THE DREAM OF DIRK
On the day following Montalvo’s interview with Black Meg Dirk received
a message from that gentleman, sent to his lodging by an orderly, which
reminded him that he had promised to dine with him this very night. Now
he had no recollection of any such engagement. Remembering with shame,
however, that there were various incidents of the evening of the supper
whereof his memory was most imperfect, he concluded that this must be
one of them. So much against his own wishes Dirk sent back an answer to
say that he would appear at the time and place appointed.
This was the third thing that had happened to annoy him that day. First
he had met Pieter van de Werff, who informed him that all Leyden was
talking about Lysbeth and the Captain Montalvo, to whom she was said to
have taken a great fancy. Next when he went to call at the house in the
Bree Straat he was told that both Lysbeth and his cousin Clara had gone
out sleighing, which he did not believe, for as a thaw had set in the
snow was no longer in a condition suitable to that amusement. Moreover,
he could almost have sworn that, as he crossed the street, he caught
sight of Cousin Clara’s red face peeping at him from between the
curtains of the upstairs sitting-room. Indeed he said as much to Greta,
who, contrary to custom, had opened the door to him.
“I am sorry if Mynheer sees visions,” answered that young woman
imperturbably. “I told Mynheer that the ladies had gone out sleighing.”
“I know you did, Greta; but why should they go out sleighing in a wet
thaw?”
“I don’t know, Mynheer. Ladies do those things that please them. It is
not my place to ask their reasons.”
Dirk looked at Greta, and was convinced that she was lying. He put his
hand in his pocket, to find to his disgust that he had forgotten his
purse. Then he thought of giving her a kiss and trying to melt the
truth out of her in this fashion, but remembering that if he did, she
might tell Lysbeth, which would make matters worse than ever,
refrained. So the end of it was that he merely said “Oh! indeed,” and
went away.
“Great soft-head,” reflected Greta, as she watched his retreating form,
“he knew I was telling lies, why didn’t he push past me, or—do
anything. Ah! Mynheer Dirk, if you are not careful that Spaniard will
take your wind. Well, he is more amusing, that’s certain. I am tired of
these duck-footed Leydeners, who daren’t wink at a donkey lest he
should bray, and among such holy folk somebody a little wicked is
rather a change.” Then Greta, who, it may be remembered, came from
Brussels, and had French blood in her veins, went upstairs to make a
report to her mistress, telling her all that passed.
“I did not ask you to speak falsehoods as to my being out sleighing and
the rest. I told you to answer that I was not at home, and mind you say
the same to the Captain Montalvo if he calls,” said Lysbeth with some
acerbity as she dismissed her.
In truth she was very sore and angry, and yet ashamed of herself
because it was so. But things had gone so horribly wrong, and as for
Dirk, he was the most exasperating person in the world. It was owing to
his bad management and lack of readiness that her name was coupled with
Montalvo’s at every table in Leyden. And now what did she hear in a
note from the Captain himself, sent to make excuses for not having
called upon her after the supper party, but that Dirk was going to dine
with him that night? Very well, let him do it; she would know how to
pay him back, and if necessary was ready to act up to any situation
which he had chosen to create.
Thus thought Lysbeth, stamping her foot with vexation, but all the time
her heart was sore. All the time she knew well enough that she loved
Dirk, and, however strange might be his backwardness in speaking out
his mind, that he loved her. And yet she felt as though a river was
running between them. In the beginning it had been a streamlet, but now
it was growing to a torrent. Worse still the Spaniard was upon her bank
of the river.
After he had to some extent conquered his shyness and irritation Dirk
became aware that he was really enjoying his dinner at Montalvo’s
quarters. There were three guests besides himself, two Spanish officers
and a young Netherlander of his own class and age, Brant by name. He
was the only son of a noted and very wealthy goldsmith at The Hague,
who had sent him to study certain mysteries of the metal worker’s art
under a Leyden jeweller famous for the exquisite beauty of his designs.
The dinner and the service were both of them perfect in style, but
better than either proved the conversation, which was of a character
that Dirk had never heard at the tables of his own class and people.
Not that there was anything even broad about it, as might perhaps have
been expected. No, it was the talk of highly accomplished and travelled
men of the world, who had seen much and been actors in many moving
events; men who were not overtrammelled by prejudices, religious or
other, and who were above all things desirous of making themselves
agreeable and instructive to the stranger within their gates. The Heer
Brant also, who had but just arrived in Leyden, showed himself an able
and polished man, one that had been educated more thoroughly than was
usual among his class, and who, at the table of his father, the opulent
Burgomaster of The Hague, from his youth had associated with all
classes and conditions of men. Indeed it was there that he made the
acquaintance of Montalvo, who recognising him in the street had asked
him to dinner.
After the dishes were cleared, one of the Spanish officers rose and
begged to be excused, pleading some military duty. When he had saluted
his commandant and gone, Montalvo suggested that they should play a
game of cards. This was an invitation which Dirk would have liked to
decline, but when it came to the point he did not, for fear of seeming
peculiar in the eyes of these brilliant men of the world.
So they began to play, and as the game was simple very soon he picked
up the points of it, and what is more, found them amusing. At first the
stakes were not high, but they doubled themselves in some automatic
fashion, till Dirk was astonished to find that he was gambling for
considerable sums and winning them. Towards the last his luck changed a
little, but when the game came to an end he found himself the richer by
about three hundred and fifty florins.
“What am I do to with this?” he asked colouring up, as with sighs,
which in one instance were genuine enough, the losers pushed the money
across to him.
“Do with it?” laughed Montalvo, “did anybody ever hear such an
innocent! Why, buy your lady-love, or somebody else’s lady-love, a
present. No, I’ll tell you a better use than this, you give us
to-morrow night at your lodging the best dinner that Leyden can
produce, and a chance of winning some of this coin back again. Is it
agreed?”
“If the other gentlemen wish it,” said Dirk, modestly, “though my
apartment is but a poor place for such company.”
“Of course we wish it,” replied the three as with one voice, and the
hour for meeting having been fixed they parted, the Heer Brant walking
with Dirk to the door of his lodging.
“I was going to call on you to-morrow,” he said, “to bring to you a
letter of introduction from my father, though that should scarcely be
needed as, in fact, we are cousins—second cousins only, our mothers
having been first cousins.”
“Oh! yes, Brant of The Hague, of whom my mother used to speak, saying
that they were kinsmen to be proud of, although she had met them but
little. Well, welcome, cousin; I trust that we shall be friends.”
“I am sure of it,” answered Brant, and putting his arm through Dirk’s
he pressed it in a peculiar fashion that caused him to start and look
round. “Hush!” muttered Brant, “not here,” and they began to talk of
their late companions and the game of cards which they had played, an
amusement as to the propriety of which Dirk intimated that he had
doubts.
Young Brant shrugged his shoulders. “Cousin,” he said, “we live in the
world, so it is as well to understand the world. If the risking of a
few pieces at play, which it will not ruin us to lose, helps us to
understand it, well, for my part I am ready to risk them, especially as
it puts us on good terms with those who, as things are, it is wise we
should cultivate. Only, cousin, if I may venture to say it, be careful
not to take more wine than you can carry with discretion. Better lose a
thousand florins than let drop one word that you cannot remember.”
“I know, I know,” answered Dirk, thinking of Lysbeth’s supper, and at
the door of his lodgings they parted.
Like most Netherlanders, when Dirk made up his mind to do anything he
did it thoroughly. Thus, having undertaken to give a dinner party, he
determined to give a good dinner. In ordinary circumstances his first
idea would have been to consult his cousins, Clara and Lysbeth. After
that monstrous story about the sleighing, however, which by inquiry
from the coachman of the house, whom he happened to meet, he
ascertained to be perfectly false, this, for the young man had some
pride, he did not feel inclined to do. So in place of it he talked
first to his landlady, a worthy dame, and by her advice afterwards with
the first innkeeper of Leyden, a man of resource and experience. The
innkeeper, well knowing that this customer would pay for anything which
he ordered, threw himself into the affair heartily, with the result
that by five o’clock relays of cooks and other attendants were to be
seen streaming up Dirk’s staircase, carrying every variety of dish that
could be supposed to tempt the appetite of high-class cavaliers.
Dirk’s apartment consisted of two rooms situated upon the first floor
of an old house in a street that had ceased to be fashionable. Once,
however, it had been a fine house, and, according to the ideas of the
time, the rooms themselves were fine, especially the sitting chamber,
which was oak-panelled, low, and spacious, with a handsome fireplace
carrying the arms of its builder. Out of it opened his sleeping
room—which had no other doorway—likewise oak-panelled, with tall
cupboards, not unlike the canopy of a tomb in shape and general
appearance.
The hour came, and with it the guests. The feast began, the cooks
streamed up and down bearing relays of dishes from the inn. Above the
table hung a six-armed brass chandelier, and in each of its sockets
guttered a tallow candle furnishing light to the company beneath,
although outside of its bright ring there was shadow more or less
dense. Towards the end of dinner a portion of the rush wick of one of
these candles fell into the brass saucer beneath, causing the molten
grease to burn up fiercely. As it chanced, by the light of this sudden
flare, Montalvo, who was sitting opposite to the door, thought that he
caught sight of a tall, dark figure gliding along the wall towards the
bedroom. For one instant he saw it, then it was gone.
“_Caramba_, my friend,” he said, addressing Dirk, whose back was turned
towards the figure, “have you any ghosts in this gloomy old room of
yours? Because, if so, I think I have just seen one.”
“Ghosts!” answered Dirk, “no, I never heard of any; I do not believe in
ghosts. Take some more of that pasty.”
Montalvo took some more pasty, and washed it down with a glass of wine.
But he said no more about ghosts—perhaps an explanation of the
phenomenon had occurred to him; at any rate he decided to leave the
subject alone.
After the dinner they gambled, and this evening the stakes began where
those of the previous night left off. For the first hour Dirk lost,
then the luck turned and he won heavily, but always from Montalvo.
“My friend,” said the captain at last, throwing down his cards,
“certainly you are fated to be unfortunate in your matrimonial
adventures, for the devil lives in your dice-box, and his highness does
not give everything. I pass,” and he rose from the table.
“I pass also,” said Dirk following him into the window place, for he
wished to take no more money. “You have been very unlucky, Count,” he
said.
“Very, indeed, my young friend,” answered Montalvo, yawning, “in fact,
for the next six months I must live on—well—well, nothing, except the
recollection of your excellent dinner.”
“I am sorry,” muttered Dirk, confusedly, “I did not wish to take your
money; it was the turn of those accursed dice. See here, let us say no
more about it.”
“Sir,” said Montalvo, with a sudden sternness, “an officer and a
gentleman cannot treat a debt of honour thus; but,” he added with a
little laugh, “if another gentleman chances to be good enough to charge
a debt of honour for a debt of honour, the affair is different. If, for
instance, it would suit you to lend me four hundred florins, which,
added to the six hundred which I have lost to-night, would make a
thousand in all, well, it will be a convenience to me, though should it
be any inconvenience to you, pray do not think of such a thing.”
“Certainly,” answered Dirk, “I have won nearly as much as that, and
here at my own table. Take them, I beg of you, captain,” and emptying a
roll of gold into his hand, he counted it with the skill of a merchant,
and held it towards him.
Montalvo hesitated. Then he took the money, pouring it carelessly into
his pocket.
“You have not checked the sum,” said Dirk.
“My friend, it is needless,” answered his guest, “your word is rather
better than any bond,” and again he yawned, remarking that it was
getting late.
Dirk waited a few moments, thinking in his coarse, business-like way
that the noble Spaniard might wish to say something about a written
acknowledgment. As, however, this did not seem to occur to him, and the
matter was not one of ordinary affairs, he led the way back to the
table, where the other two were now showing their skill in card tricks.
A few minutes later the two Spaniards took their departure, leaving
Dirk and his cousin Brant alone.
“A very successful evening,” said Brant, “and, cousin, you won a great
deal.”
“Yes,” answered Dirk, “but all the same I am a poorer man than I was
yesterday.”
Brant laughed. “Did he borrow of you?” he asked. “Well, I thought he
would, and what’s more, don’t you count on that money. Montalvo is a
good sort of fellow in his own fashion, but he is an extravagant man
and a desperate gambler, with a queer history, I fancy—at least, nobody
knows much about him, not even his brother officers. If you ask them
they shrug their shoulders and say that Spain is a big kettle full of
all sorts of fish. One thing I do know, however, that he is over head
and ears in debt; indeed, there was trouble about it down at The Hague.
So, cousin, don’t you play with him more than you can help, and don’t
reckon on that thousand florins to pay your bills with. It is a mystery
to me how the man gets on, but I am told that a foolish old vrouw in
Amsterdam lent him a lot till she discovered—but there, I don’t talk
scandal. And now,” he added, changing his voice, “is this place
private?”
“Let’s see,” said Dirk, “they have cleared the things away, and the old
housekeeper has tidied up my bedroom. Yes, I think so. Nobody ever
comes up here after ten o’clock. What is it?”
Brant touched his arm, and, understanding the truth, Dirk led the way
into the window-place. There, standing with his back to the room, and
his hands crossed in a peculiar fashion, he uttered the word,
“_Jesus_,” and paused. Brant also crossed his hands and answered, or,
rather, continued, “_wept_.” It was the password of those of the New
Religion.
“You are one of us, cousin?” said Dirk.
“I and all my house, my father, my mother, my sister, and the maiden
whom I am to marry. They told me at The Hague that I must seek of you
or the young Heer Pieter van de Werff, knowledge of those things which
we of the Faith need to know; who are to be trusted, and who are not to
be trusted; where prayer is held, and where we may partake of the pure
Sacrament of God the Son.”
Dirk took his cousin’s hand and pressed it. The pressure was returned,
and thenceforward brother could not have trusted brother more
completely, for now between them was the bond of a common and burning
faith.
Such bonds the reader may say, tie ninety out of every hundred people
to each other in the present year of grace, but it is not to be
observed that a like mutual confidence results. No, because the
circumstances have changed. Thanks very largely to Dirk van Goorl and
his fellows of that day, especially to one William of Orange, it is no
longer necessary for devout and God-fearing people to creep into holes
and corners, like felons hiding from the law, that they may worship the
Almighty after some fashion as pure as it is simple, knowing the while
that if they are found so doing their lot and the lot of their wives
and children will be the torment and the stake. Now the thumbscrew and
the rack as instruments for the discomfiture of heretics are relegated
to the dusty cases of museums. But some short generations since all
this was different, for then a man who dared to disagree with certain
doctrines was treated with far less mercy than is shown to a dog on the
vivisector’s table.
Little wonder, therefore, that those who lay under such a ban, those
who were continually walking in the cold shadow of this dreadful doom,
clung to each other, loved each other, and comforted each other to the
last, passing often enough hand-in-hand through the fiery gates to that
country in which there is no more pain. To be a member of the New
Religion in the Netherlands under the awful rule of Charles the Emperor
and Philip the King was to be one of a vast family. It was not “sir” or
“mistress” or “madame,” it was “my father” and “my mother,” or “my
sister” and “my brother;” yes, and between people who were of very
different status and almost strangers in the flesh; strangers in the
flesh but brethren in spirit.
It will be understood that in these circumstances Dirk and Brant,
already liking each other, and being already connected by blood, were
not slow in coming to a complete understanding and fellowship.
There they sat in the window-place telling each other of their
families, their hopes and fears, and even of their lady-loves. In this,
as in every other respect, Hendrik Brant’s story was one of simple
prosperity. He was betrothed to a lady of The Hague, the only daughter
of a wealthy wine-merchant, who, according to his account, seemed to be
as beautiful as she was good and rich, and they were to be married in
the spring. But when Dirk told him of his affair, he shook his wise
young head.
“You say that both she and her aunt are Catholics?” he asked.
“Yes, cousin, this is the trouble. I think that she is fond of me, or,
at any rate, she was until a few days since,” he added ruefully, “but
how can I, being a ‘heretic,’ ask her to plight her troth to me unless
I tell her? And that, you know, is against the rule; indeed, I scarcely
dare to do so.”
“Had you not best consult with some godly elder who by prayer and words
may move your lady’s heart till the light shines on her?” asked Brant.
“Cousin, it has been done, but always there is the other in the way,
that red-nosed Aunt Clara, who is a mad idolator; also there is the
serving-woman, Greta, whom I take for little better than a spy.
Therefore, between the two of them I see little chance that Lysbeth
will ever hear the truth this side of marriage. And yet how dare I
marry her? Is it right that I should marry her and therefore, perhaps,
bring her too to some dreadful fate such as may wait for you or me?
Moreover, now since this man Montalvo has crossed my path, all things
seem to have gone wrong between me and Lysbeth; indeed but yesterday
her door was shut on me.”
“Women have their fancies,” answered Brant, slowly; “perhaps he has
taken hers; she would not be the first who walked that plank. Or,
perhaps, she is vexed with you for not speaking out ere this; for, man,
not knowing what you are, how can she read your mind?”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Dirk, “but I know not what to do,” and in his
perplexity he struck his forehead with his hand.
“Then, brother, in that case what hinders that we should ask Him Who
can tell you?” said Brant, calmly.
Dirk understood what he meant at once. “It is a wise thought, and a
good one, cousin. I have the Holy Book; first let us pray, and then we
can seek wisdom there.”
“You are rich, indeed,” answered Brant; “sometime you must tell me how
and where you came by it.”
“Here in Leyden, if one can afford to pay for them, such goods are not
hard to get,” said Dirk; “what _is_ hard is to keep them safely, for to
be found with a Bible in your pocket is to carry your own
death-warrant.”
Brant nodded. “Is it safe to show it here?” he asked.
“As safe as anywhere, cousin; the window is shuttered, the door is, or
will be, locked, but who can say that he is safe this side of the stake
in a land where the rats and mice carry news and the wind bears
witness? Come, I will show you where I keep it,” and going to the
mantelpiece he took down a candle-stick, a quaint brass, ornamented on
its massive oblong base with two copper snails, and lit the candle. “Do
you like the piece?” he asked; “it is my own design, which I cast and
filed out in my spare hours,” and he gazed at the holder with the
affection of an artist. Then without waiting for an answer, he led the
way to the door of his sitting-room and paused.
“What is it?” asked Brant.
“I thought I heard a sound, that is all, but doubtless the old vrouw
moves upon the stairs. Turn the key, cousin, so, now come on.”
They entered the sleeping chamber, and having glanced round and made
sure that it was empty, and the window shut, Dirk went to the head of
the bed, which was formed of oak-panels, the centre one carved with a
magnificent coat-of-arms, fellow to that in the fireplace of the
sitting-room. At this panel Dirk began to work, till presently it slid
aside, revealing a hollow, out of which he took a book bound in boards
covered with leather. Then, having closed the panel, the two young men
returned to the sitting-room, and placed the volume upon the oak table
beneath the chandelier.
“First let us pray,” said Brant.
It seems curious, does it not, that two young men as a _finale_ to a
dinner party, and a gambling match at which the stakes had not been
low; young men who like others had their weaknesses, for one of them,
at any rate, could drink too much wine at times, and both being human
doubtless had further sins to bear, should suggest kneeling side by
side to offer prayers to their Maker before they studied the
Scriptures? But then in those strange days prayer, now so common (and
so neglected) an exercise, was an actual luxury. To these poor hunted
men and women it was a joy to be able to kneel and offer thanks and
petitions to God, believing themselves to be safe from the sword of
those who worshipped otherwise. Thus it came about that, religion being
forbidden, was to them a very real and earnest thing, a thing to be
indulged in at every opportunity with solemn and grateful hearts. So
there, beneath the light of the guttering candles, they knelt side by
side while Brant, speaking for both of them, offered up a prayer—a
sight touching enough and in its way beautiful.
The words of his petition do not matter. He prayed for their Church; he
prayed for their country that it might be made strong and free; he even
prayed for the Emperor, the carnal, hare-lipped, guzzling, able
Hapsburg self-seeker. Then he prayed for themselves and all who were
dear to them, and lastly, that light might be vouchsafed to Dirk in his
present difficulty. No, not quite lastly, for he ended with a petition
that their enemies might be forgiven, yes, even those who tortured them
and burnt them at the stake, since they knew not what they did. It may
be wondered whether any human aspirations could have been more
thoroughly steeped in the true spirit of Christianity.
When at length he had finished they rose from their knees.
“Shall I open the Book at a hazard,” asked Dirk, “and read what my eye
falls on?”
“No,” answered Brant, “for it savours of superstition; thus did the
ancients with the writings of the poet Virgilius, and it is not fitting
that we who hold the light should follow the example of those blind
heathen. What work of the Book, brother, are you studying now?”
“The first letter of Paul to the Corinthians, which I have never read
before,” he answered.
“Then begin where you left off, brother, and read your chapter. Perhaps
we may find instruction in it; if not, no answer is vouchsafed to us
to-night.”
So from the black-letter volume before him Dirk began to read the
seventh chapter, in which, as it chances, the great Apostle deals with
the marriage state. On he read, in a quiet even voice, till he came to
the twelfth and four following verses, of which the last three run:
“For the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the
unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband: else were your children
unclean; but now they are holy. But if the unbelieving depart, let him
depart. A brother or a sister is not under bondage in such cases; but
God has called us to peace. For what knowest thou, O wife, whether thou
shalt save thy husband? or how knowest thou, O man, whether thou shalt
save thy wife?” Dirk’s voice trembled, and he paused.
“Continue to the end of the chapter,” said Brant, so the reader went
on.
There is a sound. They do not hear it, but the door of the bedchamber
behind them opens ever so little. They do not see it, but between door
and lintel something white thrusts itself, a woman’s white face crowned
with black hair, and set in it two evil, staring eyes. Surely, when
first he raised his head in Eden, Satan might have worn such a
countenance as this. It cranes itself forward till the long, thin neck
seems to stretch; then suddenly a stir or a movement alarms it, and
back the face draws like the crest of a startled snake. Back it draws,
and the door closes again.
The chapter is read, the prayer is prayed, and strange may seem the
answer to that prayer, an answer to shake out faith from the hearts of
men; men who are impatient, who do not know that as the light takes
long in travelling from a distant star, so the answer from the Throne
to the supplication of trust may be long in coming. It may not come
to-day or to-morrow. It may not come in this generation or this
century; the prayer of to-day may receive its crown when the children’s
children of the lips that uttered it have in their turn vanished in the
dust. And yet that Divine reply may in no wise be delayed; even as our
liberty of this hour may be the fruit of those who died when Dirk van
Goorl and Hendrik Brant walked upon the earth; even as the vengeance
that but now is falling on the Spaniard may be the reward of the deeds
of shame that he worked upon them and upon their kin long generations
gone. For the Throne is still the Throne, and the star is still the
star; from the one flows justice and from the other light, and to them
time and space are naught.
Dirk finished the chapter and closed the Book.
“It seems that you have your answer, Brother,” said Brant quietly.
“Yes,” replied Dirk, “it is written large enough:—‘The unbelieving wife
is sanctified by the husband . . . how knowest thou, O man, whether
thou shalt save thy wife?’ Had the Apostle foreseen my case he could
not have set the matter forth more clearly.”
“He, or the Spirit in him, knew all cases, and wrote for every man that
ever shall be born,” answered Brant. “This is a lesson to us. Had you
looked sooner you would have learned sooner, and mayhap much trouble
might have been spared. As it is, without doubt you must make haste and
speak to her at once, leaving the rest with God.”
“Yes,” said Dirk, “as soon as may be, but there is one thing more;
ought I tell her all the truth?”
“I should not be careful to hide it, friend, and now, good night. No,
do not come to the door with me. Who can tell, there may be watchers
without, and it is not wise that we should be seen together so late.”
When his cousin and new-found friend had gone Dirk sat for a while,
till the guttering tallow lights overhead burned to the sockets indeed.
Then, taking the candle from the snail-adorned holder, he lit it, and,
having extinguished those in the chandeliers, went into his bedroom and
undressed himself. The Bible he returned to its hiding-place and closed
the panel, after which he blew out the light and climbed into the tall
bed.
As a rule Dirk was a most excellent sleeper; when he laid his head on
the pillow his eyes closed nor did they open again until the appointed
and accustomed hour. But this night he could not sleep. Whether it was
the dinner or the wine, or the gambling, or the prayer and the
searching of the Scriptures with his cousin Brant, the result remained
the same; he was very wakeful, which annoyed him the more as a man of
his race and phlegm found it hard to attribute this unrest to any of
these trivial causes. Still, as vexation would not make him sleep, he
lay awake watching the moonlight flood the chamber in broad bars and
thinking.
Somehow as Dirk thought thus he grew afraid; it seemed to him as though
he shared that place with another presence, an evil and malignant
presence. Never in his life before had he troubled over or been
troubled by tales of spirits, yet now he remembered Montalvo’s remark
about a ghost, and of a surety he felt as though one were with him
there. In this strange and new alarm he sought for comfort and could
think of none save that which an old and simple pastor had recommended
to him in all hours of doubt and danger, namely, if it could be had, to
clasp a Bible to his heart and pray.
Well, both things were easy. Raising himself in bed, in a moment he had
taken the book from its hiding-place and closed the panel. Then
pressing it against his breast between himself and the mattress he lay
down again, and it would seem that the charm worked, for presently he
was asleep.
Yet Dirk dreamed a very evil dream. He dreamed that a tall black figure
leaned over him, and that a long white hand was stretched out to his
bed-head where it wandered to and fro, till at last he heard the panel
slide home with a rattling noise.
Then it seemed to him that he woke, and that his eyes met two eyes bent
down over him, eyes which searched him as though they would read the
very secrets of his heart. He did not stir, he could not, but lo! in
this dream of his the figure straightened itself and glided away,
appearing and disappearing as it crossed the bars of moonlight until it
vanished by the door.
A while later and Dirk woke up in truth, to find that although the
night was cold enough the sweat ran in big drops from his brow and
body. But now strangely enough his fear was gone, and, knowing that he
had but dreamed a dream, he turned over, touched the Bible on his
breast, and fell sleeping like a child, to be awakened only by the
light of the rising winter sun pouring on his face.
Then Dirk remembered that dream of the bygone night, and his heart grew
heavy, for it seemed to him that this vision of a dark woman searching
his face with those dreadful eyes was a portent of evil not far away.