"So did I----" but I thought of the empty cartridges in my revolver,
and stopped.
"I dreamed that you were in great danger, and I could not move hand or
foot to save you; but you had your revolver, and I called out to you to
fire----"
"I did fire!" I cried excitedly.
"You--you fired?"
I took her in my arms. "My darling," I said, "something strange has
happened--something that I can not understand as yet. But, of course,
there is an explanation. Last night I thought I fired at the Black
Priest."
"Ah!" gasped Lys.
"Is that what you dreamed?"
"Yes, yes, that was it! I begged you to fire----"
"And I did."
Her heart was beating against my breast. I held her close in silence.
"Dick," she said at length, "perhaps you killed the--the thing."
"If it was human I did not miss," I answered grimly. "And it was
human," I went on, pulling myself together, ashamed of having so nearly
gone to pieces. "Of course it was human! The whole affair is plain
enough. Not a drunken brawl, as Durand thinks; it was a drunken lout's
practical joke, for which he has suffered. I suppose I must have filled
him pretty full of bullets, and he has crawled away to die in Kerselec
forest. It's a terrible affair; I'm sorry I fired so hastily; but that
idiot Le Bihan and Max Fortin have been working on my nerves till I am
as hysterical as a schoolgirl," I ended angrily.
"You fired--but the window glass was not shattered," said Lys in a low
voice.
"Well, the window was open, then. And as for the--the rest--I've got
nervous indigestion, and a doctor will settle the Black Priest for me,
Lys."
I glanced out of the window at Tregunc waiting with my horse at the
gate.
"Dearest, I think I had better go to join Durand and the others."
"I will go too."
"Oh, no!"
"Yes, Dick."
"Don't, Lys."
"I shall suffer every moment you are away."
"The ride is too fatiguing, and we can't tell what unpleasant sight
you may come upon. Lys, you don't really think there is anything
supernatural in this affair?"
"Dick," she answered gently, "I am a Bretonne." With both arms around
my neck, my wife said, "Death is the gift of God. I do not fear it when
we are together. But alone--oh, my husband, I should fear a God who
could take you away from me!"
We kissed each other soberly, simply, like two children. Then Lys
hurried away to change her gown, and I paced up and down the garden
waiting for her.
She came, drawing on her slender gauntlets. I swung her into the
saddle, gave a hasty order to Jean Marie, and mounted.
Now, to quail under thoughts of terror on a morning like this, with Lys
in the saddle beside me, no matter what had happened or might happen,
was impossible. Moreover, Môme came sneaking after us. I asked Tregunc
to catch him, for I was afraid he might be brained by our horses' hoofs
if he followed, but the wily puppy dodged and bolted after Lys, who
was trotting along the high-road. "Never mind," I thought; "if he's hit
he'll live, for he has no brains to lose."
Lys was waiting for me in the road beside the Shrine of Our Lady of St.
Gildas when I joined her. She crossed herself, I doffed my cap, then we
shook out our bridles and galloped toward the forest of Kerselec.
We said very little as we rode. I always loved to watch Lys in the
saddle. Her exquisite figure and lovely face were the incarnation of
youth and grace; her curling hair glistened like threaded gold.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the spoiled puppy Môme come bounding
cheerfully alongside, oblivious of our horses' heels. Our road swung
close to the cliffs. A filthy cormorant rose from the black rocks and
flapped heavily across our path. Lys's horse reared, but she pulled him
down, and pointed at the bird with her riding crop.
"I see," said I; "it seems to be going our way. Curious to see a
cormorant in a forest, isn't it?"
"It is a bad sign," said Lys. "You know the Morbihan proverb: 'When
the cormorant turns from the sea, Death laughs in the forest, and wise
woodsmen build boats.'"
"I wish," said I sincerely, "that there were fewer proverbs in
Brittany."
We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could see
the sparkle of gendarmes' trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan's
silver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took it without
difficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durand
stood gesticulating.
They bowed ceremoniously to Lys as we rode up.
"The trail is horrible--it is a river," said the mayor in his squeaky
voice. "Monsieur Darrel, I think perhaps madame would scarcely care to
come any nearer."
Lys drew bridle and looked at me.
"It is horrible!" said Durand, walking up beside me; "it looks as
though a bleeding regiment had passed this way. The trail winds and
winds about there in the thickets; we lose it at times, but we always
find it again. I can't understand how one man--no, nor twenty--could
bleed like that!"
A halloo, answered by another, sounded from the depths of the forest.
"It's my men; they are following the trail," muttered the brigadier.
"God alone knows what is at the end!"
"Shall we gallop back, Lys?" I asked.
"No; let us ride along the western edge of the woods and dismount. The
sun is so hot now, and I should like to rest for a moment," she said.
"The western forest is clear of anything disagreeable," said Durand.
"Very well," I answered; "call me, Le Bihan, if you find anything."
Lys wheeled her mare, and I followed across the springy heather, Môme
trotting cheerfully in the rear.
We entered the sunny woods about a quarter of a kilometre from where
we left Durand. I took Lys from her horse, flung both bridles over a
limb, and, giving my wife my arm, aided her to a flat mossy rock which
overhung a shallow brook gurgling among the beech trees. Lys sat down
and drew off her gauntlets. Môme pushed his head into her lap, received
an undeserved caress, and came doubtfully toward me. I was weak enough
to condone his offence, but I made him lie down at my feet, greatly to
his disgust.
I rested my head on Lys's knees, looking up at the sky through the
crossed branches of the trees.
"I suppose I have killed him," I said. "It shocks me terribly, Lys."
"You could not have known, dear. He may have been a robber,
and--if--not---- Did--have you ever fired your revolver since that day
four years ago, when the Red Admiral's son tried to kill you? But I
know you have not."
"No," said I, wondering. "It's a fact, I have not. Why?"
"And don't you remember that I asked you to let me load it for you the
day when Yves went off, swearing to kill you and his father?"
"Yes, I do remember. Well?"
"Well, I--I took the cartridges first to St. Gildas chapel and dipped
them in holy water. You must not laugh, Dick," said Lys gently, laying
her cool hands on my lips.
"Laugh, my darling!"
Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst, and the sunlight burned
like orange flame through the yellow leaves of beech and oak. Gnats
and midges danced and wavered overhead; a spider dropped from a twig
halfway to the ground and hung suspended on the end of his gossamer
thread.
"Are you sleepy, dear?" asked Lys, bending over me.
"I am--a little; I scarcely slept two hours last night," I answered.
"You may sleep, if you wish," said Lys, and touched my eyes caressingly.
"Is my head heavy on your knees?"
"No, Dick."
I was already in a half doze; still I heard the brook babbling under
the beeches and the humming of forest flies overhead. Presently even
these were stilled.
The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears ringing with
a scream, and I saw Lys cowering beside me, covering her white face
with both hands.
As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my knees. I saw my
dog rush growling into a thicket, then I heard him whimper, and he came
backing out, whining, ears flat, tail down. I stooped and disengaged
Lys's hand.
"Don't go, Dick!" she cried. "O God, it's the Black Priest!"
In a moment I had leaped across the brook and pushed my way into the
thicket. It was empty. I stared about me; I scanned every tree trunk,
every bush. Suddenly I saw him. He was seated on a fallen log, his head
resting in his hands, his rusty black robe gathered around him. For
a moment my hair stirred under my cap; sweat started on forehead and
cheek-bone; then I recovered my reason, and understood that the man was
human and was probably wounded to death. Ay, to death; for there, at my
feet, lay the wet trail of blood, over leaves and stones, down into the
little hollow, across to the figure in black resting silently under the
trees.
I saw that he could not escape even if he had the strength, for before
him, almost at his very feet, lay a deep, shining swamp.
As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig. At the sound the figure
started a little, then its head fell forward again. Its face was
masked. Walking up to the man, I bade him tell where he was wounded.
Durand and the others broke through the thicket at the same moment and
hurried to my side.
"Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest's robe?" said the
gendarme loudly.
There was no answer.
"See--see the stiff blood all over his robe!" muttered Le Bihan to
Fortin.
"He will not speak," said I.
"He may be too badly wounded," whispered Le Bihan.
"I saw him raise his head," I said; "my wife saw him creep up here."
Durand stepped forward and touched the figure.
"Speak!" he said.
"Speak!" quavered Fortin.
Durand waited a moment, then with a sudden upward movement he stripped
off the mask and threw back the man's head. We were looking into the
eye sockets of a skull. Durand stood rigid; the mayor shrieked. The
skeleton burst out from its rotting robes and collapsed on the ground
before us. From between the staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurted
a torrent of black blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then the
thing shuddered, and fell over into the black ooze of the bog. Little
bubbles of iridescent air appeared from the mud; the bones were slowly
engulfed, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight, up from the
depths and along the bank crept a creature, shiny, shivering, quivering
its wings.
It was a death's-head moth.
* * * * *
I wish I had time to tell you how Lys outgrew superstitions--for she
never knew the truth about the affair, and she never will know, since
she has promised not to read this book. I wish I might tell you about
the king and his coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted. I wish
that I were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boar
hunt in Quimperlé, and how the hounds raced the quarry right through
the town, overturning three gendarmes, the notary, and an old woman.
But I am becoming garrulous, and Lys is calling me to come and hear the
king say that he is sleepy. And his Highness shall not be kept waiting.
* * * * *