"WITHIN THE LOFTY TOMB"
Godfrey opened his eyes to find himself lying on the grassy slope of
Ormfell, staring up at the night-sky, with Idris kneeling beside him. A
cool sensation was playing around his neck, and, gradually waking up to
the reality of outward things, the surgeon discovered that his vest and
collar lay open to the breeze, and that Idris was sprinkling his face
with cold water-drops obtained from a pool close by.
"Coming-to a little, I see," Idris observed cheerfully. "How do you
feel?"
"Awfully queer and dizzy," replied Godfrey.
He lifted himself to a sitting posture, utterly unable to account for
his present dazed condition.
"You'll be all right in a few minutes. Take a pull at this
spirit-flask: that'll revive you. I owe my life to you, old fellow."
"In what way?" asked Godfrey, his mind still too confused to recall the
recent accident.
"Gaseous vapour would have claimed its victim. Your grandfather was
quite right in asserting this to be a carboniferous soil. Some of the
coal-gas has issued to the surface. The atmosphere within the hillock
was a mixture of carbon dioxide and floating fire-damp. Foolishly
creeping about, with mouth held to the ground, I took in such a whiff
of the one as to be quite overpowered by it before I had time to rise,
while the other exploded as soon as you struck the match."
Godfrey, now quite alive to the past, gave an ejaculation of annoyance.
"I'm a pretty doctor not to have warned you against noxious vapours!
It's a marvel we are both alive. But why was I not overpowered?"
"Probably because you were not holding your face to the earth where the
gas collects, though very likely you, too, would have succumbed in a
few moments. However, all's well that ends well. Your striking a light
was a fortunate thing, for it appears to have acted like an electric
discharge in instantly clearing the air. True, you were stunned, but
I recovered; whether instantly by the explosion, or more slowly by
the purifying atmosphere, I cannot tell. All I know is I awoke, and
realizing what had happened, and feeling you beside me, I lost no time
in dragging you out into the open air. And here we are, none the worse
for our experience, I trust. No doubt it was occurrences like this that
caused the old Norsemen to believe that Odin guarded the tombs of the
dead by darting forth flames."
"The fires of the Asas are real enough, after all," muttered Godfrey,
still feeling like one in a dream. "Hasn't the sound of the explosion
brought any one here?"
"It seems not," said Idris, looking round. "So far we are safe. Old
Orm offers a stubborn resistance," he continued. "'He being dead, yet
fighteth.' But he is doomed to be defeated, for I will not go until I
have examined the interior of the hillock."
"You are not thinking of venturing into that deathtrap again?" said
Godfrey, aghast.
"There is no danger now: at least, not from gases. The explosion
dissolved them, and the outer air has had time to penetrate within.
Besides, forewarned is forearmed. We know our peril: if one of us
should be overpowered, the other must drag him out."
"How can you make an investigation without a light?"
"We shall have light enough. Fortunately, you snapped the lid of the
box tightly before striking your match--an action that effectually
screened the remaining two from the flame of the fire-damp."
"Two matches will not help us much."
"There you're wrong. We will take some of this brushwood inside and
light a bonfire: and the sooner we make a beginning the better. It's
two o'clock now. In another hour or so day will be dawning."
Inwardly groaning at the perversity of his friend, Godfrey lent a hand
in collecting the materials necessary for the fire: and, not without
some trepidation, carried them through the dark passage into the
mortuary chamber, the atmosphere of which, as his nostrils assured him,
had become considerably clarified since his previous visit.
Fearing that the two matches when kindled might expire before he could
fire the twigs, which were damp with the afternoon's rain, Idris drew
forth a small book, a pocket edition of _Hamlet_, and proceeded to
detach leaf after leaf, twisting them into spirals. These he handed
to Godfrey, enjoining him to keep a flame alive by kindling one from
another till the twigs should have fairly caught.
"Now to strike the fateful match!" he said. "Pray heaven the Asas do
not give us another pyrotechnic display!"
He cautiously struck the match. Godfrey instantly kindled one of his
paper-spirals from the flame.
"No fireworks this time, you see," remarked Idris, as all remained
quiet. "This is what may be called _making light_ of Shakespeare," he
added, as, taking the kindled papers one after another from Godfrey's
hand, he applied them to the leaves and twigs, endeavouring to force
them into a blaze.
The pale, bluish glare that sprang up made the chamber faintly visible.
Idris, intent on his task of ignition saw nothing but the brushwood
before him, but Godfrey could not refrain from casting a timid glance
around, even at the risk of extinguishing the lighted paper in his hand.
There was, however, nothing very dreadful in the scene before him. He
found himself standing in a chamber about twenty feet square, the sides
of which were composed of rough-hewn blocks of masonry, glistening
with moisture, and dotted with patches of fungous growth. The roof
was formed by a layer of tree-trunks, necessarily of great size and
strength in order to support the vast weight above. The floor seemed
to be of earth, its surface glimmering here and there with tiny black
pools, formed by the constant dropping of moisture from the roof.
But the treasures deposited of old by Hilda the Alruna for her son,
Magnus of Deira--where were they? Well for Idris that he had not set
his heart on finding them, for the chamber was bare, save for one
object in the centre. This was the sarcophagus-like structure against
which Godfrey had collided when looking for Idris' body. By the
flickering light he could see that this receptacle was of oblong shape,
the sides consisting of four upright stone slabs let into the earth,
with a fifth one resting upon them like a lid.
Idris had now succeeded in his task, and the twigs and branches blazing
up cast over the chamber a ruddy glow sufficiently bright for the
taking of observations.
"This is better than a lantern. I warrant the place hasn't looked so
cheerful for centuries," remarked Idris, as he stood by the blaze and
took a survey of the chamber.
"Cheerful at present, perhaps, but in ten minutes we shall be smoked
out."
[Illustration]
"I think not. This fire will burn bright and clear presently, and will
give out little smoke."
Taking up a lighted brand from the fire Idris moved forward and began
his investigations with the tomb by making a scrutiny of its lid.
"No inscription here, runic or otherwise.--Humph! shall we supply one,
HIC JACET ORMUS.--Now to remove this slab! Let us see if there
are bones beneath."
Too eager to wait for Godfrey's assistance he seized the lid with one
hand, and, exerting all his strength, swung it off laterally.
A cry of surprise, rather than of alarm, broke from him, as he caught
sight of a full-sized human skeleton lying within. A burning fragment
from the torch he carried dropped within the teeth of the skeleton,
where, still continuing to glow, it lit up the skull with weird effect,
the red flicker giving an apparent motion to the grinning jaws and
eyeless sockets.
"Are these the remains of your Viking?" asked Godfrey.
"Can there be doubt about it? This is old Orm, or what is left of him,"
replied Idris, holding the torch low over the skeleton.--"Here reposes
one who, I doubt not, made a brave figure in his day. And now? 'None so
poor to do him reverence.' The people of Ormsby do not know even his
name, and yet he was the founder of their town, its nomenclator, in
fact. The old Greeks would have raised a statue and an altar to him in
their market-place, and have worshipped him as their hero eponymous.
And here he lies neglected and forgotten!
'Shade of the mighty! can it be
That this is all remains of thee?'
"Is this wasted bone the 'high arm' spoken of on the runic ring? Where
be now its feats of strength? And where is the wealth won by his
ashen spear? the riches that conferred upon him the epithet of Golden?
the treasure placed within the 'lofty tomb' by his wife, Hilda, the
Norse prophetess? Vanished! Whither? Removed by whom? and when? Did
Magnus of Deira really receive the runic ring despatched to him by his
mother? Did he come here in ancient days to remove his heritage, or
has the treasure been taken by other, perhaps modern, hands? If so, by
whose? By the masked man of Quilaix's? By Captain Rochefort's or by my
father's? Have they left behind any trace of their visit?"
His eyes roving around the chamber were attracted by a fabric lying at
the foot of one of the walls.
"What have we here?" he said, stepping forward and picking it up. "A
piece of cloth! Will this give us a clue to the men who were here last?"
For better inspection he carried the cloth to the light of the fire.
When unrolled the fabric proved to be oblong in shape, six feet by
four, its edges very much frayed, and its surface so defaced by clay
that it was impossible at first to discover its texture, colour, or use.
"I see what it is," he remarked at last. "Look at that triangular shred
of cloth hanging from the metallic rod: its shape tallies with the
triangular rent in this fabric. This has been torn from that rail: it
is a part of the tapestry that once decked the walls of this chamber. I
am disappointed again; I thought to find a modern vesture, and am put
off with ancient tapestry."
He began to scrape the fabric with his penknife.
"I can detect some coloured threads," he went on. "It is figured
arras: but it is impossible at present to make out what the figures
are. Here are some letters, too. I can detect N. and T. We must keep
this. When cleaned it may prove to be an interesting 'find'--of a more
ancient date, unless my chronology be at fault, than the famous Bayeux
Tapestry. What puzzles me is, why the man who carried off the rest of
the tapestry should leave this behind him."
"Probably because it is a torn remnant."
"But it would be a very simple matter to sew it to the main piece
again. Do you notice how the rail is bent where the three cornered bit
is?"
Godfrey looked and saw that the rod was bent downwards.
"What inference do you draw from that?" Idris asked.
"That somebody must have been tugging heavily at the tapestry to cause
such a curvature."
"Exactly. But why should any one wrench so violently at the tapestry,
tapestry that was evidently regarded as valuable, otherwise it would
not have been carried off?"
Godfrey shrugged his shoulders at the apparent irrelevancy of Idris'
remarks.
"Your question is not susceptible of an answer."
"True--at present. But an investigator should take note of every
circumstance, however trifling, although at the time he may fail to
discern its true significance."
"But seeing that the tapestry may have been carried off centuries ago,
it is difficult to discover the present application of your remark."
"On the other hand it may have been carried off only recently: it
is these recent traces that I wish to find. Somehow, this bent rod
attracts me. Ah!"
Whilst speaking thus he suddenly recalled an incident that had occurred
during his previous exploration in the dark.
"Godfrey, your divining rod. I am half-a-believer in its powers. At any
rate I am going to try an experiment."
Taking the hazel stick he walked to that part of the wall where the
shred of tapestry hung.
"Either I am dreaming," he said, "or a singular experience befell me at
this spot."
Standing in the same position as before he extended the stick
horizontally, explaining to Godfrey the reason for his act.
But Solomon's saying, "The thing that hath been, it is that which shall
be," was not verified on the present occasion. Though Idris waited
patiently for several minutes the rod manifested none of the downward
tendency that it had previously shown.
Godfrey himself took the stick and tried the experiment, but with no
better result. He expressed his opinion that Idris must have been the
victim of an illusion: but to this Idris would not assent.
"The rod does not turn now, that's clear. But that it _did_ turn I am
confident. It was no fancy of mine."
"Let us dig," said Godfrey, "and see whether there is anything beneath
the soil that could have caused it."
With these words he took up the spade and began digging. Idris followed
his example, wielding the pickaxe, but found, after a few strokes,
that some hard substance prevented the point of the implement from
penetrating to a greater depth than three or four inches.
"This earth is mere superficial deposit, percolations from the roof,"
said Idris. "There is a stone flooring beneath."
In a few moments they had cleared away the terrene deposit, discovering
nothing however, except a block of smooth masonry, at which Idris dealt
a few strokes by way of experiment.
"Humph! seems solid enough. The dull sound given forth is hardly
suggestive of a cavity. What made the rod curve, I wonder?"
Finding no answer to this question, he turned reluctantly away,
and began to explore other parts of the chamber. He made a careful
examination of its flooring, allowing no part of it to escape him. With
the spade he swept aside the black water from the tiny hollows, and
with the pickaxe he probed the ground at various points, discovering
everywhere stone pavement beneath the superficial covering of earth.
The object that he was hoping to find--a match-box, or a button
bearing the maker's name; the dated sheet of a newspaper; a scrap of
handwriting: a handkerchief, marked with the owner's initials: or some
article of like character--existed only in his fancy. A thorough search
on the part of the two friends failed to bring anything to light,
either on the surface of the floor, or embedded within the clay.
There was nothing to indicate the date at which the tumulus had been
last entered: whether ten, twenty, or a hundred years before. For all
they could tell to the contrary, many centuries might have passed since
its interior had been trodden by human footsteps.
Relinquishing at last his fruitless labours Idris seated himself on the
edge of the Viking's tomb with disappointment written on his features.
"I have so long clung to the hope that this place would afford a clue
to the finding of my father, that I cannot give up the notion even
now, when its futility seems most apparent. You may think me fanciful,
Godfrey, but something seems to whisper that there _are_ traces of him
here, if I did but know where to look for them. And yet, I suppose, we
have done all that it is possible to do?"
He rose again from his seat and scrutinized the four walls of the
chamber, sounding them with the pickaxe.
"There does not appear to be any cell or passage behind these," he
muttered.
He turned his eyes upwards, and took a survey of the black tree trunks
forming the roof of the chamber: and finished his investigations
by probing the dust of the Viking's tomb with the end of the
walking-stick, but made no further discovery.
"So end my hopes of finding my father," he muttered sadly. "My labour
has been expended on a vain quest. Years of search throughout Europe:
years of study over runic letters, end in--a dead man's bones!--How
this old fellow grins! One would think he enjoys my discomfiture. I
shall take his skull back with me."
"Why, in heaven's name?"
"A whim of mine, nothing more. I have taken a fancy for the skull, and
the skull I will have. So old Orm," he continued, stooping down and
detaching the grisly head-piece from the vertebral column, "prepare to
face the light of day after a sleep of centuries in darkness."
"Put it back again," said Godfrey. "What good can it do you? You can't
possibly put it to any use."
"The skull of a brave Viking is a trophy well worth preserving, a noble
ornament for my sideboard. And if you talk of use, there are several
uses to which I can put it. I may set it with silver, and convert it
into a drinking-cup, like that used by Byron. Or I may turn it into a
pretty lamp to write tragedy by, after the fashion of the poet Young.
Or, imitating the old Egyptians, I may use it as a table-decoration
to remind me of death, and of the vanity of all things human. The
skull will be a souvenir of our expedition, a memento of an experience
unique, at least, in my life.--So hurrah!" he cried, holding the trophy
aloft, "HURRAH FOR THE VIKING'S SKULL!"
* * * * * *
Day was dawning when Idris and Godfrey reached home, after concealing,
so far as lay in their power, the traces of their night's work.
Beatrice, who had been sitting up anxiously awaiting their return, gave
a little scream when she beheld their blackened faces.
"Heavens! what has happened?" she cried.
Over the repast that she had kept in readiness for them Idris gave
an account of the expedition, finishing his story by producing the
relics he had brought away with him, namely, the Viking's skull and the
fragment of tapestry.
"Let us have some warm water, Trixie," said Godfrey. "We will try to
clean this tapestry."
A bowl of warm water was soon procured, Godfrey diluting it with a
powder brought by him from his surgery.
"A chemical preparation of my own," he explained, "warranted to take
out stains without injuring the cloth."
Under Beatrice's manipulation the relic gradually disclosed itself as a
piece of brownish-coloured linen, divided by a vertical line of black
thread into two sections of unequal length. Each section consisted of a
picture woven in woollen threads on the linen background, and each was
fragmentary in character, the beginning of the one and the end of the
other being torn away.
The left section represented a battle-field: spears were hurtling in
air: two warriors were lying prostrate, and a third, a yellow-haired
hero, his bare arms flung aloft, was in the act of falling backwards,
his breast pierced by an arrow. These figures, drawn to a scale of
about half the human size, were in a good state of preservation. The
colours of the garments had scarcely faded: the golden filaments
composing the shields still retained their brightness: and the swords,
woven from silver threads, glinted in the rising sunlight, as Beatrice
moved the fabric to and fro. To this section was attached the
subscription:--"HIC ORMUM AUREUM OCCIDUNT."
"What do these words mean?" Beatrice asked.
"'Here they kill Orm the Golden,'" Idris replied.
"Orm the Golden," Godfrey repeated. "You are right, then, Idris, in
your theory as to that tumulus being the tomb of the warrior spoken of
on the runic ring. I confess that till this moment I have had my doubts
on the point, but this piece of tapestry is decisive."
In the other section of the cloth the same warrior, still pierced
by the arrow, was represented as lying prone upon the earth: two
figures, those of a woman and of a boy, were bending over him. That
it was night-time was shown by the torches they carried. The woman
had evidently come to bear off the body of the dead chief. The words,
"HILDA INVENIT"--were clearly discernible; the rest of the
inscription was wanting.
"'Hilda finds'--Orm, I suppose the next word would be, if we had the
inscription in full," said Idris. "Hilda--the lady of the runic ring,
you will remember. This other figure is perhaps intended for her
son Magnus: if so, it is clear that he was a lad at the time of his
father's death, which may account for his mother's act in hiding the
treasure in Ormfell. There it was to remain till her son should be of
age to defend his heritage. The roll of tapestry suspended round the
tomb was evidently, when entire, a complete record in needlework of the
life of Orm the Viking. It must have formed an interesting relic of
Norse times. A pity we haven't the whole of it."
"And so this is Hilda the Alruna!" mused Beatrice, contemplating the
figure on the tapestry. "How curiously we are linked with the past! To
think that the expedition in which you nearly lost your lives is the
result of a sentence engraved on a Norse altar-ring a thousand years
ago by the lady portrayed on this piece of needlework! She had dark
hair, if this be her 'counterfeit presentment.' And to think, too, that
we possess the very skull of the yellow-haired Viking pictured here! It
sounds too romantic to be true. Where are you going to put your grisly
trophy, Mr. Breakspear?"
"The head of the staircase is the orthodox place."
"The orthodox place?" repeated Beatrice, puzzled by the expression.
"Some ancient houses keep a skull as part of the furnishings," Idris
explained. "It is supposed to bring good luck, and the head of the
staircase is its usual place, any removal of it being fraught with
danger to the house. Of course this is foolery, but----"
"But still we may as well be in the fashion," smiled Beatrice, "and so
I'll put it where you say."
The Viking's skull was therefore taken by her to the embrasure of the
window that looked down the staircase, after which act Beatrice went
off for a brief spell of sleep, this being the first time she had ever
gone to bed at sun-rising.
Godfrey, preparing to follow her example, lingered for a moment,
attracted by the appearance of the water in which the tapestry had been
cleansed.
"How red this water is!" he murmured. "To what is the colour due?"
"Probably to the reddish coloured clay with which the cloth was
stained," replied Idris.
"It may be so," said the physician, slowly and thoughtfully, "but
if I remember rightly, the clay in that part of the chamber where
the tapestry lay was not red at all. The appearance of this water is
certainly curious. One might almost take it for blood!"