GHOST OR MORTAL?
On entering the house I found my uncle looking over a packet of letters
that his valet had just brought from Rivoli. Daphne was cutting open
the envelopes with a paper knife. No one would have thought from her
quiet demeanour that she had just been the recipient of a passionate
love appeal.
"How well women can conceal these things," I thought, dropping
despondently into a chair.
"Oh, papa, here is an envelope with a seal as big as a florin. Who is
it from?" Daphne's curiosity gave her no time to observe the niceties
of grammar. "Do read it."
My uncle settled his glasses on his nose and examined the letter.
"It is from an old schoolfellow, Hugh Wyville," he said. "He has just
succeeded to the baronetcy and is now Sir Hugh Wyville, and master
of a splendid property in Cornwall. Silverdale Abbey is the name of
his place. He wants us to spend Christmas with him. It's a little
early for the invitation, but I suppose he wants to forestall all
other invitations. He says--it is shocking writing; he ought to get a
Secretary--he says he will take a great interest in my slaughter. What
the deuce does he mean? Slaughter? Oh, I see--daughter. That's you,
Daphne."
"Much obliged to him, I'm sure, papa."
"He is now in Paris buying pictures. Says his gallery alone is worth a
visit to Cornwall, and he is adding to it still. Well, what shall we
say to the invitation, Daphne? Shall we accept it?"
"What do you say, Frank?" she said.
"I say, yes," I answered. "Christmas at an old abbey ought to be
delightful."
"Then that is settled," my uncle said. "I'll write to him to-day." And
being a man of his word, he wrote.
"There are to be all sorts of sports at Rivoli this afternoon," he
announced at luncheon--"archery, musical contests, dances, and I don't
know what else. Would you like to see them, Daphne, or are you too
tired?"
She pleaded that she was, but would not hear of our remaining at home
on her account, and as my uncle seemed to expect my company, I set off
with him to the town, conscious that I was a little unchivalrous to
Daphne in doing so.
On our way through the valley I paused to admire a cottage of firwood
perched on a crag overhanging the road.
"That is the house in which Angelo said his old nurse lives," said my
uncle, looking at it with interest. "Let us give a call."
"What for?" I asked, surprised.
"Well, I am curious to know what his explanation of that affair in the
cathedral is, and he might refer to it; indeed, I don't see how he can
avoid doing so."
We ascended some steps roughly cut out of the solid rock, and entering
a porch over which a vine clambered, we tapped gently at the door.
It was opened by the old woman who had offered her good services to
Daphne in the cathedral. The moment she saw us her face assumed a hard
expression, and contrary to the hospitable spirit usual in the district
did not invite us inside but kept us standing at the door.
"What do you want?" she demanded curtly.
"We want to see Mr. Vasari, if he is at home," my uncle answered
civilly. "We are friends of his. Perhaps you have heard him speak of
Mr. Leslie. I am Mr. Leslie."
"Angelo is not here. He has left for England."
"What? Without saying good-bye to us?"
"He left by the diligence two hours ago."
"So soon? Do you know why?"
"Why?" she flashed out. "Ask this boy here!" and she turned to me with
a lowering brow. "But for you he would have won the love of the English
lady. But for you he would have been saved from--from--"
"From what?" I said eagerly, too eagerly I suppose, for she shook her
head as if she took a pleasure in withholding the information she was
about to give.
"I will tell you nothing," she said. "He can live without your pity.
Go! After all, she is a Protestant, and all Protestants go to hell.
Father Ignatius says so."
"That is our ultimate destination, I believe," said my uncle with a
sigh, due rather to vexation at finding himself unable to get the
information he wanted than to proper regret at his future doom. "We are
a wicked lot."
"Can you tell us why Father Ignatius refused Angelo the Mass?" I asked.
"That looks as if the good Father were not any too confident about
_him_."
Her eyes blazed at the suggestion.
"I will tell you nothing," she said again, and closed her lips tightly
as if she feared that her thoughts might assume material shape and make
their escape against her will, if her mouth were ever so little open.
"We shall gain nothing by staying here," my uncle remarked. "Madame, I
wish you a very good day," with which words he led the way down to the
road again, and we resumed our journey to the town, wondering what it
was from which the artist might have been saved, and how Daphne's love
could have saved him from it.
"We may see your aged friend from Dover to-day, if we keep our eyes
open," my uncle said presently. "The sports are sure to draw all the
people out of doors."
"We may see Paolo too," I replied. "It is strange that he did not turn
up last night as he promised, and strange that he wasn't at Mass this
morning; at least if he was I did not see him."
"Not at all strange, if Father Ignatius has ordered him to avoid us."
"Why should he do that?" I asked in surprise.
"You remember Paolo breaking off from us suddenly, because, as he said,
some deacon was watching him?"
"I do--Serafino he called him."
"That's the name. Well, it's not at all improbable that this Serafino
told Ignatius that, immediately after his retirement to the sacristy
with the old man, certain strangers began to question Paolo, giving
him money. Thereupon Ignatius sends for Paolo. 'Paolo,' he demands _ex
cathedra_, 'what did these strangers say to you?' perhaps threatening
to dismiss him from his post, or, still more, threatening the poor
fellow with excommunication, if he should refuse to disclose his
knowledge. Paolo blurts out the truth, and lets the padre know that
we are deeply interested in learning what the old man's confession
was about. Whereupon the reverend Father, not at all desirous of
our becoming cognisant of statements given under the seal of the
confessional, delivers judgment: 'Paolo you have done very wrong. Give
up those silver coins to your holy mother the Church; and as a penance
recite to me next holy-day the 119th Psalm, and remember to keep out
of the way till these strangers have left Rivoli.' I may be wrong, but
it's my opinion that something of this sort has taken place."
We were soon within the streets of Rivoli. All the inhabitants seemed
to have turned out of their homes, and by the merriment of their talk
and the brightness of their gala dresses were contributing to the
gaiety of the scene.
The centre of attraction was the market-place, where picturesquely-clad
hunters and shepherds were displaying their skill with the rifle to
admiring and applauding crowds. These sons of William Tell did not
receive from us the attention that their feats deserved, for our
eyes were continually wandering from them to scan the faces of the
spectators. Paolo, however, and the nameless old man from Dover were
not to be seen.
From the sweet singing-contests in the cathedral we wandered to the
meadows outside the town, where youths and flower-crowned maidens
danced, wreathing and twining in pretty figures on the greensward, and
thence back again to the town, peeping in each tavern, resonant with
jollity and song, and odorous with the fragrance of the fir-cones that
strewed the floor. But we could not find Paolo or the mysterious old
man.
Tired at length of prosecuting a search that seemed to promise no
success, we turned our attention to the innocent diversions, which
were protracted till the moon, rising above the shining snows of the
mountain-tops, projected the shadow of the cathedral belfry across the
market-place. The white light silvered the quaint gables, was reflected
from the diamond panes of many a casement, and, mingling with the glare
of the torches carried by some of the crowd, produced a picturesque and
romantic effect.
The sweet carillon of the cathedral bells, pealing forth the quarters,
warned the people that midnight was drawing nigh, and gradually the
throng began to disperse. Imitating their example my uncle and I
directed our footsteps homewards. Groups of peasants and shepherds
passed us on the way, some singing gaily, others winding with their
horns the melodious "_Ranz des Vaches_."
As we turned to quit the road for the mountain-path, the cathedral bell
chimed the first stroke of midnight.
"Twelve o'clock!" exclaimed my uncle in a deep, tragic voice. "Now is
the time when elves and fairies trip it on the greensward, and spirits
rise from yon haunted well. Come, let us sit by it for a time and enjoy
the ghostly revels. It is an affront to Nature to sleep on such a night
as this."
Slowly the silver tongue from the belfry continued to toll forth the
chimes with a solemn little interval between each. As the twelfth
stroke died gently away, a peculiar sound, muffled by the distance,
was wafted to my ears, seeming to my quickened fancy like the cry of a
woman. Whence the sound proceeded I could not tell. It might have come
from the north; it might have come from the south.
"Did you hear it?" I said.
"Hear what?"
"A sound like a woman's scream."
We both listened for a few moments, but the sound, whatever it was, was
not repeated.
"Your fancy," my uncle remarked with a smile. "In such a place as this
you will hear many ghostly cries, if you give your imagination rein.
But don't let us turn in just yet. I've some good news for you."
Wondering a good deal what the news would be, I followed him to the
fountain. He found a seat on a mossy boulder close to the stone-work of
the well, and leaning back against the trunk of a tree, proceeded to
light a fresh cigar, as an indispensable aid to reflection.
The moon was now at its zenith, riding through a veil of light fleecy
clouds. Around us at the distance of a furlong towered an amphitheatre
of rocks, and the jagged edges of this cliff sharply defined against
the deep violet sky exhibited crags of fantastic shape like the towers
and pinnacles of some genie's castle. It required but small aid from
fancy to believe that the blast of a horn startling the midnight air
would summon to these crags beings as wild and unearthly as ever
crowded the haunted Brocken on a Walpurgis-night. No more appropriate
scene could be imagined for the revelry of demons and witches.
The solemn hour and the wild legends connected with the spring
contributed to invest the place with an atmosphere of mystery. The
trees whispered secrets to each other: the waters rippled with a cold
and ghostly sparkle. In the distance foaming waterfalls standing out
in relief against a background of dark rocks glimmered like waving
white-robed spirits with a never-ceasing murmur. The air seemed alive
with the mystic "tongues that syllable men's names on sands, and
shores, and desert wildernesses."
Who that has visited a scene of deep beauty by moonlight has not felt
an awe stealing over him, as if some unseen presence were by? Such a
presence seemed to be floating around us, whispering that we were on
haunted ground. Was it the far-off murmur of a cascade or the faint
voice of some one calling for help that was wafted to our ears?
So firm was my belief that the sound was of human origin that I
appealed to my uncle, who had been strangely silent.
"Did you not hear a distant cry, as of some one in pain?"
"I thought so, but it must be fancy. Let us listen again."
We were silent for a time, but there was no repetition of the sound.
"Some shepherds calling one another," he said, resuming his cigar with
a laugh. "We are becoming influenced by the superstitions of the place."
He seemed to have forgotten the communication he had promised to make,
so I reverted to it.
"You were going to tell me a piece of news, I think?"
"Ah! so I was. (If you wouldn't mind turning your head from me, Frank;
your eyes seem to have an unearthly gleam by this light. Thank you!)
Well, here is my news. Daphne had a proposal to-day. You can guess from
whom."
"Is that your news? Then it is no news at all. I know it already."
"The deuce you do! How did _you_ learn it?"
"I was present during the whole interview." I gave him an account of
how I came to play the spy, adding: "How did you learn it?"
"She told me directly after parting from him. Poor Daphne! she was
quite upset over it--crying, in fact."
"She might have spared her tears," I grumbled. "His love was not so
disinterested that she need weep. My candid opinion is that the fellow
is so mad over his art that it governs even his choice of a wife, and
he selects Daphne because he thinks her figure will serve as a model
for some of his pictures." And I detailed to my uncle those utterances
of the artist that seemed to bear out my opinion.
"A naïve avowal, certainly. His mode of lovemaking was a fine example
of 'How not to do it.' And so," he continued, after a brief interval,
"Daphne still hopes and dreams that George will return. Absurd! I
thought she had given up that idea long ago. However, let him return.
He shall never have Daphne--never!"
He said that last word in a decidedly emphatic manner, and scarcely
had he said it when a startled expression crossed his face, the cigar
dropped from his lips, and he looked nervously round in all directions.
"My dear uncle, what is the matter?" said I, amused at his alarm.
"Didn't you hear a laugh?"
"A laugh? No! Why, you are becoming nervous!"
Never before had I seen my uncle looking so startled as he was at that
moment. The one point of his character on which he prided himself was
his disbelief in the supernatural. To see him trembling at a mere sound
was a surprise to me. I had yet to learn that extremes meet. Have there
not lived philosophers who, denying the existence of ghosts, have
nevertheless been so apprehensive of meeting them as never to enter a
dark room without a light? My uncle's philosophy savoured very much of
this character.
"Bah!" he exclaimed, picking up his cigar from the grass after
listening intently. "You are right. I _am_ becoming nervous. Well, I
was on the point of saying----"
"That you will never allow George to marry Daphne. Why?"
"Why? Can you ask? Is not the reason obvious? A man who could desert
her on her wedding-day, sending a cold note to the effect that she
must never see him more, forfeits her by that very act. Good God! I
become mad when I think of his conduct. Remember Daphne's thin, wasted
figure and wan, wistful look last spring. She might have died. Grief
has killed people before to-day. He must have known how much her heart
would be wrung by his conduct, and yet--never a word of explanation
from him. No. If he were to return this very night, he should never
have her--never!"
"I have often wondered why he took his departure so hurriedly."
"His reason must have been a very bad one if it could not be stated by
letter even to his nearest relatives," replied my uncle, speaking in
a very bitter tone, for naturally he could not be expected to think
well of the man who had deserted his daughter, even though that man
were his own nephew. "His flight was accompanied by very suspicious
circumstances, you must admit, seeming to point to complicity with, if
not to the actual perpetration of crime. He will never return, rest
assured of that; and I told Daphne to abandon the idea."
"What was her answer?"
"Tears. 'Look around you,' I said. 'You will soon find a worthier
lover. Frank loves you, and you know it.' And I launched out into your
praises, for between ourselves, Frank, there is no one to whom I would
more willingly give Daphne than yourself."
I suppose I ought to have thanked my uncle for thus championing my
cause, but I preferred Daphne's love to turn towards me without being
directed by paternal authority, so I merely said:
"What did she say?"
"She said that she could not so soon forget George, but that if he had
not returned by a twelvemonth from the day he left--"
"That is, next Christmas Day?"
"Just so; next Christmas Day. If he had not returned by then she would
try to think no more of him."
"Next Christmas Day! What a whimsical notion!"
"Exactly. Women _are_ whimsical," returned my uncle, speaking as if he
had had all the experience of a Mormon. "Well, she did not seem-- What
the devil's that?" he exclaimed with a suddenness that startled me.
The "airy tongues," that during the whole time of our conversation had
never ceased to whisper mysteriously, had now changed to a series of
deep and regularly recurring sighs. They were not the creation of our
fancy. Distinguishable from the murmur of the fountain was a sound as
of some one breathing. It proceeded from a cluster of trees on one side
of the spring.
Too much surprised to speak, my uncle and I sat staring at each other
without either will or power to move. Then, shaking off the spell that
lay upon us, we rose and stepped on tip-toe to the spot whence came the
sound, moving cautiously and softly, as though within the grove some
terrible dragon lay sleeping which loud footsteps might awaken. Within
the gloom created by a canopy of dense foliage we caught the gleam of
something white. Our eyes, unaccustomed at first to the darkness,
could distinguish nothing clearly, but gradually the object of our
attention resolved itself into the seated figure of a woman. I thought
at first that it was the statue of some nymph, but the eyes, shining
like stars, dispelled this illusion. Four steps nearer, and I saw that
it was no Dryad of the grove or Undine of the waters, but our own loved
Daphne. She seemed petrified with terror.
"Good heavens, Daphne!" cried her father. "What are you doing here at
this hour of night?"
The only reply to this question was a continuation of the deep
inspirations that had drawn our attention to her. Fright had deprived
her of the power of speech.
"She is recovering from a swoon," said my uncle. "What can have
frightened her? Daphne, dear, tell us what is the matter. All is well
now. Don't be afraid. Tell us how long you have been here."
"How long? Ah! a long time," she murmured, speaking like one in a dream.
A sigh of relief escaped her father's lips, for her reply seemed an
assurance of her sanity, and his first thought had been that fright had
turned her brain. Her wild expression might well have given him this
idea.
"Tell me what is the matter, darling," he said, lifting her, and
stroking her hair with a fatherly tenderness. "My poor little girl!"
She gazed fearfully around, as if dreading some awful vision. Then
closing her eyes with a shudder, she rested her head on his shoulder,
and clung like a child to his embrace.
"Have you not seen it?" she asked in a whisper.
"We have seen nothing, that is, nothing to be frightened at. Come,
open your eyes and look at me, darling. Tell me all about it. What has
frightened you so?"
She was so thoroughly unnerved that it was a long time before she could
be induced to talk at all. When at last she _did_ reply her words were
not a little startling.
"O, papa. I have seen George's ghost!"
My uncle shot a glance half whimsical, half nervous at me, for it was
very odd that her explanation should have reference to the man of whom
we ourselves had just been talking. But he affected a laugh of kindly
scepticism.
"George's ghost, eh? And how could you see George's ghost when he isn't
dead? How long have you been here, and why did you come at all?"
"I have been thinking of him ever since you went out," she said, after
another long pause. "He has been in my mind all the time, and try as I
would I could not get his face out of my thoughts. I wondered whether
he were alive or dead, and at last I began to feel that he must be
dead, or he would have returned before this, or would at least have
written to me. To-night was so lovely that I came out partly to meet
you, and I came to this well, and stopped as I was rather tired. And
then I took off the ring he gave me, and--" She paused between each
sentence as if it hurt her to go on, but the mere fact of telling her
story seemed to do her good, and she continued. "And I thought that as
he had broken all his promises and cast me off on the very day fixed
for our wedding, I would cast off his ring; and at last I made up my
mind, and I threw it into the well. And presently I looked up, and
there, on the other side of the well was--" she hesitated again, and
clung closer to her father--"don't laugh, papa dear, it really was
George's ghost."
"I'm not laughing," her father said. "Tell me how he looked."
"He was wearing the same dress and the same grey cloak that he wore the
night he left me. He looked so sad, as if he had understood all that I
had been thinking. I tried to speak, but in a moment he was gone. And
then I screamed and turned to run away, but I suppose I fainted.--It
was not fancy, papa. It was George's ghost. I could see the stars
shining through him."
"Well, well!" her father said, shrugging his shoulders, but still
stroking her hair; "we will see whether you are of the same opinion
to-morrow morning. You see, your mind has been full of him all day, and
at last it has played you a trick, and you think you have seen with
your bodily eyes what could have existed only in your imagination.
Sitting all alone at twelve o'clock at night, in this eerie place, I
only wonder that you haven't seen half-a-dozen ghosts. When you are
indoors by a bright fire after a second supper, you will laugh yourself
at your fright. Do you think you can walk all right now, if I give you
an arm? Come, that's splendid! The sooner you are away from this weird
spot and out of this heavy dew, the better."
"Did you say you threw the ring into the well, Daphne," I asked, "or
only that you were going to do so?"
"I threw it in," she replied; "but never mind, let it stay there."
"Oh, but that's a pity," her father said. "You may be sorry afterwards,
and it will not be difficult to recover it. Have a try, Frank."
"Didn't you take it out of the water, again?" I asked.
"No."
"Then where is it? I am looking hard, but I can't see it."
We all peered into the fountain. There was plenty of light for the
purpose, and we could see the sandy bottom of the well quite clearly,
but the ring was nowhere visible.
"Can't you see it?" said Daphne anxiously.
I hesitated to reply as I did not want to add to her alarm, but as she
pressed me I said as carelessly as I could--
"I don't see it in the water. You must have thrown it on to the grass;"
and I began to feel among the moss and verdure that fringed the
stonework of the well.
"No, it fell into the water," Daphne said. "I heard the splash,
and noticed the rings of water widening out before I looked up and
saw--George! It must be there."
It was not to be found, however, either in the well or on the bordering
grass, and we had to give up the search and make up our minds to go
home without it. Language is but a feeble thing to express the surprise
we all felt, and I could guess from the expression on Daphne's face
something of her thoughts. In throwing away George's ring she had
thrown away the pledge of her love for him, and from the mysterious
manner in which it had disappeared it seemed almost as if the dead had
accepted her renunciation.
I had long been familiar with the idea that at the point of death the
disembodied spirit may appear to distant friends; and the thought now
held me that the figure I had seen last Christmas amid the falling snow
at Dover was the apparition of my brother, who had perhaps been seized
with death in a manner secret and sudden. Could it be that, owing to
some telepathic influence exerted on him by Daphne's mind, his spirit
had been permitted to return to earth for a brief space to assure her
of his death, and by vanishing with the ring that she was now free from
her engagement to him? In the light of day and far from the scene of
the event one may smile at this theory, but by that well in the ghostly
moonlight, with Daphne's terror fresh on me, and the ring gone, it
seemed quite in harmony with the circumstances. The eerie sensation
that had been creeping over my uncle and myself since we had taken our
station by the haunted well deepened now to an indescribable intensity.
Our interval of uneasy silence was brought to a close by a sound of
many voices stealing faintly on the breeze--so faintly that we disputed
at first what it was. The sounds drew gradually nearer, and their
measured rhythmic cadence would have suggested a party of peasants
returning home, but that the music had more the air of a solemn litany
than of revelry. Daphne, wondering what new source of surprise or
terror was in store for her, clung trembling to her father. The place
where we stood was elevated above the roadway, and we by and by saw
winding along its course a procession of cowled and corded monks,
marching two and two in solemn order, and chanting a mournful refrain.
Some bore aloft flaming torches, an act that, even in the excitement of
the moment, I could not help thinking to be an absurdity, seeing that
the moonlight made everything as bright as day. A few of the train were
boys, and their silvery trebles made sweet contrast with the deep bass
of their elders.
With bowed heads and measured pace the monks advanced, seeming in their
grey robes silvered by the moonlight more like ghostly figures in a
dream than living beings in a real world.
Those at the head of the procession were carrying a bier upon which lay
something covered with a cassock.
"A strange hour for a burial," said my uncle, "if burial it be. Or are
they carrying to the town some dead body they have discovered among the
mountains?"
"O papa!" cried Daphne, clutching her father's arm, and speaking in a
broken voice, "can he have committed suicide?"
"Who?"
"Angelo! I remember his wild look when he left me. Oh, if it should
be----"
"No, no, you are frightening yourself without reason," said her father
in a reassuring tone. "It is not Angelo. Can you not see? It is one
of their own order whom they are mourning. They would not make such
a lament over mere secular clay, I warrant you. Stay here, and Frank
and I will ascertain who it is. You do not mind being left alone for a
minute or two? No harm can happen to you. We will not be long. Come,
Frank." And my uncle and I descended hastily to the road.
As this is a faithful autobiography I must not shrink from recording my
thoughts at this time. Full of my selfish love for Daphne, I was hoping
that the dead form carried by the monks might be--George. A wicked
wish, and one that I was ashamed of the minute after I had entertained
it.
The monks had ceased their singing for a brief space, but as they
neared us a fresh outburst of mournful harmony rose from them. It
spread through the vale around, and, rolling onward, echoed and
re-echoed from many a distant cliff, and, as if refused a lodgment
there, mounted upward to the midnight sky:
"DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA,
SOLVET SÆCULUM IN FAVILLA."
The deep cowl that veiled the head of each grey brother gave a singular
appearance to the throng, and the peculiarly wild effect of their
harmony was heightened by the solemn hour and the moonlight.
"What ghostly looking figures!" I muttered to my uncle.
"Ay! Charon multiplied by forty. How I hate these doleful Gregorians!
Let us stop these sandalled friars, and ask--if indeed they will be
so condescending as to tell us--who it is that has received his _Nunc
Dimittis_."
As the train came abreast of us, my uncle stepped forward and lifted
his hat to the monks, who at once stopped both their march and their
requiem.
"Pardon the curiosity of a stranger," he said, addressing the leading
brother: "may we ask the reason of this midnight procession?"
The monk regarded the questioner with a look that seemed to ask what
business it was of his; but, verbally courteous, he replied:
"_Pax vobiscum, mi fili._ We mourn one who but a few hours ago was
alive. Now--_sic est voluntas divina_--he is no more."
"How came he by his death?"
"By falling from the cliff on which our monastery is built. The holy
Virgin--_gloria tibi, O sancta Maria_--foreshadowed the event this
morning by the fall of her image in the chapel."
"Ah, the days of Urim and Thummim are not past, then," remarked my
uncle, with a tinge of irony in his tone unnoticed by him to whom he
spoke. "Is the dead man a brother of your order?"
"An old inhabitant of Rivoli, but a neophyte of two days only. It was
but yesterday that the good Father Ignatius brought him to us, bidding
us receive him as a novice. This evening at vespers he quitted the
convent unknown to us. He did not return. At nocturns Brother Francis
startled us by rushing in and saying that he had heard groans coming
from the foot of the cliff. We descended to the spot. This is what we
found."
With these words the speaker drew back the covering from the bier. And
there, calm and still in death, with glazed eyes staring up at the sky,
as if in reproach of the cold, silent moon that had seen him die, was
the face of the silver-haired old man, the penitent of Father Ignatius.
My sudden exclamation of surprise drew all eyes upon me.
"Did you know him, young sir?"
"I have seen him once in England, and once here in the cathedral
yesterday. I know nothing of him, not even his name. Where are you
taking the body?" I added after a moment's interval.
"To the house of Father Ignatius," replied the leading monk, as he
motioned the _cortège_ to proceed.
"Stop!" cried my uncle, and at his imperative voice the monks paused.
For some moments he had been closely scrutinising the corpse, and now,
pointing to it with a stern look, he said:
"There must be an inquiry on the body, for this man did not die by
accident. He was pushed over the cliff. See! these marks on the throat
were made by a strong hand. He has been murdered."
"MURDERED!" repeated forty voices.
The bier was hastily set down. The bright torches were lowered to the
level of the dead man's face and, making the sign of the cross, the
monks crowded around to look.
"_O sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!_"
The dark purple bruises on the throat, and the frayed condition of the
clothing round it, were proofs too strong to be confuted, of my uncle's
statement.
"These marks may have arisen from some other cause than the one you
suggest," remarked the leading monk in tones sweetly supercilious.
He seemed annoyed, probably because my uncle had discovered what his
monkish dulness had overlooked.
The fingers of the dead man's right hand were tightly clenched. My
uncle proceeded to force them open, and as he did so there fell to the
ground something which when picked up proved to be a grey cloth button
adhering to a fragment of grey cloth, and assuredly not belonging to
the garments of the dead man.
"This," said my uncle, "has been torn by the dead man from the clothes
of him who hurled him over. There was evidently a struggle. This button
must not be lost. It may be a means of tracing the assassin."
So, while the pious monks had been lifting to heaven their prayers and
psalms, a death-struggle had been going on under the walls of their
convent, perhaps within the very sound of their voices. But what motive
had prompted the deed, and whose was the hand that had so swiftly
hurled the aged man into the arms of death?
The sight of the grey cloth button--suggestive of a military
cloak--recalled to my memory the figure that Daphne had seen at the
fountain; and instantly there darted into my mind a terrible suspicion.
The same had occurred to my uncle. Bending his head over to me, and
pointing to the corpse, he said in a whisper:
"Is this George's work?"
A warm breath on my cheek checked the reply I was about to make. I
turned. Daphne was at my side, her hands raised, her eyes dilated with
horror, and her figure swaying like a young sapling in the breeze.
Unperceived by myself or her father, she had followed us to the
road--had seen the dead man, the damnatory evidence, had caught her
father's whispered words. A scream such as I shall never forget broke
from her, and before I could catch her in my arms she had dropped at my
feet, a white senseless heap. Her voice, like a death-cry, rang over
the moonlit valley, awakening countless echoes from the sleeping rocks,
and mingling with the mournful refrain of the monks:
"REQUIEM ÆTERNAM
ET LUCEM PERPETUAM
DONA MORTUO, DOMINE!"