at it; a singular chilly93 feeling crept up my spinal94 column, and I turned and walked away, sweat starting from the root of every hair on my head. Before I had gone twenty paces the absurdity95 of the whole thing struck me. I halted, hot with shame and annoyance96, and retraced97 my steps.
There lay the skull.
“I rolled a stone down instead of the skull,” I muttered to myself. Then with the butt18 of my gun I pushed the skull over the edge of the pit and watched it roll to the bottom; and as it struck the bottom of the pit, M?me, my dog, suddenly whipped his tail between his legs, whimpered, and made off across the moor54.
“M?me!” I shouted, angry and astonished; but the dog only fled the faster, and I ceased calling from sheer surprise.
“What the mischief98 is the matter with that dog!” I thought. He had never before played me such a trick.
Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the skull. I looked down. The skull lay at my feet again, touching them.
“Good heavens!” I stammered99, and struck at it blindly with my gunstock. The ghastly thing flew into the air, whirling over and over, and rolled again down the sides of the pit to the bottom.
Breathlessly I stared at it, then, confused and scarcely comprehending, I stepped back from the pit, still facing it, one, ten, twenty paces, my eyes almost starting from my head, as though I expected to see the thing roll up from the bottom of the pit under my very gaze. At last I turned my back to the pit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland toward my home. As I reached the road that winds from St. Gildas to St. Julien I gave one last hasty glance at the pit over my shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sod about the excavation. There was something white and bare and round on the turf at the edge of the pit. It might have been a stone; there were plenty of them lying about.
II When I entered my garden I saw M?me sprawling100 on the stone doorstep. He eyed me sideways and flopped101 his tail.
“Are you not mortified102, you idiot dog?” I said, looking about the upper windows for Lys.
M?me rolled over on his back and raised one deprecating forepaw, as though to ward26 off calamity103.
“Don’t act as though I was in the habit of beating you to death,” I said, disgusted. I had never in my life raised whip to the brute104. “But you are a fool dog,” I continued. “No, you needn’t come to be babied and wept over; Lys can do that, if she insists, but I am ashamed of you, and you can go the devil.”
M?me slunk off into the house, and I followed, mounting directly to my wife’s boudoir. It was empty.
“Where has she gone?” I said, looking hard at M?me, who had followed me. “Oh! I see you don’t know. Don’t pretend you do. Come off that lounge! Do you think Lys wants rat-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 my somewhat grimy shooting clothes for a suit of warm, soft knickerbockers, and, after lingering some extra moments over my toilet — for I was particular, now that I had married Lys — I went down to the garden and took a chair out under the fig-trees.
“Where can she be?” I wondered. M?me came sneaking105 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 across the moor? If you do it again I’ll push you along with a charge of dust shot.”
As yet I had scarcely dared think about the ghastly hallucination of which I had been a victim, but now I faced it squarely, flushing a little with mortification106 at the thought of my hasty retreat from the gravel pit.
“To think,” I said aloud, “that those old woman’s tales of Max Fortin and Le Bihan should have actually made me see what didn’t exist at all! I lost my nerve like a schoolboy in a dark bedroom.” For I knew now that I had mistaken a round stone for a skull each time, and had pushed a couple of big pebbles107 into the pit instead of the skull itself.
“By jingo!” said I, “I’m nervous; my liver must be in a devil of a condition if I see such things when I’m awake! Lys will know what to give me.”
I felt mortified and irritated and sulky, and thought disgustedly of Le Bihan and Max Fortin.
But after a while I ceased speculating, dismissed the mayor, the chemist, and the skull from my mind, and smoked pensively108, watching the sun low dipping in the western ocean. As the twilight109 fell for a moment over 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; the forest was shrouded110.
Suddenly the sky above burned with the afterglow, and the world was alight again.
Cloud after cloud caught the rose dye; the cliffs were tinted112 with it; moor and pasture, heather and forest burned and pulsated113 with the gentle flush. I saw the gulls114 turning and tossing above the sand bar, their snowy wings tipped with pink; I saw the sea swallows sheeting the surface of the still river, stained to its placid115 depths with warm reflections of the clouds. The twitter of drowsy116 hedge birds broke out in the stillness; a salmon117 rolled its shining side above tide-water.
The interminable monotone of the ocean intensified118 the silence. I sat motionless, holding my breath as one who listens to the first low rumour119 of an organ. All at once the pure whistle of a nightingale cut the silence, and the first moonbeam silvered the wastes of mist-hung waters.
I raised my head.
Lys stood before me in the garden.
When we had kissed each other, we linked arms and moved up and down the gravel walks, watching the moonbeams sparkle on the sand bar as the tide ebbed120 and ebbed. The broad beds of white pinks about us were atremble with hovering121 white moths123; the October roses hung all abloom, perfuming the salt wind.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “where is Yvonne? Has she promised to spend Christmas with us?”
“Yes, Dick; she drove me down from Plougar this afternoon. She sent her love to you. I am not jealous. What did you shoot?”
“A hare and four partridges. They are in the gun room. I told Catherine not to touch them until you had seen them.”
Now I suppose I knew that Lys could not be particularly enthusiastic over game or guns; but she pretended she was, and always scornfully denied that it was for my sake and not for the pure love of sport. So she dragged me off to inspect the rather meagre game bag, and she paid me pretty compliments and gave a little cry of delight and pity as I lifted the enormous hare out of the sack by his ears.
“He’ll eat no more of our lettuce,” I said, attempting to justify124 the assassination125.
“Unhappy little bunny — and what a beauty! O Dick, you are a splendid shot, are you not?”
I evaded126 the question and hauled out a partridge.
“Poor little dead things!” said Lys in a whisper; “it seems a pity — 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 contemplating127 her blissfully, thinking, “My boy, you’re the happiest fellow in the world — you’re in love with your wife!”
I walked into the dining room, beamed at the plates, walked out again; met Tregunc in the hallway, beamed on him; glanced into the kitchen, beamed at Catherine, and went up stairs, still beaming.
Before I could knock at Lys’s door it opened, and Lys came hastily out. When she saw me she gave a little cry of relief, and nestled close to my 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 must have climbed up by the bay tree.”
I was down the stairs and out of doors in no time. The moonlit garden was absolutely deserted128.
Tregunc came up, and together we searched the hedge and shrubbery around the house and out to the road.
“Jean Marie,” said I at length, “loose my bulldog — he knows you — and take your supper on the porch where you can watch. My wife says the fellow is disguised as a priest, and wears a mask.”
Tregunc showed his white teeth in a smile. “He will not care to venture in 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 some foolish lout129 from Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would do such a thing.”
I was too much exasperated to reply at first, but Lys treated it as a stupid 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 Herbert Stuart down to meet her.
“You wicked diplomat130!” I protested. “Herbert is in Paris, and hard at work for the Salon131.”
“Don’t you think he might spare a week to flirt132 with the prettiest girl in Finistère?” 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 Lys approved.
“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 bent133 down and hugged M?me, who whistled through his nose in sentimental134 appreciation135.
“I am a very happy woman,” said Lys.
“M?me was a very bad dog to-day,” I observed.
“Poor M?me!” said Lys, smiling.
When dinner was over and M?me lay snoring before the blaze — for the October nights are often chilly in Finistère — Lys curled up in the chimney corner with her embroidery136, and gave me a swift glance from under her drooping137 lashes138.
“You look like a schoolgirl, Lys,” I said teasingly. “I don’t believe you are sixteen yet.”
She pushed back her heavy burnished139 hair thoughtfully. Her wrist was as white as surf foam140.
“Have we been married four years? I don’t believe it,” I said.
She gave me another swift glance and touched the embroidery on her knee, smiling faintly.
“I see,” said I, also smiling at the embroidered141 garment. “Do you think it will fit?”
“Fit?” repeated Lys. Then she laughed.
“And,” I persisted, “are you perfectly142 sure that you — er — we shall need it?”
“Perfectly,” said Lys. A delicate colour touched her cheeks and neck. She held up the little garment, all fluffy143 with misty144 lace and wrought145 with quaint146 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 fingers among the tinted silks and thread of gold.
Presently she spoke: “What did you say your crest147 is, Dick?”
“My crest? Oh, something or other rampant148 on a something or other —”
“Dick!”
“Dearest?”
“Don’t be flippant.”
“But I really forget. It’s an ordinary crest; everybody in New York has them. 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 low voice, and Josephine trotted149 away, bobbing her white-coiffed head with a “Bien, madame!”
After a few minutes she returned, bearing a tattered150, 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 demurely151.
“Oh!” said I, astonished, and opened the book.
“You have never before seen this book?” asked Lys, with a touch of malice152 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 Purple Emperor —”
“Dick!” cried Lys.
“All right,” said I. “Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec who rode to Saladin’s tent alone to seek for medicine for Sr. Louis? or shall I read about — what is it? Oh, here it is, all down in black and white — about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva’s eyes rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain? It’s all written here. But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevec who was killed in the old fort on the cliff yonder?”
“He dropped the de, and the Trevecs since then have been Republicans,” said Lys —“all except me.” “That’s quite right,” said I; “it is time that we Republicans should agree upon some feudal153 system. My dear, I drink to the king!” and I raised my wine-glass and looked at Lys.
“To the king,” said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny garment on her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were very sweet. I drained the glass to the king.
After a silence I said: “I will tell the king stories. His Majesty154 shall be amused.”
“His Majesty,” repeated Lys softly.
“Or hers,” I laughed. “Who knows?”
“Who knows?” murmured Lys, with a gentle sigh.
“I know some stores about Jack21 the Giant–Killer,” I announced. “Do you, 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! I know lots more.”
“You are very wise,” said I. “I shall reach his Majesty English.”
“And I Breton,” cried Lys jealously.
“I shall bring playthings to the king,” said I—“big green lizards155 from the gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbits from the forest of Kerselec —”
“And I,” said Lys, “will bring the first primrose156, the first branch of aubepine, the first jonquil, to the king — my king.”
“Our king,” said I; and there was peace in Finistère.
I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume.
“I am looking,” said I, “for the crest.”
“The crest, dear? It is a priest’s head with an arrow-shaped mark on the forehead, on a field —”
I sat up and stared at my wife.
“Dick, whatever is the matter?” she smiled. “The story is there in that book. Do you care to read it? No? Shall I tell it to you? Well, then: It happened in the third crusade. There was a monk157 whom men called the Black Priest. He turned apostate158, and sold himself to the enemies of Christ. A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of only one hundred lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the very midst of their army.”
“So that is how you come by the crest,” I said quietly; but I thought of 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 book says it was a pious159 action, and that the Sieur de Trevec got great merit by it. 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 a white shadow in the sun. He wrote in the Breton language. Chronicles, too, I believe. I never saw them. His name was the same as that of the old chronicler, and of the other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some said he was a lineal descendant of the traitor. Of course the first Black Priest was bad enough for anything. But if he did have a child, it need not have been the ancestor of the last Jacques Sorgue. They say this one 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 utterly160 forgotten the masked man at her window, but before I finished I remembered him fast enough, and realized what I had done as I saw her face whiten.
“Lys,” I urged tenderly, “that was only some clumsy clown’s trick. You said so yourself. You are not superstitious161, my dear?”
Her eyes were on mine. She slowly drew the little gold cross from her bosom162 and kissed it. But her lips trembled as they pressed the symbol of faith.
III About nine o’clock the next morning I walked into the Groix Inn and sat down at the long discoloured oaken table, nodding good-day to Marianne Bruyère, who in turn bobbed her white coiffe at me.
“My clever Bannalec maid,” said I, “what is good for a stirrup-cup at the Groix Inn?”
“Schist?” she inquired in Breton.
“With a dash of red wine, then,” I replied.
She brought the delicious Quimperlé cider, and I poured a little Bordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing black eyes.
“What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?” I asked. “Has Jean Marie been 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 my hand and held up the glass.
“It’s due to himself. To your happiness, Marianne,” and I took a hearty163 draught164 of the schist.
“Now,” said I, “tell me where I can find Le Bihan and Max Fortin.”
“Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the broad room. I believe 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 Fortin opened it. Dust covered his spectacles and nose; his hat, with the tiny velvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry165.
“Come in, Monsieur Darrel,” he said; “the mayor and I are packing up the effects of the Purple Emperor and of the poor Red Admiral.”
“The collections?” I asked, entering the room. “You must be very careful in packing those butterfly cases; the slightest jar might break wings and antennae166, you know.”
Le Bihan shook hands with me and pointed167 to the great pile of boxes.
“They’re all cork168 lined,” he said, “but Fortin and I are putting felt around each box. The Entomological Society of Paris pays the freight.”
The combined collections of the Red Admiral and the Purple Emperor made a magnificent display.
I lifted and inspected case after case set with gorgeous butterflies and moths, each specimen169 carefully labelled with the name in Latin. There were cases filled with crimson170 tiger moths all aflame with colour; cases devoted171 to the common yellow butterflies; symphonies in orange and pale yellow; cases of soft gray and dun-coloured sphinx moths; and cases of garish172 nettle-bred butterflies of the numerous family of Vanessa.
All alone in a great case by itself was pinned the purple emperor, the Apatura Iris173, that fatal specimen that had given the Purple Emperor his name 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 of a box full of cases.
“It is settled, then,” said he, “that madame, your wife, gives the Purple 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 is worth 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-pitched voice.
“That would be nonsense,” said I—“like your burying the brass cylinder and scroll yesterday.”
“It was not nonsense,” said Le Bihan doggedly174, “and I should prefer not to 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 hands into my pockets; “you swallow every nursery tale that is invented.”
“What of it?” said Le Bihan sulkily; “there’s more truth than lies in most of ’em.”
“Oh!” I sneered175, “does the Mayor of St. Gildas and Sr. Julien believe in 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 faith in giants is unimpaired?”
“There were giants — everybody knows it,” growled176 Max Fortin.
“And you a chemist!” I observed scornfully.
“Listen, Monsieur Darrel,” squeaked177 Le Bihan; “you know yourself that the Purple Emperor was a scientific man. Now suppose I should tell you that he always refused to include in his collection a Death’s Messenger?”
“A what?” I exclaimed.
“You know what I mean — that moth122 that flies by night; some call it the Death’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 as the ‘death’s-head moth.’ Why the mischief should the people here call it Death’s Messenger?”
“For hundreds of years it has been known as Death’s Messenger in St. Gildas,” said Max Fortin.
“Even Froissart speaks of it in his commentaries on Jacques Sorgue’s Chronicles. The book is in your library.”
“Sorgue? And who was Jacques Sorgue? I never read his book.”
“Jacques Sorgue was the son of some unfrocked priest — I forget. It was during the crusades.”
“Good Heavens!” I burst out, “I’ve been hearing of nothing but crusades and priests and death and sorcery ever since I kicked that skull into the gravel pit, and I am tired of it, I tell you frankly179. One would think we lived in the dark ages. Do you know what year of our Lord it is, 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; “it means evil to the house and the people in it.” “God alone knows why he marked one of his creatures with a yellow death’s head on the back.” observed Le Bihan piously180, “but I take it that he meant it as a warning; and I propose to profit by it,” he added triumphantly181 “See here, Le Bihan,” I said; “by a stretch of imagination one can make out 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 squeaks182 when handled,” added Max Fortin.
“Some creatures squeak178 all the time,” I observed, looking hard at Le Bihan.
“Pigs,” added the mayor.
“Yes, and asses,” I replied. “Listen, Le Bihan: do you mean to tell me that 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; let him 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 by itself,” said Fortin with a shiver, “but — but then, how did it come up out 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 you mistook 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 regret to say that I took the trouble to roll two innocent cobblestones into the gravel pit, imagining each time that it was the skull I was rolling.”
“It was,” observed Le Bihan with a morose183 shrug83.
“It just shows,” said I, ignoring the mayor’s remark, “how easy it is to fix up a train of coincidences so that the result seems to savour of the supernatural. Now, last night my wife imagined that she saw a priest in a mask peer in at her window —”
Fortin and Le Bihan scrambled184 hastily from their knees, dropping hammer and 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. “Froissart quotes it from Jacques Sorgue: ‘When the Black Priest rises from the dead, St. Gildas folk shall shriek185 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 got enough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been in St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools like you. If you have nothing better to talk about than nursery legends I’ll wait until you come to your senses. Good-morning.” And I walked out, more disturbed than I cared to acknowledge to myself.
The day had become misty and overcast186. Heavy, wet clouds hung in the east. I heard the surf thundering against the cliffs, and the gray gulls squealed187 as they tossed and turned high in the sky. The tide was creeping across the river sands, higher, higher, and I saw the seaweed floating on the beach, and the lan?ons springing from the foam, silvery threadlike flashes in the gloom.
Curlew were flying up the river in twos and threes; the timid sea swallows skimmed across the moors toward some quiet, lonely pool, safe from the coming tempest. In every hedge field birds were gathering188, huddling189 together, twittering restlessly.
When I reached the cliffs I sat down, resting my chin on my clenched190 hands. Already a vast curtain of rain, sweeping191 across the ocean miles away, hid the island of Groix. To the east, behind the white semaphore on the hills, black clouds crowded up over the horizon. After a little the thunder boomed, dull, distant, and slender skeins of lightning unravelled192 across the crest of the coming storm. Under the cliff at my feet the surf rushed foaming193 over the shore, and the lan?ons jumped and skipped and quivered until they seemed to be but the reflections of the meshed194 lightning.
I turned to the east. It was raining over Groix, it was raining at Sainte Barbe, it was raining now at the semaphore. High in the storm whirl a few gulls pitched; a nearer cloud trailed veils of rain in its wake; the sky was spattered with lightning; the thunder boomed.
As I rose to go, a cold raindrop fell upon the back of my hand, and another, 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 to fling out menacing arms toward me. Then something moved on the cliff, something black as the black rock it clutched — a filthy195 cormorant, craning its hideous196 head at the sky.
Slowly I plodded197 homeward across the sombre moorland, where the gorse stems glimmered198 with a dull metallic199 green, and the heather, no longer violet and purple, hung drenched200 and dun-coloured among the dreary201 rocks. The wet turf creaked under my heavy boots, the black-thorn scraped and grated against knee and elbow. Over all lay a strange light, pallid, ghastly, where the sea spray whirled across the landscape and drove into my face until it grew numb43 with the cold.
In broad bands, rank after rank, billow on billow, the rain burst out across the endless moors, and yet there was no wind to drive it at such a pace.
Lys stood at the door as I turned into the garden, motioning me to hasten; and then for the first time I became conscious that I was soaked to the skin.
“How ever in the world did you come to stay out when such a storm threatened?” she said.
“Oh, you are dripping! Go quickly and change; I have laid your warm underwear on the bed, Dick.”
I kissed my wife, and went upstairs to change my dripping clothes for something more comfortable.
When I returned to the morning room there was a driftwood fire on the hearth202, and Lys sat in the chimney corner embroidering203.
“Catherine tells me that the fishing fleet from Lorient is out. Do you think they are in danger, dear?” asked Lys, raising her blue eyes to mine as I entered.
“There is no wind, and there will be no sea,” said I, looking out of the window. Far across the moor I could see the black cliffs looming204 in the mist.
“How it rains!” murmured Lys; “come to the fire, Dick.”
I threw myself on the fur rug, my hands in my pockets, my head on Lys’s knees.
“Tell me a story,” I said. “I feel like a boy of ten.”
Lys raised a finger to her scarlet205 lips. I always waited for her to do that.
“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 embroidery falling 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 that fluttered — something that flapped, and squeaked, and beat upon the rug with soft, moist wings.
We bent over it together, Lys clinging to me, and we saw that it was a death’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 might understand, things that must be nameless forever and ever, until God rolls up the scroll of life and all is ended. We spoke of hope and fear and faith, and the mystery of the saints; we spoke of the beginning and the end, of the shadow of sin, of omens206, and of love. The moth still lay on the floor, quivering its sombre wings in the warmth of the fire, the skull and ribs207 clearly etched upon its neck and body.
“If it is a messenger of death to this house,” I said, “why should we fear, Lys?”
“Death should be welcome to those who love God,” murmured Lys, and she drew the cross from her breast and kissed it.
“The moth might die if I threw it out into the storm,” I said after a silence.
“Let it remain,” sighed Lys.
Late that night my wife lay sleeping, and I sat beside her bed and read in the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue. I shaded the candle, but Lys grew restless, and finally I took the book down into the morning room, where the ashes of the fire rustled208 and whitened on the hearth.
The death’s-head moth lay on the rug before the fire where I had left it. At first I thought it was dead, but, when I looked closer I saw a lambent fire in its amber35 eyes. The straight white shadow it cast across the floor wavered as the candle flickered209.
The pages of the Chronicle of Jacques Sorgue were damp and sticky; the illuminated210 gold and blue initials left flakes211 of azure212 and gilt213 where my 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 laboriously214:
“I, Jacques Sorgue, saw all these things. And I saw the Black Mass celebrated215 in the chapel216 of St. Gildas-on-the-Cliff. And it was said by the Abbé Sorgue, my kinsman217: for which deadly sin the apostate priest was seized by the most noble Marquis of Plougastel and by him condemned218 to be burned with hot irons, until his seared soul quit its body and fly to its master the devil. But when the Black Priest lay in the crypt of Plougastel, his master Satan came at night and set him free, and carried him across land and sea to Mahmoud, which is Soldan or Saladin. And I, Jacques Sorgue, travelling afterward219 by sea, beheld220 with my own eyes my kinsman, the Black Priest of St. Gildas, borne along in the air upon a vast black wing, which was the wing of his master Satan. And this 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 blurring221 under the shifting candle flame. I read of battles and of saints, and I learned how the great Soldan made his pact223 with Satan, and then I came to the Sieur de Trevec, and read how he seized the Black Priest in the midst of Saladin’s tents and carried him away and cut off his head, first branding him on the forehead. “And before he suffered,” said the Chronicle, “he cursed the Sieur de Trevec and his descendants, and he said he would surely return to St. Gildas. ‘For the violence you do to me, I will do violence to you. For the evil I suffer at your hands, I will work evil on you and your descendants. Woe to your children, Sieur de Trevec!’” There was a whirr, a beating of strong wings, and my candle flashed up as in a sudden breeze. A humming filled the room; the great moth darted224 hither and thither225, beating, buzzing, on ceiling and wall. I flung down my book and stepped forward. Now it lay fluttering upon the window sill, and for a moment I had it under my hand, but the thing squeaked and I shrank back. Then suddenly it darted across the candle flame; the light flared226 and went out, and at the same moment a shadow moved in the darkness outside. I raised my eyes to the window. A masked face was peering in at me.
Quick as thought I whipped out my revolver and fired every cartridge227, but the face advanced beyond the window, the glass melting away before it like mist, and through the smoke of my revolver I saw something creep swiftly into the room. Then I tried to cry out, but the thing was at 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 cold ashes. Slowly I got on my knees, rose painfully, and groped my way to a chair. On the floor lay my revolver, shining in the pale light of early morning. My mind clearing by degrees, I looked, shuddering228, at the window. The glass was unbroken. I stooped stiffly, picked up my revolver and opened the cylinder. Every cartridge had been fired. Mechanically I closed the cylinder and placed the revolver in my pocket. The book, the Chronicles of Jacques Sorgue, lay on the table beside me, and as I started to close it I glanced at the page. It was all splashed with rain, and the lettering had run, so that the page was merely a confused blur222 of gold and red and black. As I stumbled toward the door I cast a fearful glance over my shoulder. The death’s-head moth crawled shivering on the rug.
IV The sun was about three hours high. I must have slept, for I was aroused by the sudden gallop of horses under our window. People were shouting and calling in the road. I sprang up and opened the sash. Le Bihan was there, an image of helplessness, and Max Fortin stood beside him, polishing his glasses. Some gendarmes229 had just arrived from Quimperlé, and I could hear them around the corner of the house, stamping, and rattling230 their sabres and carbines, as they led their horses 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 a troubled look. But I kissed her, and laughed at her until she smiled too. Then I flung on coat and cap and hurried down the stairs.
The first person I saw standing in the road was the Brigadier Durand.
“Hello!” said I, “have you come to arrest me again? What the devil is all this fuss about, anyway?”
“We were telegraphed for an hour ago,” said Durand Briskly, “and for a sufficient reason, I think. Look there, Monsieur Darrel!”
He pointed to the ground almost under my feet.
“Good heavens!” I cried, “where did that puddle231 of blood come from?”
“That’s what I want to know, Monsieur Darrel. Max Fortin found it at daybreak. See, it’s splashed all over the grass, too. A trail of it leads into your garden, across the flower beds to your very window, the one that opens from the morning room. There is another trail leading from 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 to mount 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 I should not have believed it.”
The little chemist of Quimperlé came up at that moment, rubbing his glasses with a coloured handkerchief.
“Yes, it is human blood,” he said, “but one thing puzzles me: the corpuscles are yellow. I never saw any human blood before with yellow corpuscles. 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 he called 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, how it lies over and weighs down the wet grass blades. Pah!”
It was a heavy, evil-looking clot20, and I stepped back from it, my throat closing in disgust.
“My theory,” said the brigadier, “is this: Some of those Biribi fishermen, probably the Icelanders, got an extra glass of cognac into their hides and quarrelled on the road. Some of them were slashed232, and staggered 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 wounded man, let us say, staggered first to your house and then back here, and he 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-by. You are going to the edge of the Kerselec forest?”
“Yes; you will hear us calling. Are you coming, Max Fortin? And you, Le Bihan? Good; take the dog-cart.”
The big gendarme tramped around the corner to the stable and presently returned mounted on a strong gray horse; his sabre shone on his saddle; his pale yellow and white facings were spotless.
The little crowd of white-coiffed women with their children fell back, as Durand touched spurs and clattered233 away followed by his two troopers. Soon after Le Bihan and Max Fortin also departed in the mayor’s dingy234 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 was beating 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 moorland toward the sea. I called the servants together and questioned them. Josephine, Catherine, Jean Marie Tregunc, not one of them had heard the slightest disturbance235 during the night. Then I told Jean Marie to saddle 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, looking me earnestly in the face.
“But there is nothing to tell — only a drunken brawl236, and some one wounded.”
“And you are going to ride — where, Dick?”
“Well, over to the edge of Kerselec forest. Durand and the mayor, and Max 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 cartridges237 in my revolver, and stopped.
“I dreamed that you were in great danger, and I could not move hand or foot to save you; but you had your revolver, and I called out to you to fire —”
“I did fire!” I cried excitedly.
“You — you fired?”
I took her in my arms. “My darling,” I said, “something strange has happened — something that I cannot understand as yet. But, of course, there is an explanation. Last night I thought I fired at the Black Priest.”
“Ah!” gasped238 Lys.
“Is that what you dreamed?”
“Yes, yes, that was it! I begged you to fire —”
“And I did.”
Her heart was bearing against my breast. I held her close in silence.
“Dick,” she said at length, “perhaps you killed the — the thing.”
“If it was human I did not miss,” I answered grimly. “And it was human,” I went on, pulling myself together, ashamed of having so nearly gone to pieces. “Of course it was human! The whole affair is plain enough. Not a drunken brawl, as Durand thinks; it was a drunken lout’s practical joke, for which he has suffered. I suppose I must have filled him pretty full of bullets, and he has crawled away to die in Kerselec forest. It’s a terrible affair; I’m sorry I fired so hastily; but that idiot Le Bihan and Max Fortin have been working on my nerves till I am as hysterical239 as a schoolgirl,” I ended angrily.
“You fired — but the window glass was not shattered,” said Lys in a low voice.
“Well, the window was open, then. And as for the — the rest — I’ve got nervous 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 the gate.
“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 fatiguing240, and we can’t tell what unpleasant sight you may come upon. Lys, you don’t really think there is anything supernatural in this affair?”
“Dick,” she answered gently, “I am a Bretonne.” With both arms around my neck, my wife said, “Death is the gift of God. I do not fear it when we are together. But alone — oh, my husband, I should fear a God who could take you away from me!”
We kissed each other soberly, simply, like two children. Then Lys hurried away to change her gown, and I paced up and down the garden waiting for her.
She came, drawing on her slender gauntlets. I swung her into the saddle, gave a hasty order to Jean Marie, and mounted.
Now, to quail241 under thoughts of terror on a morning like this, with Lys in the saddle beside me, no matter what had happened or might happen, was impossible. Moreover, M?me came sneaking after us. I asked Tregunc to catch him, for I was afraid he might be brained by our horses’ hoofs242 if he followed, but the wily puppy dodged243 and bolted after Lys, who was trotting244 along the high-road.
“Never mind,” I thought; “if he’s hit he’ll live, for he has no brains to lose.”
Lys was waiting for me in the road beside the Shrine245 of Our Lady of St. Gildas when I joined her. She crossed herself, I doffed246 my cap, then we shook out our bridles247 and galloped249 toward the forest of Kerselec.
We said very little as we rode. I always loved to watch Lys in the saddle. Her exquisite250 figure and lovely face were the incarnation of youth and grace; her curling hair glistened251 like threaded gold.
Our of the corner of my eve I saw the spoiled puppy M?me come bounding cheerfully alongside, oblivious252 of our horses’ heels. Our road swung close to the cliffs. A filthy cormorant rose from the black rocks and flapped heavily across our path. Lys’s horse reared, but she pulled him down, and pointed at the bird with her riding crop.
“I see,” said I; “it seems to be going our way. Curious to see a cormorant in a forest, isn’t it?”
“It is a bad sign,” said Lys. “You know that Morbihan proverb: ‘When the cormorant turns from the sea, Death laughs in the forest, and wise woodsmen build boats.’”
“I wish,” said I sincerely, “that there were fewer proverbs in Brittany.”
We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could see the sparkle of gendarmes’ trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan’s silver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took it without difficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durand stood gesticulating.
They bowed ceremoniously to Lys as we rode up.
“The trail is horrible — it is a river,” said the mayor in his squeaky voice. “Monsieur Darrel, I think perhaps madame would scarcely care to come any nearer.”
Lys drew bridle248 and looked at me.
“It is horrible!” said Durand, walking up beside me; “it looks as though a bleeding regiment had passed this way. The trail winds and winds about there in the thickets254; we lose it at times, but we always find it again. I can’t understand how one man — no, not twenty — could bleed like that!”
A halloo, answered by another, sounded from the depths of the forest.
“It’s my men; they are following the trail,” muttered the brigadier. “God alone knows what is at the end!”
“Shall we gallop back, Lys?” I asked.
“No; let us ride along the western edge of the woods and dismount. The sun 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 mare255, and I followed across the springy heather, M?me trotting cheerfully in the rear.
We entered the sunny woods about a quarter of a kilometre from where we left Durand. I took Lys from her horse, flung both bridles over a limb, and, giving my wife my arm, aided her to a flat mossy rock which overhung a shallow brook256 gurgling among the beech257 trees. Lys sat down and drew off her gauntlets. M?me pushed his head into her lap, received an undeserved caress258, and came doubtfully toward me. I was weak enough to condone259 his offence, but I made him lie down at my feet, greatly to his disgust.
I rested my head on Lys’s knees, looking up at the sky through the crossed 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 — nor —— Did — have you ever fired your revolver since that day four years ago, when the Red Admiral’s son tried to kill you? But I know 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 the day 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 dipped them in holy water. You must not laugh, Dick,” said Lys gently, laying her cool hands on my lips.
“Laugh, my darling!”
Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst260, and the sunlight burned like orange flame through the yellow leaves of beech and oak. Gnats261 and midges danced and wavered overhead; a spider dropped from a twig262 halfway263 to the ground and hung suspended on the end of his gossamer264 thread.
“Are you sleepy, dear?” asked Lys, bending over me.
“I am — a little; I scarcely slept two hours last night,” I answered.
“You may sleep, if you wish,” said Lys, and touched my eyes caressingly265.
“Is my head heavy on your knees?”
“No, Dick.“I was already in a half doze266; still I heard the brook babbling267 under the beeches268 and the humming of forest flies overhead. Presently even these were stilled.
The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears ringing with a scream, and I saw Lys cowering269 beside me, covering her white face with both hands.
As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my knees. I saw my dog rush growling270 into a thicket253, then I heard him whimper, and he came backing out, whining271, ears flat, tail down. I stooped and disengaged Lys’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 the thicket. 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 head resting in his hands, his rusty black robe gathered around him. For a moment my hair stirred under my cap; sweat started on my forehead and cheekbone; then I recovered my reason, and understood that the man was human and was probably wounded to death. Ay, to death; for there, at my feet, lay the wet trail of blood, over leaves and stones, down into the little hollow, across to the figure in black resting silently under the trees.
I saw that he could not escape even if he had the strength, for before him, almost at his very feet, lay a deep, shining swamp.
As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig. At the sound the figure started a little, then its head fell forward again. Its face was masked. Walking up to the man, I bade him tell where he was wounded. Durand and the others broke through the thicket at the same moment and hurried to my side.
“Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest’s robe?” said the gendarme loudly.
There was no answer.
“See — see the stiff blood all over his robe!” muttered Le Bihan to Fortin.
“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 stripped off the mask and threw back the man’s head. We were looking into the eye sockets272 of a skull. Durand stood rigid273; the mayor shrieked274. The skeleton burst out from its rotting robes and collapsed275 on the ground before us. From between the staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurred a torrent276 of black blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then the thing shuddered277, and fell over into the black ooze278 of the bog279. Little bubbles of iridescent280 air appeared from the mud; the bones were slowly engulfed281, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight, up from the depths and along the bank crept a creature, shiny, shivering, quivering its wings.
It was a death’s-head moth.
I wish I had time to tell you how Lys outgrew282 superstitions283 — for she never knew the truth about the affair, and she never will know, since she has promised not to read this book. I wish I might tell you about the king and his coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted. I wish that I were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boar hunt in Quimperlé, and how the hounds raced the quarry284 right through the town, overturning three gendarmes, the notary285, and an old woman. But I am becoming garrulous286, and Lys is calling me to come and hear the king 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 scented287 fold. Crimson wings of the Little Death. Stir his hair with your silken breath; Flaming wings of sins to be. Splendid pinions288 of prophecy. Smother289 his eyes with hues290 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 stifle291 his breath. Cover his breast with the gemmed292 shroud111 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.
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1
panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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3
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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4
fowling
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| 捕鸟，打鸟 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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8
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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9
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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10
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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11
cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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12
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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14
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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15
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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16
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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17
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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18
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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19
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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20
clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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21
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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22
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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23
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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24
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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26
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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27
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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28
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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29
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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30
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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31
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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32
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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33
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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37
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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38
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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40
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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41
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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42
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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43
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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44
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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45
excavation
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| n.挖掘，发掘；被挖掘之地 | |
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46
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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47
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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48
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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49
desecrator
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| 亵渎，玷污； 把（神物）供俗用 | |
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50
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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51
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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53
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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55
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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56
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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57
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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58
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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59
microscopical
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| adj.显微镜的，精微的 | |
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60
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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61
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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62
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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64
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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65
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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66
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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67
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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68
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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69
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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70
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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71
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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72
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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73
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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74
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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75
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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76
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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77
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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78
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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79
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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80
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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81
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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82
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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83
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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84
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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85
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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86
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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87
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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88
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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89
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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90
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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91
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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92
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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93
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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94
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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95
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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96
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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97
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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98
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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99
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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101
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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102
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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103
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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104
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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105
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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106
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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107
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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108
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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109
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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110
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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111
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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112
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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113
pulsated
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| v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的过去式和过去分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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114
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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116
drowsy
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|
| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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117
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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118
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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120
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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121
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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122
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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123
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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124
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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125
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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126
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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127
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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128
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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129
lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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130
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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131
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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132
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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133
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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134
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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135
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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136
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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137
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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138
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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139
burnished
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|
| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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140
foam
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|
| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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141
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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142
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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143
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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144
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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145
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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146
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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147
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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148
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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149
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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150
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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151
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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152
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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153
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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154
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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155
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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156
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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157
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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158
apostate
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| n.背叛者，变节者 | |
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159
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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160
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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161
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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162
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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163
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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164
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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165
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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166
antennae
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| n.天线；触角 | |
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167
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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168
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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169
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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170
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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171
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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172
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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173
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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174
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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175
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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177
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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178
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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179
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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180
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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181
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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182
squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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183
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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184
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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185
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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186
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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187
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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189
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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190
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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192
unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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193
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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194
meshed
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| 有孔的，有孔眼的，啮合的 | |
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195
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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196
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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197
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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198
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
metallic
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|
| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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200
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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201
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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202
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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203
embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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204
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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205
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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206
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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207
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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208
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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211
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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212
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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213
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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214
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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215
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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216
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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217
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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218
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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219
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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220
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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221
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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222
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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223
pact
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| n.合同，条约，公约，协定 | |
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224
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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225
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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226
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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227
cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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228
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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229
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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230
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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231
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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232
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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233
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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234
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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235
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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236
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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237
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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238
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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239
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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240
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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241
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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242
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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243
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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244
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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245
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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246
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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248
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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249
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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250
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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251
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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253
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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254
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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255
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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256
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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257
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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258
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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259
condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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260
amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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261
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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262
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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263
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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264
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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265
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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266
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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267
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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268
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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269
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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270
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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271
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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272
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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273
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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274
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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275
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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276
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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277
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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278
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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279
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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280
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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281
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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282
outgrew
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去式 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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283
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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284
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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285
notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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286
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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287
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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288
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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289
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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290
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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291
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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292
gemmed
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| 点缀（gem的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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