Shapes--monstrous, pallid, unclean shapes--were closing in upon us.
_11. Battle and Retreat_
I doubt if any writer, however accomplished, has ever done full justice
to the emotion of terror.
To mention the icy chill at the back-bone, the sudden sinewless
trembling of the knees, the withering dryness of throat and tongue, is
to be commonplace; and terror is not commonplace. Perhaps to remember
terror is to know again the helplessness and faintness it brings.
Therefore it must suffice to say that, as I turned and saw the closing
in of those pale-glowing blots of menace, I wanted to scream, and could
not; to run, and could not; to take my gaze away, and could not.
If I do not describe the oncoming creatures--if creatures indeed they
were--it is because they defied clear vision then and defy clear
recollection now. Something quasi-human must have hung about them,
something suggestive of man's outline and manner, as in a rough image
molded by children of snow; but they were not solid like snow. They
shifted and swirled, like wreaths of thick mist, without dispersing
in air. They gave a dim, rotten light of their own, and they moved
absolutely without sound.
"It's them," gulped Jake Switz beside me. He, too, was frightened, but
not as frightened as I. He could speak, and move, too--he had dropped
Pursuivant's head and was rising to his feet. I could hear him suck in
a lungful of air, as though to brace himself for action.
His remembered presence, perhaps the mere fact of his companionship
before the unreasoned awfulness of the glow-shadowy pack that advanced
to hem us in, gave me back my own power of thought and motion. It gave
me, too, the impulse to arm myself. I stooped to earth, groped swiftly,
found and drew forth from its bed the sword-cane of Judge Pursuivant.
The non-shapes--that paradoxical idea is the best I can give of
them--drifted around me, free and weightless in the night air like
luminous sea-things in still, dark water. I made a thrust at the
biggest and nearest of them.
I missed. Or did I? The target was, on a sudden, there no longer.
Perhaps I had pierced it, and it had burst like a flimsy bladder. Thus
I argued within my desperate inner mind, even as I faced about and
made a stab at another. In the same instant it had gone, too--but the
throng did not seem diminished. I made a sweeping slash with my point
from side to side, and the things shrank back before it, as though they
dared not pass the line I drew.
"Give 'em the works, Gib!" Jake was gritting out. "They can be hurt,
all right!"
I laughed, like an impudent child. I felt inadequate and disappointed,
as when in dreams a terrible adversary wilts before a blow I am ashamed
of.
"Come on," I challenged the undefinable enemy, in a feeble attempt at
swagger. "Let me have a real poke at----"
"Hold hard," said a new voice. Judge Pursuivant, apparently wakened by
this commotion all around him, was struggling erect. "Here, Connatt,
give me my sword." He fairly wrung it from my hand, and drove back the
misty horde with great fanwise sweeps. "Drop back, now. Not toward the
lodge--up the driveway to the road."
We made the retreat somehow, and were not followed. My clothing was
drenched with sweat, as though I had swum in some filthy pool. Jake,
whom I remember as helping me up the slope when I might have fallen,
talked incessantly without finishing a single sentence. The nearest he
came to rationality was, "What did ... what if ... can they----"
Pursuivant, however, seemed well recovered. He kicked together some
bits of kindling at the roadside. Then he asked me for a match--perhaps
to make me rally my sagging senses as I explored my pockets--and a
moment later he had kindled a comforting fire.
"Now," he said, "we're probably safe from any more attention of that
bunch. And our fire can't be seen from the lodge. Sit down and talk it
over."
Jake was mopping a face as white as tallow. His spectacles mirrored the
firelight in nervous shimmers.
"I guess I didn't dream the other night, after all," he jabbered. "Wait
till I tell Mister Varduk about this."
"Please tell him nothing," counseled Judge Pursuivant at once.
"Eh?" I mumbled, astonished. "When the non-shapes----"
"Varduk probably knows all about these things--more than we shall ever
know," replied the judge. "I rather think he cut short his walk across
the front yards so that they would attack me. At any rate, they seemed
to ooze out of the timber the moment he and I separated."
He told us, briefly, of how the non-shapes (he liked and adopted my
paradox) were upon him before he knew. Like Jake two nights before, he
felt an overwhelming disgust and faintness when they touched him, began
to faint. His last voluntary act was to draw the blade in his cane and
drive it into the ground, as an anchor against being dragged away.
"They would never touch that point," he said confidently. "You found
that out, Connatt."
"And I'm still amazed, more about that fact than anything else. How
would such things fear, even the finest steel?"
"It isn't steel." Squatting close to the fire, Pursuivant again cleared
the bright, sharp bodkin. "Look at it, gentlemen--silver."
It was two feet long, or more, round instead of flat, rather like a
large needle. Though the metal was bright and worn with much polishing,
the inscription over which Pursuivant and Varduk had pored was plainly
decipherable by the firelight. _Sic pereant omnes inimici tui,
Domine_.... I murmured it aloud, as though it were a protective charm.
"As you may know," elaborated Judge Pursuivant, "silver is a specific
against all evil creatures."
"That's so," interjected Jake. "I heard my grandfather tell a yarn
about the old country, how somebody killed a witch with a silver
bullet."
"And this is an extraordinary object, even among silver swords,"
Pursuivant went on. "A priest gave it to me, with his blessing, when
I did a certain thing to help him and his parish against an enemy not
recognized by the common law of today. He assured me that the blade was
fashioned by Saint Dunstan himself."
"A saint make a silver weapon!" I ejaculated incredulously.
* * * * *
Pursuivant smiled, exactly as though we had not lately feared and
fought for our lives and souls. His manner was that of a kindly teacher
with a dull but willing pupil.
"Saint Dunstan is not as legendary or as feeble as his name sounds. As
a matter of fact, he flourished heartily in the Tenth Century--not long
before the very real Norman Conquest. He was the stout son of a Saxon
noble, studied magic and metal-working, and was a political power in
England as well as a spiritual one."
"Didn't he tweak Satan's nose?" I inquired.
"So the old poem tells, and so the famous painting illustrates," agreed
Pursuivant, his smile growing broader. "Dunstan was, in short, exactly
the kind of holy man who would make a sword to serve against demons. Do
you blame me for being confident in his work?"
"Look here, Judge," said Jake, "what were those things that jumped us
up?"
"That takes answering." Pursuivant had fished a handkerchief from a
side pocket and was carefully wiping the silver skewer. "In the first
place, they are extra-terrestrial--supernatural--and in the second,
they are noisomely evil. We need no more evidence on those points. As
for the rest, I have a theory of a sort, based on wide studies."
"What is it, sir?" I seconded Jake. Once again the solid assurance of
the judge was comforting me tremendously.
He pursed his lips. "I've given the subject plenty of thought ever
since you, Connatt, told me the experience of your friend here. There
are several accounts and considerations of similar phenomena. Among
ancient occultists was talk of elementary spirits--things super-normal
and sometimes invisible, of sub-human intelligence and personality and
not to be confused with spirits of the dead. A more modern word is
'elemental', used by several cults. The things are supposed to exert
influences of various kinds, upon various localities and people.
"Again, we have the poltergeist, a phenomenon that is coming in
for lively investigation by various psychical scholars of today. I
can refer you to the definitions of Carrington, Podmore and Lewis
Spence--their books are in nearly every large library--but you'll find
that the definitions and possible explanations vary. The most familiar
manifestation of this strange but undeniable power is in the seeming
mischief that it performs in various houses--the knocking over of
furniture, the smashing of mirrors, the setting of mysterious fires----"
"I know about that thing," said Jake excitedly. "There was a house over
in Brooklyn that had mysterious fires and stuff."
"And I've read Charles Fort's books--_Wild Talents_ and the rest," I
supplemented. "He tells about such happenings. But see here, isn't the
thing generally traced to some child who was playing tricks?"
Pursuivant, still furbishing his silver blade, shook his head. "Mr.
Hereward Carrington, the head of the American Psychical Institute,
has made a list of more than three hundred notable cases. Only twenty
or so were proven fraudulent, and another twenty doubtful. That
leaves approximately seven-eighths unexplained--unless you consider
super-normal agency an explanation. It is true that children are often
in the vicinity of the phenomena, and some investigators explain this
by saying that the poltergeist is attracted or set in motion by some
spiritual current from the growing personality of the child."
"Where's the child around here?" demanded Jake. "He must be a mighty
bad boy. Better someone should take a stick to him."
"There is no child," answered the judge. "The summoning power is
neither immature nor unconscious, but old, wicked and deliberate. Have
you ever heard of witches' familiars?"
"I have," I said. "Black cats and toads, with demon spirits."
"Yes. Also grotesque or amorphous shapes--similar, perhaps, to what
we encountered tonight--or disembodied voices and hands. Now we are
getting down to our own case. The non-shapes--thanks again, Connatt,
for the expression--are here as part of a great evil. Perhaps they
came of themselves, spiritual vultures or jackals, waiting to share in
the prey. Or they may be recognized servants of a vast and dreadful
activity for wrong. In any case they are here, definite and dangerous."
Again I felt my nerve deserting me. "Judge Pursuivant," I pleaded, "we
must get Miss Holgar out of here."
"No. You and I talked that out this afternoon. The problem cannot be
solved except at its climax."
He rose to his feet. The fire was dying.
"I suggest that you go to your quarters. Apparently you're safe
indoors, and just now the moon's out from behind the clouds. Keep your
eyes open, and stay in the clear. The things won't venture into the
moonlight unless they feel sure of you. Anyway, I think they're waiting
for something else."
"How about you?" I asked.
"Oh, I'll do splendidly." He held up the sword of Saint Dunstan. "I'll
carry this naked in my hand as I go."
We said good-night all around, rather casually, like late sitters
leaving their club. Pursuivant turned and walked along the road. Jake
and I descended gingerly to the yard of the lodge, hurried across it,
and gained our boathouse safely.
_12. Return Engagement_
One of the most extraordinary features of the entire happening was that
it had so little immediate consequence.
Judge Pursuivant reached his cabin safely, and came to visit us again
and again, but never remained after dark. If Varduk knew of the attack
by the non-shapes, and if he felt surprize or chagrin that Pursuivant
had escaped, he did not betray it. By silent and common consent, Jake
and I forbore to discuss the matter between ourselves, even when we
knew that we were alone.
Meanwhile, the moon waned and waxed again while we rehearsed our play
and between rehearsals swam, tramped and bathed in the sun. Not one of
us but seemed to profit by the exercise and fresh air. Sigrid's step
grew freer, her face browner and her green-gold hair paler by contrast.
I acquired some weight, but in the proper places, and felt as strong
and healthy as I had been when first I went from the Broadway stage to
Hollywood, eight years before. Even Jake Switz, whose natural habitat
lay among theatrical offices and stage doors, became something of a
hill-climber, canoeist and fisherman. Only Varduk did not tan, though
he spent much time out of doors, strolling with Davidson or by himself.
Despite his apparent fragility and his stiffness of gait, he was a
tireless walker.
One thing Jake and I did for our protection; that was to buy, on one of
our infrequent trips to the junction, an electric flashlight apiece as
well as one for Sigrid. These we carried, lighted, when walking about
at night, and not once in the month that followed our first encounter
with the non-shapes did we have any misadventure.
The middle of July brought the full moon again, and with it the
approach of our opening night.
The theatrical sections of the papers--Varduk had them delivered
daily--gave us whole square yards of publicity. Jake had fabricated
most of this, on his typewriter in our boathouse loft, though his
most glamorous inventions included nothing of the grisly wonders we
had actually experienced. Several publishers added to the general
interest in the matter by sending to Varduk attractive offers for the
manuscript of _Ruthven_, and receiving blunt refusals. One feature
writer, something of a scholar of early Nineteenth Century English
literature, cast a doubt upon the authenticity of the piece. In reply
to this, Judge Pursuivant sent an elaboration of his earlier statement
that _Ruthven_ was undoubtedly genuine. The newspaper kindly gave this
rejoinder considerable notice, illustrating it with photographs of the
judge, Varduk and Sigrid.
On July 20, two days before opening, Jake went out to nail signs along
the main road to guide motor parties to our theater. He was cheerfully
busy most of the morning, and Sigrid deigned to let me walk with her.
We did not seek the road, but turned our steps along the brink of the
water. An ancient but discernible trail, made perhaps by deer, ran
there.
"Happy, Sigrid?" I asked her.
"I couldn't be otherwise," she cried at once. "Our play is to startle
the world--first here, then on Broadway----"
"Sigrid," I said, "what is there about this play that has such a charm
for you? I know that it's a notable literary discovery, and that it's
pretty powerful stuff in spots, but in the final analysis it's only
melodrama with a clever supernatural twist. You're not the melodramatic
type."
"Indeed?" she flung back. "Am I a type, then?"
I saw that I had been impolitic and made haste to offer apology, but
she waved it aside.
"What you said might well be asked by many people. The pictures have
put me into a certain narrow field, with poor Jake Switz wearing out
the thesaurus to find synonyms for 'glamorous'. Yet, as a beginner in
Sweden, I did _Hedda Gabler_ and _The Wild Duck_--yes, and Bernard
Shaw, too; I was the slum girl in _Pygmalion_. After that, a German
picture, _Cyrano de Bergerac_, with me as Roxane. It was luck, perhaps,
and a momentary wish by producers for a new young foreign face, that
got me into American movies. But, have I done so poorly?"
"Sigrid, nobody ever did so nobly."
"And at the first, did I do always the same thing? What was my first
chance? The French war bride in that farce comedy. Then what? Something
by Somerset Maugham, where I wore a black wig and played a savage girl
of the tropics. Then what? A starring rôle, or rather a co-starring
rôle--opposite you." She gave me a smile, as though the memory were
pleasant.
"Opposite me," I repeated, and a thrill crept through me. "_Lavengro_,
the costume piece. Our costumes, incidentally, were rather like what we
will wear in the first part of _Ruthven_."
"I was thinking the same thing. And speaking of melodrama, what about
_Lavengro_? You, with romantic curly side-burns, stripped to the waist
and fighting like mad with Noah Beery. Firelight gleaming on your wet
skin, and me mopping your face with a sponge and telling you to use
your right hand instead of your left----"
"By heaven, there have been lots of worse shows!" I cried, and we both
laughed. My spirits had risen as we had strolled away from the lodge
grounds, and I had quite forgotten my half-formed resolve to speak a
warning.
We came to a stretch of sand, with a great half-rotted pink trunk lying
across it. Here we sat, side by side, smoking and scrawling in the fine
sand with twigs.
"There's another reason why I have been happy during this month of
rehearsal," said Sigrid shyly.
"Yes?" I prompted her, and my heart began suddenly to beat swiftly.
"It's been so nice to be near you and with you."
I felt at once strong and shivery, rather like the adolescent hero of
an old-fashioned novel. What I said, somewhat ruefully, was, "If you
think so, why have you been so hard to see? This is the first time we
have walked or been alone together."
* * * * *
She smiled, and in her own individual way that made her cheeks crease
and her eyes turn aslant. "We saw a lot of each other once, Gib. I
finished up by being sorry. I don't want to be sorry again. That's why
I've gone slowly."
"See here, Sigrid," I blurted suddenly. "I'm not going to beat around
the bush, or try to lead up diplomatically or dramatically, but--oh,
hang it!" Savagely I broke a twig in my hands. "I loved you once,
and in spite of the fact that we quarreled and separated, I've never
stopped. I love you right this instant----"
She caught me in strong, fierce arms, and kissed me so soundly that
our teeth rang together between lips crushed open. Thus for a second
of white-hot surprize; then she let go with equal suddenness. Her face
had gone pale under its tan--no acting there--and her eyes were full of
panicky wonder.
"I didn't do that," she protested slowly. She, too, was plainly
stunned. "I didn't. But--well, I did, didn't I?"
"You certainly did. I don't know why, and if you say so I won't ask;
but you did, and it'll be hard to retire from the position again."
After that, we had a lot more to say to each other. I admitted, very
humbly, that I had been responsible for our estrangement five years
before, and that the reason was the very unmanly one that I, losing
popularity, was jealous of her rise. For her part, she confessed that
not once had she forgotten me, nor given up the hope of reconciliation.
"I'm not worth it," I assured her. "I'm a sorry failure, and we both
know it."
"Whenever I see you," she replied irrelevantly, "bells begin to ring in
my ears--loud alarm bells, as if fires had broken out all around me."
"We're triple idiots to think of love," I went on. "You're the top, and
I'm the muck under the bottom."
"You'll be the sensation of your life when _Ruthven_ comes to
Broadway," rejoined Sigrid confidently. "And the movie magnets will
fight duels over the chance to ask for your name on a contract."
"To hell with the show business! Let's run away tonight and live on a
farm," I suggested.
In her genuine delight at the thought she clutched my shoulders,
digging in her long, muscular fingers. "Let's!" she almost whooped,
like a little girl promised a treat. "We'll have a garden and keep
pigs--no, there's a show."
"And the show," I summed up, "must go on."
On that doleful commonplace we rose from the tree-trunk and walked
back. Climbing to the road, we sought out Jake, who with a hammer and a
mouthful of nails was fastening his last sign to a tree. We swore him
to secrecy with terrible oaths, then told him that we intended to marry
as soon as we returned to New York. He half swallowed a nail, choked
dangerously, and had to be thumped on the back by both of us.
"I should live so--I knew this would happen," he managed to gurgle at
last. "Among all the men you know, Sigrid Holgar, you got to pick this
_schlemiel_!"
We both threatened to pummel him, and he apologized profusely, mourning
the while that his vow kept him from announcing our decision in all the
New York papers.
"With that romance breaking now, we would have every able-bodied man,
woman and child east of the Mississippi trying to get into our show,"
he said earnestly. "With a club we'd have to beat them away from the
ticket window. Standing-room would sell for a dollar an inch."
"It's a success as it is," I comforted him. "_Ruthven_, I mean. The
house is a sell-out, Davidson says."
That night at dinner, Sigrid sat, not at the head of the table, but on
one side next to me. Once or twice we squeezed hands and Jake, noticing
this, was shocked and burned his mouth with hot coffee. Varduk, too,
gazed at us as though he knew our secret, and finally was impelled to
quote something from Byron--a satiric couplet on love and its shortness
of life. But we were too happy to take offense or even to recognize
that the quotation was leveled at us.
_13. The Black Book_
Our final rehearsal, on the night of the twenty-first of July, was
fairly accurate as regards the speeches and attention to cues, but it
lacked fire and assurance. Varduk, however, was not disappointed.
"It has often been said, and often proven as well, that a bad last
rehearsal means a splendid first performance," he reminded us. "To bed
all of you, and try to get at least nine hours of sleep." Then he
seemed to remember something. "Miss Holgar."
"Yes?" said Sigrid.
"Come here, with me." He led her to the exact center of the stage. "At
this spot, you know, you are to stand when the final incident of the
play, and our dialog together, unfolds."
"I know," she agreed.
"Yet--are you sure? Had we not better be sure?" Varduk turned toward
the auditorium, as though to gage their position from the point of view
of the audience. "Perhaps I am being too exact, yet----"
He snapped his fingers in the direction of Davidson, who seemed to have
expected some sort of request signal. The big assistant reached into
the pocket of his jacket and brought out a piece of white chalk.
"Thank you, Davidson." Varduk accepted the proffered fragment. "Stand a
little closer center, Miss Holgar. Yes, like that." Kneeling, he drew
with a quick sweep of his arm a small white circle around her feet.
"That," he informed her, standing up again, "is the spot where I want
you to stand, at the moment when you and I have our final conflict of
words, the swearing on the Bible, and my involuntary blessing upon your
head."
Sigrid took a step backward, out of the circle. I, standing behind her,
could see that she had drawn herself up in outraged protest. Varduk
saw, too, and half smiled as if to disarm her. "Forgive me if I seem
foolish," he pleaded gently.
"I must say," she pronounced in a slow, measured manner, as though she
had difficulty in controlling her voice, "that I do not feel that this
little diagram will help me in the least."
Varduk let his smile grow warmer, softer. "Oh, probably it will not,
Miss Holgar; but I am sure it will help me. Won't you do as I ask?"
She could not refuse, and by the time she had returned across the stage
to me she had relaxed into cheerfulness again. I escorted her to the
door of her cabin, and her good-night smile warmed me all the way to my
own quarters.
* * * * *
Judge Pursuivant appeared at noon the next day, and Varduk, hailing him
cordially, invited him to lunch.
"I wonder," ventured Varduk as we all sat down together, "if you, Judge
Pursuivant, would not speak a few words in our favor before the curtain
tonight."
"I?" The judge stared, then laughed. "But I'm not part of the
management."
"The management--which means myself--will be busy getting into costume
for the first act. You are a scholar, a man whose recent book on Byron
has attracted notice. It is fitting that you do what you can to help
our opening."
"Oh," said Pursuivant, "if you put it like that--but what shall I tell
the audience?"
"Make it as short as you like, but impressive. You might announce that
all present are subpenaed as witnesses to a classic moment."
Pursuivant smiled. "That's rather good, Mr. Varduk, and quite true as
well. Very good, count on me."
But after lunch he drew me almost forcibly away from the others,
talking affably about the merits of various wines until we were well
out of earshot. Then his tone changed abruptly.
"I think we know now that the thing--whatever it is--will happen at the
play, and we also know why."
"Why, then?" I asked at once.
"I am to tell the audience that they are 'subpenaed as witnesses.'
In other words, their attention is directed, they must be part of a
certain ceremony. I, too, am needed. Varduk is making me the clerk, so
to speak, of his court--or his cult. That shows that he will preside."
"It begins to mean something," I admitted. "Yet I am still at a loss."
Pursuivant's own pale lips were full of perplexity. "I wish that we
could know more before the actual beginning. Yet I, who once prepared
and judged legal cases, may be able to sum up in part:
"Something is to happen to Miss Holgar. The entire fabric of theatrical
activity--this play, the successful effort to interest her in it, the
remote theater, her particular rôle, everything--is to perform upon her
a certain effect. That effect, we may be sure, is devastating. We may
believe that a part, at least, of the success depends on the last line
of the play, a mystery as yet to all of us."
"Except to Varduk," I reminded.
"Except to Varduk."
But a new thought struck me, and for a moment I found it comforting.
"Wait. The ceremony, as you call it, can't be all evil," I said. "After
all, he asks her to swear on a Bible."
"So he does," Pursuivant nodded. "What kind of a Bible?"
I tried to remember. "To tell the truth, I don't know. We haven't used
props of any kind in rehearsals--not even the sword, after that first
time."
"No? Look here, that's apt to be significant. We'll have to look at the
properties."
We explored the auditorium and the stage with a fine show of casual
interest. Davidson and Switz were putting final touches on the
scenery--a dark blue backdrop for evening sky, a wall painted to
resemble vine-hung granite, benches and an arbor--but no properties lay
on the table backstage.
"You know this is a Friday, Gib?" demanded Jake, looking up from where
he was mending the cable of a floodlight. "Bad luck, opening our play
on a Friday."
"Not a bit," laughed Pursuivant. "What's begun on a Friday never comes
to an end. Therefore----"
"Oi!" crowed Jake. "That means we'll have a record-breaking run, huh?"
He jumped up and shook my hand violently. "You'll be working in this
show till you step on your beard."
We wandered out again, and Sigrid joined us. She was in high spirits.
"I feel," she said excitedly, "just as I felt on the eve of my first
professional appearance. As though the world would end tonight!"
"God forbid," I said at once, and "God forbid," echoed Judge
Pursuivant. Sigrid laughed merrily at our sudden expressions of concern.
"Oh, it won't end that way," she made haste to add, in the tone one
reserves for children who need comfort. "I mean, the world will begin
tonight, with success and happiness."
She put out a hand, and I squeezed it tenderly. After a moment she
departed to inspect her costume.
"I haven't a maid or a dresser," she called over her shoulder.
"Everything has to be in perfect order, and I myself must see to it."
We watched her as she hurried away, both of us sober.
"I think I know why you fret so about her safety," Pursuivant said to
me. "You felt, too, that the thing she said might be a bad omen."
"Then may her second word be a good omen," I returned.
"Amen to that," he said heartily.
Dinnertime came, and Pursuivant and I made a quick meal of it.
We excused ourselves before the others--Sigrid looked up in mild
astonishment that I should want to leave her side--and went quickly
downstairs to the stage.
* * * * *
On the property table lay the cudgel I was to use in the first act,
the sword I was to strike with in the second, the feather duster to be
wielded by Martha Vining as Bridget, a tray with a wine service to be
borne by Davidson as Oscar. There was also a great book, bound in red
cloth, with red edging.
"That is the Bible," said Pursuivant at once. "I must have a look at
it."
"I still can't see," I muttered, half to myself, "how this sword--a
good piece of steel and as sharp as a razor--failed to kill Varduk when
I----"
"Never mind that sword," interrupted Judge Pursuivant. "Look at this
book, this 'Bible' which they've refused to produce up to now. I'm not
surprized to find out that--well, have a look for yourself."
On the ancient black cloth I saw rather spidery capitals, filled with
red coloring matter: _Grand Albert_.
"I wouldn't look inside if I were you," warned the judge. "This is
in all probability the book that Varduk owned when Davidson met him
at Revere College. Remember what happened to one normal young man,
ungrounded in occultism, who peeped into it."
"What can it be?" I asked.
"A notorious gospel for witches," Pursuivant informed me. "I've heard
of it--Descrepe, the French occultist, edited it in 1885. Most editions
are modified and harmless, but this, at first glance, appears to be the
complete and infamous Eighteenth Century version." He opened it.
The first phase of his description had stuck in my mind. "A gospel for
witches; and that is the book on which Sigrid must swear an oath of
renunciation at the end of the play!"
Pursuivant was scowling at the flyleaf. He groped for his pince-nez,
put them on. "Look here, Connatt," he said.
I crowded close to his elbow, and together we read what had been
written long ago, in ink now faded to a dirty brown: