THE LEGEND OF THE RUNIC RING
On the morning after his adventure on the seashore Idris went out with
the intention of calling upon Mademoiselle Rivière: and that he might
not lack reasonable pretext for his visit, he took with him the book
which she had asked him to return. Apart altogether from the charm
of her beauty Lorelie interested him, both as being the daughter of
Captain Rochefort, and likewise as the depositary of some strange
secret relating to his father's history. Though earnestly pressed by
Idris she had firmly declined to give any account of Eric Marville
from the time of his escape to the sinking of the yacht in Ormsby
Race. It was difficult to assign a motive for her refusal, but Idris
did not doubt that in course of time he would be able to overcome her
reticence: and therefore, if only on this account, Lorelie Rivière was
a person whose friendship it behoved him to cultivate.
The way to her villa, The Cedars, took him past Saint Oswald's Church,
and moved by a sudden impulse, he turned aside to enter the edifice,
which in more than one sense was hallowed ground to him, inasmuch as it
was here that he had first met with Lorelie.
Surely Eros was directing his steps! For, scarcely had he passed within
the porch of the Ravengar Chantry when his ear caught the soft rustle
of silk, and Mademoiselle Rivière herself was standing before him. She
had entered by another door, and the basket of flowers hanging from her
arm seemed to indicate that her object in visiting the church was to
deck its altar. Dressed in a graceful costume of black and silver that
harmonized exquisitely with her delicate complexion she looked more
beautiful and witching than ever in Idris' eyes, as with a bright smile
she extended her hand.
"And your sprained ankle?" he asked, when their first greetings were
over.
"Is not my presence here a satisfactory answer to that question?" she
smiled.
"May I ask for a flower in exchange, mademoiselle?" said Idris, as he
returned the book to her.
"Here is variety to choose from. Let me learn your favourite."
She held out the basket for Idris to make his choice.
"You are taking nothing but forget-me-nots," she cried.
"I am in a parabolical mood, you see. The name of this flower expresses
what my lips would say."
"And thereby you accuse me of ingratitude."
"How so?"
"By suggesting the possibility of my forgetting one who has saved my
life," replied Lorelie, the colour stealing over her cheek. She raised
her eyes to his with an expression in them that thrilled him, and
continued, "Shall I tell you the dream I had last night? I thought
I was still lying on those sands where I fell, unable to move. The
rising tide came on and rippled around me, striking a chill through my
clothing. At last the water was so high that it flowed over my face,
filling my mouth and nostrils. I fought with it, but it ascended higher
and ever higher above me, till I was deep down below the surface.
"And the curious part of it all was that I still lived. I lay there as
in a trance, motionless, staring upwards. I could see the air-bubbles
of my breath ascending to the surface. The moon with tremulous
motion shone through the glassy water, looking--oh! ever so far away.
The sea-weed drifted around and clung to my cheek and hair. Curious
sea-monsters came and looked at me, then went away again: shell-fish
crawled over me, and all night long the restless water flowed over my
face and plashed in and out of my mouth. Its faint murmur rings in my
ears still. In the morning I awoke and found it a dream. Then I said to
myself, 'This is what would have happened if--if no one had been near
to aid me.'"
"It is past now," replied Idris, observing her shiver. "Don't think any
more about it."
"The peril is past, but the memory of it remains. Ah, that dream! If
it should occur again to-night I shall begin to be like Richard III,
and tremble at the thought of sleep. Shall I put those flowers in your
coat, Mr. Breakspear? You seem to find it a difficulty."
Idris readily accepted her proffered aid.
"Forget-me-not," she murmured, fastening the nosegay to his
button-hole; and Idris wondered whether the words were addressed to
him, or whether she was simply repeating the name of the flower: the
latter it seemed by her next remark. "Why should our French _myosotis_
be called in English, 'Forget-me-not'? Can you tell me the origin of
the name?"
Idris could, and did: relating the somewhat apocryphal story of the
youth, who, in wading to the opposite bank of a river with a view of
procuring some flowers for his sweetheart, was swept off by the current
and drowned, but not before he had had time to fling the flowers at her
feet with the parting cry of "Forget-me-not!"
"The moral of which is," added Idris, "learn to swim."
"You are spoiling a pretty story by your cynicism," said Lorelie. "His
love was all the greater if he could not swim."
She turned to arrange her flowers upon the altar of the Ravengar
Chantry. Idris was watching her when his eye was caught by a shadow
outlined on the stone pavement. The sun was shining through the window
above the altar, and casting at his feet glowing splashes of various
hues. For a few seconds he continued to stare, doubtful whether he saw
aright, and then, slowly raising his gaze, he followed the slanting
shaft of coloured light upward from the pavement till his eyes rested
upon the stained window.
The central pane was blazoned with the armorial device of the
Ravengars. The shield, supported on each side by a raven, in canting
allusion to the family name, was charged in the centre with a silver
circlet, a thin purple line forming the perimeter.
_The runic ring!_
Yes: there was its facsimile gleaming from the coloured glass, and
seeming in the morning sunlight to sparkle with a new and mysterious
significance. That this argent circle was intended to represent the
Norse altar-ring Idris had not the shadow of a doubt: and for a moment
he felt resentment both against Beatrice and Godfrey: for, familiar as
they must be with this coat of arms--Beatrice herself, as a Ravengar,
being entitled to assume it--they had made no allusion to it when
he was telling them the story of the runic ring. It was singular,
too, that he himself should have failed to notice this blazon in his
previous visit to this chantry.
What was the reason for its figuring in the Ravengar shield?
Curious stories are often latent within armorial devices, as students
of heraldry can testify. Was it possible that this ring had been
adopted by the Ravengars of a past generation because it had been in
some way connected with their history?
"Mademoiselle Rivière," said Idris, impulsively, thinking that she
might be able to throw some light upon the matter, "can you tell
me whether the Ravengars of past times had any historic reason for
decorating their armorial shield with a silver ring?"
"There is an interesting legend to account for it," she said after
a moment's hesitation, "which you will find in a curious old book
entitled, '_Traditions of the House of Ravengar_.'"
"You know the story, then? May I not learn it from you rather than from
the book?"
"It is a story that will take a long time in the telling."
This, in Idris' opinion, was an excellent reason for hearing it.
Lorelie found herself unable to resist his persuasive manner: so,
sitting down, she proceeded to tell the story with a detail that showed
how it had caught her own imagination.
In the ninth century--so ran the legend--there lived a Norse sea-king,
who, either from the terror inspired by his arms, or from the gilt
figure on the prow of his galley, was called Draco, or "The Dragon."
From the great wealth acquired in his various water-expeditions he
gained the additional name of "The Golden."
Like many other heroes of the north this Draco claimed descent from
Odin, and among his hereditaments nothing was more prized by him than
the silver altar-ring used in the religious ceremonies of his clan,
since it was said to have belonged originally to his divine ancestor.
Draco lived at the time when the Norsemen were sailing by thousands
from their own land in order to gain by the sword new and fairer homes
in Britain. He, too, determined to have a share in the territorial
spoil, and accordingly, equipping his dragon-keels, and gathering his
warcarls around him, he sailed off over the seas.
On arriving within sight of the Northumbrian coast he had recourse to
the gods for fixing the precise point of his disembarkation: he let
fly two ravens consecrated to Odin, and following in their wake landed
where they had alighted.
He quickly put to the rout those Northumbrians who attempted to oppose
him, and proceeded to confirm his victory by building a fortress on the
site of the existing Ravenhall. Sallying forth from this place he would
plunder the neighbouring monasteries, or, putting out to sea, attack
the merchant vessels that passed his shores, thus becoming possessed in
course of time, of a vast quantity of treasure in the shape of gold and
silver, church-plate, coinage, jewels, and the like.
In his old age he met with the end deemed worthy of a warrior, being
slain in battle whilst contending against a neighbouring chieftain. At
his burial a Norse scald composed that wild barbaric requiem, which
Idris had heard Lorelie playing on the organ--a requiem that had
accompanied the funeral of every Ravengar since: though doubtless with
considerable variations from the original strain.
Draco left one son only, Magnus by name. He was but a child at the time
of his father's death, and the widowed mother, Hilda, fearing that
an attempt might be made to deprive him of his patrimonial treasure,
secretly buried it, purposing to give it to her son when he should be
of age to defend his rights.
For a time all went well. The warriors who had followed the standard
of Draco rallied around his son, and looked forward to the day when
he should emulate or surpass the deeds of his father. But eventually
murmurings arose. The boy was too much under his mother's influence,
they thought: the hand that should have been wielding the spear was
more often found holding the pen. She was accused of teaching him dark
and curious arts.
It was a long time, however, before the Vikings ventured to express
their displeasure openly, for they feared Hilda. She was an Alruna,
that is, an _all-runic_ or all-wise woman, who had power to cast
pernicious spells upon those who offended her.
At last, one day, provoked to the extreme by some act of imprudence
on her part, they came to Magnus and telling him that they were
going to banish his mother, they gave him the choice of being their
chieftain or of accompanying her into exile. Magnus elected to stand
with his father's warriors, and, as head of the clan, in full and
solemn doom-ring, he pronounced upon his mother sentence of perpetual
banishment.
Cut to the heart by this unfilial act Hilda vowed that she would never
reveal to him the hiding-place of the treasure: and so, being banished,
she returned to her native Norseland, taking with her the silver
altar-ring.
With the lapse of time, however, she began to relent towards her absent
son. She yearned to see him again, but was now too old to undertake
the fatigues attending the voyage. She resolved to break her oath of
silence and to tell him where the treasure lay concealed. To secure
herself from treachery on the part of her messenger, who might have
appropriated the wealth himself if entrusted with the secret of its
hiding-place, she had recourse to the following expedient. She engraved
upon the altar-ring a sentence indicative of the exact site of the
treasure, making use of runic letters, arranged in such a way that none
but Magnus could understand them: for cryptic writing had been one of
the many arts she had taught him. This done, she despatched the ring by
the hand of a herald.
But Magnus was now dead. His son and successor was Ulric, who, because
his lance bore a small pennon decorated with the figure of a raven, was
called Ravengar or Raven Spear, a name that became hereditary.
Hilda's messenger entered the hall at the hour when Ulric sat feasting
with his warriors. In accordance with the Norse rites of hospitality
the herald was given a seat at the board. No question was asked of him,
and he resolved to defer his message till the meal should be over.
This delay proved fatal to him, for, during the course of the feast,
he accidentally drew forth the altar-ring. In a moment the ancient
greybeards--old companions of Draco--recognized the sacred relic of
Odin, and sternly commanded the stranger to explain how he became
possessed of their former chieftain's ring: it had formed a part of the
missing treasure: he must, therefore, know where the remainder was.
With a stammering tongue the herald stated that he was a messenger from
the Lady Hilda, and pointing to the inscription upon the ring, said
that it indicated the hiding-place of the treasure.
Ulric, unskilled in the art of letters, passed the ring on to the
sagamen and scalds, who shook their heads over it. Magnus, the only
one capable of reading the riddle, was no more. The herald himself
was unable to decipher the message that his mistress had caused to be
engraved. To the assembled Vikings his words seemed an idle tale: his
ignorance was imputed to knavery: swords gleamed in the air: the oaken
rafters rang with excited cries.
At one end of the hall on a daïs there stood, as was usual in those
days, rude images of the gods. To this spot the herald was dragged and
told that unless he revealed the hiding-place of the treasure he should
be sacrificed there and then to Odin and Thor.
Vain was his plea of ignorance: vain his appeal for mercy: he was
slain by the dagger of Ulric, himself the priest as well as the chief
of the clan: the altar-ring was dipped in the blood of the victim, and
the red drops were sprinkled on all present. With his dying breath the
herald called upon heaven to be his avenger, invoking a curse upon the
head of him who should discover the treasure, and praying that the
finder might meet with a death as violent as his own.
Afterwards, when Ulric came to clean the ring, he found he could not
remove the stain of blood, and the sagamen who examined it declared
that the mark would never be effaced till one of the Raven-race should
die as an atonement for the death of the herald, whose sacred character
had been impiously set at nought.
Ulric retained the ring as the symbol of his authority: at his death it
passed to his son, and so from generation to generation it continued
in the Ravengar family as a venerated heirloom. In the days of Charles
II the first Earl of Ormsby, Lancelot Ravengar, adopted the ring as an
armorial device, taking as his supporters two ravens, in allusion to
the birds that were said to have directed the course of Draco's galley.
Such was the story of the runic ring, a story to which Idris listened
with the deepest interest. It was clear to him that his Viking Orm
and Lorelie's Draco were identical, the Norse form of the name having
doubtless been changed into its Latin equivalent by the original
monkish chronicler.
"And is the ring still in the possession of the Ravengars?" he asked,
when Lorelie had come to the end of her story.
"No: about fifty years ago it was stolen."
"Under what circumstances?"
"The affair was a mystery. The ring was kept with other heirlooms in
the jewel-room at Ravenhall. According to the butler it was secure in
its glass case when he locked the door of the jewel-room at night: in
the morning it was gone. Suspicion fell upon a steward who was under
notice of dismissal: it is supposed that he was actuated by a spirit
of revenge. The detectives employed in the case failed, however, to
connect him with the theft, nor did their investigations lead to any
result so far as regards the recovery of the ring."
"The steward, if he were guilty, probably disposed of the relic on the
Continent," said Idris. "At any rate it found its way to Nantes, for
the Ravengar heirloom must surely have been the very ring which led to
the murder of M. Duchesne and the consequent arrest of my father."
"I believe--nay, I am certain it was," answered Lorelie.
Her eyes drooped and a shadow passed over her face. Any reference to
Eric Marville seemed to trouble her, and Idris resolved to avoid the
mention of his name.
"And during the many centuries in which this ring was in the possession
of the Ravengars," he continued, "was no one ever found capable of
deciphering the runic inscription?"
"No one. In time past the ring was submitted to many antiquaries, but
they could make nothing of it."
Idris, though justly proud of his success in a matter wherein experts
had failed, kept his own counsel for the present, and refrained from
mentioning that _he_ had accomplished the feat.
"Then, of course, the treasure of old Orm--Draco, I mean--has never
been discovered?"
"Not by a Ravengar."
"But by some one else probably. It is not likely that the buried
treasure has remained undiscovered for a thousand years."
"The legend says that only a Ravengar can discover it, and that in the
very moment of discovery he will forfeit his life as an atonement for
the death of the herald. But this," added Lorelie with a smile, "is, of
course, mere poetic fancy."
"There is one omission in your story. You did not state where this
sea-king, Draco, was buried."
"The legend does not say. You are forgetting that it _is_ a legend,
invented, perhaps, by some imaginative king-at-arms in order to
decorate the vanity of the first Earl of Ormsby with a long pedigree
and a romantic origin."
But Idris had received proofs that the story was true in the main.
For example, there had actually existed an altar-ring such as
described--for he had seen and handled it himself--a ring engraved with
a sentence which not only spoke of a buried treasure, but also bore
the names of the very persons, Orm, Hilda, and Magnus, who had figured
so prominently in the story. The fragment of tapestry brought from the
interior of the ancient tumulus supplied additional evidence as to the
historic existence of the Golden Viking and the widowed Hilda.
"This Draco," continued Idris, "if he received the sepulchral honours
due to a Norse chief, would be buried beneath an immense mound of
earth. If we are to look for his tomb in this neighbourhood we shall
perhaps find it in a tumulus on the seashore about four miles from
here."
"I know the eminence you refer to," replied Lorelie. "It is called
Ormfell, that is, Orm's Hill; and therefore it cannot be Draco's tomb,
otherwise it would be called Draconfell, or something similar."
Idris did not stop to show the fallacy of this mode of reasoning, but
continued:--
"Has this hillock never been opened by the Earls of Ormsby to see what
it contains?"
"Not that I am aware of."
It was strange, Idris thought, that while the tumulus had retained the
true Norse name of the Viking, his descendants, the Ravengars, should
have remembered him only by his Latinized name of Draco. This explained
why Ormfell had never suggested itself to them as the tomb of their
ancestor. In forgetting that he was likewise called Orm, they had
unwittingly deprived themselves of an indication as to the place of the
buried treasure.
Idris' musings were brought to an end by Lorelie's rising to take her
departure, which caused him to murmur something about the sadness of
parting.
"But if there were no parting there would never be the sweetness of
meeting," was her reply.
Was this no more than a pretty saying on her part; or did she really
look forward with pleasure to their next meeting?
Emboldened by her words he raised her hand to his lips before she was
aware of his intention.
"Mr. Breakspear, you must not do that," she said in a trembling voice,
and hastily withdrawing her hand from his. Her face was pale: a strange
look came into her eyes, and she turned and hurried away. Idris,
trembling lest he should have given offence, watched her till she was
out of sight, and then went slowly back to Wave Crest.
Verily he was a fortunate fellow! Fresh from a charming _tête-à-tête_
with one fair lady he was now to have the like with a second: for, on
passing through the garden-gate, he saw Beatrice Ravengar reading in a
low chair beneath the apple-trees--Beatrice, the sea-king's daughter,
the descendant of that very Viking whose bones reposed in Ormfell!
Her heart beat more quickly as Idris approached. He, little divining
the cause of the colour that played so enchantingly over her cheek,
thought Godfrey's sister a very pretty maiden indeed. True, she lacked
the dark starry beauty of Lorelie--Idris' tastes ran in favour of
brunettes--yet there was a subtle witchery in Beatrice's soft grey eyes
and winsome expression; in her sunny hair: and in her graceful figure,
set off as it then was, by a dainty dress of soft muslin.
"My name, being Breakspear," said he, with mock sternness, as he took
a seat beside her, "you will not be surprised to learn that I have a
lance to break with you."
"And what have I done that is amiss?" asked Beatrice, outwardly
smiling, but inwardly uneasy: for some secret feeling told her that
he had just left the presence of Mademoiselle Rivière, and she feared
lest that lady should have said something to prejudice her in the eyes
of Idris. A fair return, for had not she herself let fall in Idris'
presence words unfriendly to Lorelie?
"You have committed the sin of omission in not telling me that the
armorial shield of the Ravengars is decorated with a silver ring."
"I am aware that a ring figures in their coat of arms," said Beatrice,
with wide, wondering eyes, "but where is my fault in not telling you
of it? Surely," she added, with a sudden intuition as to his meaning,
"surely you do not mean to say that there is some connection between
your runic ring and the Ravengar device?"
Idris' reply was to repeat the story he had just heard.
"This is all new to me," said Beatrice, when he had finished, "but then
I never was a Ravengar. I am the daughter of my mother, and have taken
little, if any, interest in the genealogy and family traditions of my
ancestors, the belted earls."
"You should now look with more favour on the Viking's skull as being
that of your great forefather. His object in coming down the staircase
last night was evidently to introduce himself to you, his youngest
descendant.--But I have interrupted your reading, for which I beg
pardon. May I ask the title of your book?"
"Longfellow's '_Saga of King Olaf_.' You have read it?"
"No: but a Norse saga in verse is, by its very nature, certain to
interest me. Will you not read aloud, Miss Ravengar?"
There is little Beatrice would not have done to please Idris, and
accordingly she began the reading of the poem. Her voice was clear
and silvery, and marked at times by a cadence, plaintive and pretty.
Idris would have fared ill had he been required to give a summary of
the poem, for he paid little attention to the words, finding a greater
charm in the face and voice of the reader. More than once the thought
stole over him that if he had not seen Mademoiselle Rivière his love
might have found its resting-place in Beatrice.
Reading smoothly onward Beatrice came to the scene in which the
reluctant bride Gudrun, on her wedding-night, draws near to the couch
of Olaf, dagger in hand and murder in her heart.
"'What is that,' King Olaf said,
'Gleams so bright above thy head?
Wherefore standest thou so white
In pale moonlight?'
"''Tis the bodkin that I wear
When at night I bind my hair.'"
Beatrice paused. "Bodkin?" she said. "That's not the right word. Ladies
don't fasten their hair with bodkins."
"Poets do not speak with the precision of grammarians. I suppose he
should have said hairpin."
"Did they use hairpins in those days, then?"
"Without a doubt," replied Idris, being a little hazy on the point,
nevertheless.
"Gudrun must have worn a very large hairpin, if she could liken a
dagger to it."
"I suppose it was not very unlike the stiletto contrivances worn by
ladies of the present day," answered Idris.
"''Tis the bodkin that I wear
When at night I bind my hair.'"
repeated Beatrice. "At night? Did she wear it in her hair while
sleeping?"
"I never knew the lady," laughed Idris, "so I am unable to answer. Why
shouldn't she?"
"Because during sleep she might turn her head upon the point and
receive an unpleasant stab."
"You speak from experience?"
"An experience as recent only as last night."
"We must leave Gudrun's bodkin suspended in midair while you tell me
how this happened."
"There is really nothing to tell. When I went to bed I forgot to remove
the stiletto from my hair. Somehow, I was unable to sleep last night."
"You were thinking of the skull, perhaps?"
"Yes, it must have been that," replied Beatrice, colouring at this
prevarication, for had she spoken truly, she must have told him that
_he_ was the cause of her unrest.
"And so," she continued, "while I was tossing from side to side, the
stiletto must have got loose, and in turning my head on the pillow I
received a stab from the point of it. Nothing to speak of, a mere scalp
wound."
"It was well the point was not forced into your brain. I have heard
of fatal accidents resulting from the use of these stiletto-pins. You
discarded it at once?"
"Of course."
"Forever?"
"O, no. Only till the morning," replied Beatrice demurely.
"What? You have not let it serve as a warning? O, Miss Ravengar, Miss
Ravengar! what is this I see shimmering in your hair at the present
moment?"
"A proof of feminine vanity, for it is of no real use, being merely an
ornament."
"May I inspect the savage weapon that might have ended your existence,
and may yet, since you decline to learn wisdom from experience?"
Beatrice drew forth the hairpin. It was shaped like a dagger, the steel
being slender, rounded, and tapering to a point: the hilt of gold set
with brilliants.
As soon as Idris saw it he stared at it as if mesmerized, the tapering
point of the slender steel was so strangely suggestive of the metal
fragment that had fallen from the Viking's skull. He took it from his
pocket and held it out to her.
"Miss Ravengar, what should you say this is?"
"That?" replied Beatrice. "That is a part of a hairpin. See!"
She laid it upon her open palm beside her own stiletto. The terminal
of the latter corresponded exactly in form and colour with the broken
fragment: at least, the difference, if difference there were, was
imperceptible by the naked eye.
"It certainly _looks_ like a hairpin."
"Looks like it, do you say?" said Beatrice, with a sort of reproach in
her tone. "It _is_," she asseverated firmly.
"What reason have you for this opinion other than mere resemblance?"
asked Idris, a little surprised by her air of certitude.
"I do not reason upon it. I _know_ it is a hairpin," she replied, with
a peculiar emphasis upon the "know."
There was a strangeness in her manner, an entire reversal of her former
self: her face seemed hallowed by a light like the inspired expression
of a sibyl. The expression was momentary only, dying as soon as born,
but it left Idris curiously impressed.
"Hilda the Alruna may have looked like that, when delivering her
oracles," he thought.
"Why do you value this piece of steel?" asked Beatrice, as she restored
it to him.
"This little piece of steel, Miss Ravengar, is nothing less than the
instrument that gave your ancestor Orm his _coup-de-grâce_. It dropped
out of the skull last night. For the future my motto must be, 'When in
doubt, consult Miss Ravengar.' By your wit I was enabled to discover
the secret entrance to Ormfell; and now, when wondering of what this
steel fragment once formed part, you come to my aid again by reading a
poem concerning a Norse lady, whose intended action towards her husband
seems almost to have a direct bearing upon the Viking's skull. Our
Norse forefathers, you will remember, were accustomed to regard their
maidens as prophetesses, whose opinions, when solemnly invoked, were to
be received as oracles. I will imitate their example, and accept your
dictum that this is a fragment of a lady's hairpin."
Godfrey, who had joined the pair a few minutes previously, and had
stood a silent listener of the conversation, now intervened with a
remark.
"Well, then, you must admit," said he, "that this opinion clashes with
the story told by the tapestry, which tapestry avers that Orm died
with a cloth-yard shaft sticking in him."
"The two ideas are not irreconcilable," argued Idris. "My belief is
that we have here," holding up the piece of steel, "a silent testimony
to a domestic tragedy of a thousand years ago. Old Orm the Viking was
carried from the battle-field wounded by an arrow. His wife Hilda
was perhaps enamoured of some other warrior: and so, while affecting
to nurse her husband, she may have hastened his end by secretly
driving her strong hairpin into his head, a feat she could perform
with comparative safety to herself, there being no coroner's inquest
in those days. His death would be attributed to the arrow-wound, and
therefore is so represented on the tapestry."
"If your inference be right," said Beatrice, "it is a strange
verification of the old saying, 'Murder will out.' Fancy the crime
coming to light after the lapse of a thousand years! Though it is not
very kind of you, Mr. Breakspear," she added, with a mock pout, "to
attempt to prove that my ancestress Hilda was a murderess. You will be
saying next that a taste for assassination is one of our family traits,
and that the homicidal microbe runs in my blood."
"The lapse of ten centuries will have effectually eliminated it."
"_Merci!_" she returned, dropping him a mock curtsey. "Yes: it is
consoling to reflect that this little piece of family scandal is
removed from us by the space of a full millennium."
"But Idris is altogether wrong in his theory," remarked Godfrey
decisively. "This piece of steel is not ancient at all."
"Ay, ay, destroyer of my romance!" returned Idris. "Can you give me
satisfactory proof that it is not ancient?"
"I think so: if you will let me do what I like with it."
Idris shook his head.
"I value this fragment," he explained, "believing in its antiquity. You
would not willingly destroy the bullet that killed Nelson, nor will I
consent to destroy the weapon that slew my Viking."
"But if I could clearly demonstrate to you that it is a modern piece of
steel--what then?"
"In that case it would lose its chief value in my eyes, and it would
prove, among other things, that the skull is not Orm's: for if this
steel be modern, so likewise must be the skull. But how are you going
to prove its modernity? Are not iron and steel alike in all ages? Is
the steel that was wrought on the anvil of the Norse armourer different
from the steel forged to-day in the foundries of Sheffield?"
"Yes, in some respects. I want to conduct a chemical experiment with
this relic, an experiment which will necessitate its destruction.
Still, if I succeed in demonstrating its modernity you will not object?"
"Far from it. But are you likely to demonstrate it?"
"Well, of course, I am open to failure. My opinion rests upon a certain
assumption, which assumption, if correct, will conclusively show that
this steel was forged within modern times. _Nous verrons._"