At 1 hr. befor midnt, on 22 July, 1788 givn him. He was brot to
coeven by Todlin he the saide Geo. G. to be bond to us for 150
yers. and serve for our glory he to gain his title & hav all he
desirs. at end of 150 yrs. to give acctg. & not be releasd save by
delivring anothr as worthie our coeven.
(Signed)
For coeven For Geo. Gordon (Biron)
Terragon Todlin
"And look at this, too," commanded Judge Pursuivant. He laid his great
forefinger at the bottom of the page. There, written in fresh blue ink,
and in a hand somehow familiar:
This 22nd of July, 1938, I tender this book and quit this service
unto Sigrid Holgar.
George Gordon, Lord Byron.
_14. Zero Hour_
Pursuivant closed the book with a loud snap, laid it down on the table,
and caught me by the arm.
"Come away from here," he said in a tense voice. "Outside, where nobody
will hear." He almost dragged me out through the stage door. "Come
along--down by the water--it's fairly open, we'll be alone."
When we reached the edge of the lake we faced each other. The sun was
almost set. Back of us, in front of the lodge, we could hear the noise
of early arrivals for the theater--perhaps the men who would have
charge of automobile parking, the ushers, the cashier.
"How much of what you read was intelligible to you?" asked Pursuivant.
"I had a sense that it was rotten," I said. "Beyond that, I'm
completely at sea."
"I'm not." His teeth came strongly together behind the words. "There,
on the flyleaf of a book sacred to witches and utterly abhorrent to
honest folk, was written an instrument pledging the body and soul of a
baby to a 'coeven'--that is, a congregation of evil sorcerers--for one
hundred and fifty years. George Gordon, the Lord Byron that was to be,
had just completed his sixth month of life."
"How could a baby be pledged like that?" I asked.
"By some sponsor--the one signing the name 'Todlin.' That was
undoubtedly a coven name, such as we know all witches took. Terragon
was another such cognomen. All we can say of 'Todlin' is that the
signature is apparently a woman's. Perhaps that of the child's
eccentric nurse, Mistress Gray----"
"This is beastly," I interposed, my voice beginning to tremble. "Can't
we do something besides talk?"
Pursuivant clapped me strongly on the back. "Steady," he said. "Let's
talk it out while that writing is fresh in our minds. We know, then,
that the infant was pledged to an unnaturally long life of evil.
Promises made were kept--he became the heir to the estates and title of
his grand-uncle, 'Wicked Byron,' after his cousins died strangely. And
surely he had devil-given talents and attractions."
"Wait," I cut in suddenly. "I've been thinking about that final line
or so of writing, signed with Byron's name. Surely I've seen the hand
before."
"You have. The same hand wrote _Ruthven_, and you've seen the
manuscript." Pursuivant drew a long breath. "Now we know how _Ruthven_
could be written on paper only ten years old. Byron lives and signs his
name today."
I felt almost sick, and heartily helpless inside. "But Byron died in
Greece," I said, as though reciting a lesson. "His body was brought to
England and buried at Hucknall Torkard, close to his ancestral home."
"Exactly. It all fits in." Pursuivant's manifest apprehension was
becoming modified by something of grim triumph. "Must he not have
repented, tried to expiate his curse and his sins by an unselfish
sacrifice for Grecian liberty? You and I have been over this ground
before; we know how he suffered and labored, almost like a saint. Death
would seem welcome--his bondage would end in thirty-six years instead
of a hundred and fifty. What about his wish to be burned?"
"Burning would destroy his body," I said. "No chance for it to come
alive again."
"But the body was not burned, and it has come alive again. Connatt, do
you know who the living-dead Byron is?"
"Of course I do. And I also know that he intends to pass something into
the hands of Sigrid."
"He does. She is the new prospect for bondage, the 'other as worthie.'
She is not a free agent in the matter, but neither was Byron at the age
of six months."
The sun's lower rim had touched the lake. Pursuivant's pink face was
growing dusky, and he leaned on the walking-stick that housed a silver
blade.
"Byron's hundred and fifty years will end at eleven o'clock tonight,"
he said, gazing shrewdly around for possible eavesdroppers. "Now, let
me draw some parallels."
"Varduk--we know who Varduk truly is--will, in the character of
Ruthven, ask Miss Holgar, who plays Mary, a number of questions.
Those questions, and her answers as set down for her to repeat, make
up a pattern. Think of them, not as lines in a play, but an actual
interchange between an adept of evil and a neophyte."
"It's true," I agreed. "He asks her if she will 'give herself up,'
'renounce former manners,' and to swear so upon--the book we saw. She
does so."
"Then the prayer, which perplexes you by its form. The 'wert in heaven'
bit becomes obvious now, eh? How about the angel that fell from grace
and attempted to build up his own power to oppose?"
"Satan!" I almost shouted. "A prayer to the force of evil!"
"Not so loud, Connatt. And then, while Miss Holgar stands inside a
circle--that, also, is part of the witch ceremony--he touches her head,
and speaks words we do not know. But we can guess."
He struck his stick hard against the sandy earth.
"What then?" I urged him on.
"It's in an old Scottish trial of witches," said Pursuivant. "Modern
works--J. W. Wickwar's book, and I think Margaret Alice Murray's--quote
it. The master of the coven touched the head of the neophyte and said
that all beneath his hand now belonged to the powers of darkness."
"No! No!" I cried, in a voice that wanted to break.
"No hysterics, please!" snapped Pursuivant. "Connatt, let me give you
one stark thought--it will cool you, strengthen you for what you must
help me achieve. Think what will follow if we let Miss Holgar take
this oath, accept this initiation, however unwittingly. At once she
will assume the curse that Varduk--Byron--lays down. Life after death,
perhaps; the faculty of wreaking devastation at a word or touch; gifts
beyond human will or comprehension, all of them a burden to her; and
who can know the end?"
"There shall not be a beginning," I vowed huskily. "I will kill
Varduk----"
"Softly, softly. You know that weapons--ordinary weapons--do not even
scratch him."
* * * * *
The twilight was deepening into dusk, Pursuivant turned back toward the
lodge, where windows had begun to glow warmly, and muffled motor-noises
bespoke the parking of automobiles. There were other flecks of light,
too. For myself, I felt beaten and weary, as though I had fought to the
verge of losing against a stronger, wiser enemy.
"Look around you, Connatt. At the clumps of bush, the thickets. What do
they hide?"
I knew what he meant. I felt, though I saw only dimly, the presence of
an evil host in ambuscade all around us.
"They're waiting to claim her, Connatt. There's only one thing to do."
"Then let's do it, at once."
"Not yet. The moment must be _his_ moment, one hour before midnight.
Escape, as I once said, will not be enough. We must conquer."