Produced by David Widger
DOOM CASTLE
By NEIL MUNRO
Copyright, 1900, 1901, by Doubleday, Page & Co.
CONTENTS:
CHAPTER I — COUNT VICTOR COMES TO A STRANGE COUNTRY
CHAPTER II — THE PURSUIT
CHAPTER III — BARON OF DOOM
CHAPTER IV — WANTED, A SPY
CHAPTER V — THE FLAGEOLET
CHAPTER VI — MUNGO BOYD
CHAPTER VII — THE BAY OF THE BOAR'S HEAD
CHAPTER VIII — AN APPARITION
CHAPTER IX — TRAPPED
CHAPTER X — SIM MACTAGGART, CHAMBERLAIN
CHAPTER XI — THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW
CHAPTER XII — OMENS AND ALARMS
CHAPTER XIII — A LAWYER'S GOOD LADY
CHAPTER XIV — CLAMOUR
CHAPTER XV — A RAY OF LIGHT
CHAPTER XVI — OLIVIA
CHAPTER XVII — A SENTIMENTAL SECRET
CHAPTER XVIII — “Loch Sloy!”
CHAPTER XIX — REVELATION
CHAPTER XX — AN EVENING'S MELODY IN THE BOAR'S HEAD INN
CHAPTER XXI — COUNT VICTOR CHANGES HIS QUARTERS
CHAPTER XXII — THE LONELY LADY
CHAPTER XXIII — A MAN OF NOBLE SENTIMENT
CHAPTER XXIV — A BROKEN TRYST
CHAPTER XXV — RECONCILIATION
CHAPTER XXVI — THE DUKE'S BALL
CHAPTER XXVII — THE DUEL ON THE SANDS
CHAPTER XXVIII — THE DUEL ON THE SANDS—Continued.
CHAPTER XXIX — THE CELL IN THE FOSSE
CHAPTER XXX — A DUCAL DISPUTATION
CHAPTER XXXI — FLIGHT
CHAPTER XXXII — THE INDISCRETION OF THE DUCHESS
CHAPTER XXXIII — BACK IN DOOM
CHAPTER XXXIV — IN DAYS OF STORM
CHAPTER XXXV — A DAMNATORY DOCUMENT
CHAPTER XXXVI — LOVE
CHAPTER XXXVII — THE FUTILE FLAGEOLET
CHAPTER XXXVIII — A WARNING
CHAPTER XXXIX — BETRAYED BY A BALLAD
CHAPTER XL — THE DAY OF JUDGMENT
CHAPTER XLI — CONCLUSION
DOOM CASTLE
CHAPTER I -- COUNT VICTOR COMES TO A STRANGE COUNTRY
It was an afternoon in autumn, with a sound of wintry breakers on the
shore, the tall woods copper-colour, the thickets dishevelled, and the
nuts, in the corries of Ardkinglas, the braes of Ardno, dropping upon
bracken burned to gold. Until he was out of the glen and into the open
land, the traveller could scarcely conceive that what by his chart was
no more than an arm of the ocean could make so much ado; but when he
found the incoming tide fretted here and there by black rocks, and
elsewhere, in little bays, the beaches strewn with massive boulders,
the high rumour of the sea-breakers in that breezy weather seemed more
explicable. And still, for him, it was above all a country of appalling
silence in spite of the tide thundering. Fresh from the pleasant
rabble of Paris, the tumult of the streets, the unending gossip of the
faubourgs that were at once his vexation and his joy, and from the eager
ride that had brought him through Normandy when its orchards were busy
from morning till night with cheerful peasants plucking fruit, his ear
had not grown accustomed to the still of the valleys, the terrific hush
of the mountains, in whose mist or sunshine he had ridden for two days.
The woods, with leaves that fell continually about him, seemed in some
swoon of nature, with no birds carolling on the boughs; the cloisters
were monastic in their silence. A season of most dolorous influences, a
land of sombre shadows and ravines, a day of sinister solitude; the sun
slid through scudding clouds, high over a world blown upon by salt airs
brisk and tonic, but man was wanting in those weary valleys, and the
heart of Victor Jean, Comte de Montaiglon, was almost sick for very
loneliness.
Thus it came as a relief to his ear, the removal of an oppression little
longer to be endured, when he heard behind him what were apparently the
voices of the odd-looking uncouth natives he had seen a quarter of an
hour ago lurking, silent but alert and peering, phantoms of old story
rather than humans, in the fir-wood near a defile made by a brawling
cataract. They had wakened no suspicions in his mind. It was true they
were savage-looking rogues in a ragged plaid-cloth of a dull device, and
they carried arms he had thought forbidden there by law. To a foreigner
fresh from gentle lands there might well be a menace in their ambuscade,
but he had known men of their race, if not of so savage an aspect, in
the retinues of the Scots exiles who hung about the side-doors of Saint
Germains, passed mysterious days between that domicile of tragic comedy
and Avignon or Rome, or ruffled it on empty pockets at the gamingtables,
so he had no apprehension. Besides, he was in the country of the Argyll,
at least on the verge of it, a territory accounted law-abiding even to
dul-ness by every Scot he had known since he was a child at Cammercy,
and snuff-strewn conspirators, come to meet his uncles, took him on
their knees when a lull in the cards or wine permitted, and recounted
their adventures for his entertainment in a villainous French: he could
not guess that the gentry in the wood behind him had taken a fancy to
his horse, that they were broken men (as the phrase of the country
put it), and that when he had passed them at the cataract--a haughty,
well-setup _duine uasail_ all alone with a fortune of silk and silver
lace on his apparel and the fob of a watch dangling at his groin most
temptingly--they had promptly put a valuation upon himself and his
possessions, and decided that the same were sent by Providence for their
enrichment.
Ten of them ran after him clamouring loudly to give the impression of
larger numbers; he heard them with relief when oppressed by the inhuman
solemnity of the scenery that was too deep in its swoon to give back
even an echo to the breaker on the shore, and he drew up his horse,
turned his head a little and listened, flushing with annoyance when the
rude calls of his pursuers became, even in their unknown jargon, too
plainly peremptory and meant for him.
“Dogs!” said he, “I wish I had a chance to open school here and teach
manners,” and without more deliberation he set his horse to an amble,
designed to betray neither complacency nor a poltroon's terrors.
“_Stad! stad!_” cried a voice closer than any of the rest behind him;
he knew what was ordered by its accent, but no Montaiglon stopped to an
insolent summons. He put the short rowels to the flanks of the sturdy
lowland pony he bestrode, and conceded not so little as a look behind.
There was the explosion of a bell-mouthed musket, and something smote
the horse spatteringly behind the rider's left boot. The beast swerved,
gave a scream of pain, fell lumberingly on its side. With an effort,
Count Victor saved himself from the falling body and clutched his
pistols. For a moment he stood bewildered at the head of the suffering
animal. The pursuing shouts had ceased. Behind him, short hazel-trees
clustering thick with nuts, reddening bramble, and rusty bracken,
tangled together in a coarse rank curtain of vegetation, quite still and
motionless (but for the breeze among the upper leaves), and the sombre
distance, dark with pine, had the mystery of a vault. It was difficult
to believe his pursuers harboured there, perhaps reloading the weapon
that had put so doleful a conclusion to his travels with the gallant
little horse he had bought on the coast of Fife. That silence, that
prevailing mystery, seemed to be the essence and the mood of this land,
so different from his own, where laughter was ringing in the orchards
and a myriad towns and clamant cities brimmed with life.