We had dined at sunset on the broad roof of the old tower, because it was cooler there during the great heat of summer. Besides, the little kitchen was built at one corner of the great square platform, which made it more convenient than if the dishes had to be carried down the steep stone steps broken in places and everywhere worn with age. The tower was one of those built all down the west coast of Calabria by the Emperor Charles V early in the sixteenth century, to keep off the Barbary pirates, when the unbelievers were allied with Francis I against the Emperor and the Church. They have gone to ruin, a few still stand intact, and mine is one of the largest. How it came into my possession ten years ago, and why I spend a part of each year in it, are matters which do not concern this tale. The tower stands in one of the loneliest spots in Southern Italy, at the extremity of a curving, rocky promontory, which forms a small but safe natural harbour at the southern extremity of the Gulf of Policastro, and just north of Cape Scalea, the birthplace of Judas Iscariot, according to the old local legend. The tower stands alone on this hooked spur of the rock, and there is not a house to be seen within three miles of it. When I go there I take a couple of sailors, one of whom is a fair cook, and when I am away it is in charge of a gnome-like little being who was once a miner and who attached himself to me long ago.
My friend, who sometimes visits me in my summer solitude, is an artist by profession, a Scandinavian by birth, and a cosmopolitan by force of circumstances. We had dined at sunset; the sunset glow had reddened and faded again, and the evening purple steeped the vast chain of the mountains that embrace the deep gulf to eastward and rear themselves higher and higher towards the south. It was hot, and we sat at the landward corner of the platform, waiting for the night breeze to come down from the lower hills. The colour sank out of the air, there was a little interval of deep-grey twilight, and a lamp sent a yellow streak from the open door of the kitchen, where the men were getting their
Then the moon rose suddenly above the crest of the promontory, flooding the platform and lighting up every little spur of rock and knoll of grass below us, down to the edge of the motionless water.
My friend lighted his pipe and sat looking at a spot on the hillside. I knew that he was looking at it, and for a long time past I had wondered whether he would ever see anything there that would fix his attention.
I knew that spot well. It was clear that he was interested at last, though it was a long time before he spoke.
Like most painters, he trusts to his own eyesight, as a lion trusts his strength and a stag his speed, and he is always disturbed when he cannot reconcile what he sees with what he believes that he ought to see.
"It's strange," he said. "Do you see that little mound just on this side of the boulder?"
"Yes," I said, and I guessed what was coming.
"It looks like a grave," observed Holger.
"Very true. It does look like a grave."
"Yes," continued my friend, his eyes still fixed on the spot. "But the strange thing is that I see the body lying on the top of it. Of course," continued Holger, turning his head on one side as artists do, "it must be an effect of light. In the first place, it is not a grave at all. Secondly, if it were, the body would be inside and not outside. Therefor, it's an effect of the moonlight. Don't you see it?"
"Perfectly; I always see it on moonlight nights."
"It doesn't seem it interest you much," said Holger.
"On the contrary, it does interest me, though I am used to it. You're not so far wrong, either. The mound is really a grave."
"Nonsense!" cried Holger incredulously. "I suppose you'll tell me that what I see lying on it is really a corpse!"
"No," I answered, "it's not. I know, because I have taken the trouble to go down and see."
"Then what is it?" asked Holger.
"You mean that it's an effect of light, I suppose?"
"Perhaps it is. But the inexplicable part of the matter is that it makes no difference whether the moon is rising or setting, or waxing or waning. If there's any moonlight at all, from east or west or overhead, so long as it shines on the grave you can see the outline of the body on
Holger stirred up his pipe with the point of his knife, and then used his finger for a stopper. When the tobacco burned well, he rose from his
"If you don't mind," he said, "I'll go down and take a look at
He left me, crossed the roof, and disappeared down the dark steps. I
did not move, but sat looking down until he came out of the tower below. I
heard him humming an old Danish song as he crossed the open space in the
bright moonlight, going straight to the mysterious mound. When he was ten
paces from it, Holger stopped short, made two steps forward, and then three
or four backward, and then stopped again. I know what that meant. He had
reached the spot where the Thing ceased to be visible -- where, as he would
have said, the effect of light changed.
Then he went on till he reached the mound and stood upon it. I could
see the Thing still, but it was no longer lying down; it was on its knees
now, winding its white arms round Holger's body and looking up into his
face. A cool breeze stirred my hair at that moment, as the night wind
began to come down from the hills, but it felt like a breath from another
The Thing seemed to be trying to climb to its feet helping itself up
by Holger's body while he stood upright, quite unconcious of it and
apparently looking toward the tower, which is very picturesque when the
moonlight falls upon it on that side.
"Come along!" I shouted. "Don't stay there all night!"
It seemed to me that he moved reluctantly as he stepped from the
mound, or else with difficulty. That was it. The Thing's arms were still
round his waist, but its feet could not leave the grave. As he came slowly
forward it was drawn and lengthened like a wreath of mist, thin and white,
till I saw distinctly that Holger shook himself, as a man does who feels a
At the same instant a little wail of pain came to me on the breeze -- it
might have been the cry of the small owl that lives amongst the rocks -- and
the misty presence floated swiftly back from Holger's advancing figure and
lay once more at its length upon the mound.
Again I felt the cool breeze in my hair, and this time an icy thrill
of dread ran down my spine. I remembered very well that I had once gone
down there alone in the moonlight; that presently, being near, I had seen
nothing; that, like Holger, I had gone and had stood upon the mound; and I
remembered how when I came back, sure that there was nothing there, I had
felt the sudden conviction that there was something after all if I would
only look back, a temptation I had resisted as unworthy of a man of sense,
until, to get rid of it, I had shaken myself just as Holger did.
And now I knew that those white, misty arms had been round me, too; I
knew it in a flash, and I shuddered as I remembered that I had heard the
night owl then, too. But it had not been the night owl. It was the cry of
I refilled my pipe and poured out a cup of strong southern wine; in
less than a minute Holger was seated beside me again.
"Of course there's nothing there," he said, "but it's creepy, all the
same. Do you know, when I was coming back I was so sure that there was
something behind me that I wanted to turn around and look? It was an
effort not to."
He laughed a little, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and poured
himself out some wine. For a while neither of us spoke, and the moon rose
higher and we both looked at the Thing that lay on the mound.
"You might make a story about that," said Holger after a long
"There is one," I answered. "If you're not sleepy, I'll tell it to
"Go ahead," said Holger, who likes stories.
Old Aderio was dying up there in the village beyond the hill. You remember him, I have no doubt. They say that he made his money by selling
sham jewelry in South America, and escaped with his gains when he was found out..
Like all those fellows, if they bring anything back with them, he at once set to work to enlarge his house, and as there are no masons here,
he sent all the way to Paola for two workmen.
They were a rough-looking pair of scoundrels--a Neapolitan who had lost one eye and a Sicilian with an old scar half an inch deep across his left cheek.
I often saw them, for on Sundays they used to come down here and fish off the rocks.
When Alario caught the fever that killed him the masons were still at work. As he had agreed that part of their pay should be their board and lodging, he made them sleep in the house.
His wife was dead, and he had an only son called Angelo, who was a much better sort than himself.
Angelo was to marry the daughter of the richest man in the village, and, strange to say, though the marriage was arranged by their parents, the young people were said to be in love with eachother.
For that matter, the whole village was in love with Angelo, and among the rest a wild, good-looking creature called Cristina, who was more like a gipsy than any girl I ever saw about here.
She had very red lips and very black eyes, she was built like a greyhound, and had the tongue of the devil. But Angelo did not care a straw for her.
He was rather a simpleminded fellow, quite different from his old scoundrel of a father, and under what I should call normal circumstances I really believe that he would never have looked at any girl except the nice plump little creature, with a fat dowry, whom his father meant him to marry.
But things turned up which were neither normal nor natural.
On the other hand, a very handsome young shepherd from the hills above Maratea was in love with Cristina, who seems to have been quite indifferent to him.
Cristina had no regular means of subsistence, but she was a good girl and willing to do any work or go on errands to any distance for the sake of a loaf of bread or a mess of beans, and permission to sleep under cover.
She was especially glad when she could get something to do about the house of Angelo's father. There is no doctor in the village, and when the neighbours saw that old Alario was dying they sent Cristina to Scalea to fetch one.
That was late in the afternoon, and if they had waited so long it was because the dying miser refused to allow any such extravagance while he was able to speak.
But while Cristina was gone matters grew rapidly worse, the priest was brough tothe bedside, and when he had done what he could he gave it as his opinion to the bystanders that the old man was dead, and left the house.
You know these people. They have a physical horror of death. Until the priest spoke, the room had been full of people. The words were hardly out of his mouth before it was empty.
It was night now. They hurried down the dark steps and out into the street.
Angelo, as I have said, was away, Cristina had not come back--the simple woman-servant who had nursed the sick man fled with the rest, and the body was left alone in the flickering light of the earthen oil lamp.
Five minutes later two men looked in cautiously and crept forward toward the bed. They were the one-eyed Neapolitan mason and his Sicilian companion.
They knew what they wanted. In a moment they had dragged from under the bed a small but heavy iron-bound box, and long before anyone thought of coming back to the dead man they had left the house and the village under cover of darkness.
It was easy enough, for Alario's house is the last toward the gorge which leads down here, and the thieves merely went out by the back door, got over the stone wall, and had nothing to risk after that except that possibility of meeting some belated countryman, which was very small indeed, since few of the people use that path.
They had a mattock and shovel, and they made their way without accident.
I am telling you this story as it must have happened, for, of course, there were no witnesses to this part of it. The men brought the box down by the gorge, intending to bury it on the beach in the wet sand, where it would have been much safer.
But the paper would ahve rotted if they had been obliged to leave it there long,so they dug their hole down there, close to that boulder. Yes, just where the mound is now.
Cristina did not find the doctor in Scalea, for he had been sent for from a place up the valley, half-way to San Domenico. If she had found him we would have come on his mule by the upper road, which is smoother but much longer.
But Cristina took the short cut by the rocks, which passes about fifty feet above the mound, and goes round that corner. The men were digging when she passed, and she heard them at work. It would not hav been like her to go by without finding out what the noise was, for she was never afraid of anything in her life, and, besides, the fishermen sometimes come ashore here at night to get a stone for an anchor or to gather sticks to make a little fire.
The night was dark and Cristina probably came close to the two men before she could see what they were doing. She knew them, of course, and they knew her, and understood instantly that they were in her power. There was only one thing to be done for their safety, and they did it.
They knocked her on the head, they dug the hole deep, and they buried her quickly with the iron-bound chest. They must have understood that their only chance of escaping suspicion lay in getting back to the village before their absence was noticed, for they returned immediately, and were found half and hour later gossiping quietly with the man who was making Alario's coffin. He was a crony of theirs, and had been working at the repairs in the old man's house. So far as I have been able to make out, the only persons who were supposed to know where Alario kept his treasure were Angelo and the one woman-servant I have mentioned. Angelo was away; it was the woman who discovered the theft.
It was easy enough to understand why no one else knew where the money was. The old man kept his door locked and the key in his pocket when he was out, and did not let the woman enter to clean the place unless he was there himself. The whole village knew that he had money somewhere, however, and the masons had probably discovered the whereabouts of the chest by climbing in at the window in his absence.
If the old man had not been delirious until he lost conciousness he would have been in frightful agony of mind for his riches. The faithful woman-servant forgot their existence only for a few moments when she fled with the rest, overcome by the horror of death.
Twenty minutes had not passed before she returned with the two hideous old hags who are always called in to prepare the dead for burial. Even then she had not at first the courage to go near the bed with them, but she made a pretence of dropping something, went down on her knees as if to find it, and looked under the bedstead.
The walls of the room were newly whitewashed down to the floor and she saw at a glance that the chest was gone. It had been there in the afternoon, it had therefore been stolen in the short interval since she had left the room.
There are no carabineers stationed in the village; there is not so much as a municipal watchman, for there is no municipality. There never was such a place, I believe. Scalea is supposed to look after it in some mysterious way, and it takes a couple of hours to get anybody from there.
As the old woman had lived in the village all her life, it did not even occur to her to apply to any civil authority for help. She simply set up a howl and ran through the village in the dark, screaming out that her dead master's house had been robbed.
Many of the people looked out, but at first no one seemed inclined to help her. Most of them, judging her by themselves, whispered to each other that she had probably stolen the money herself. The first man to move was the father of the girl whom Angelo was to marry; having collected his household, all of whom felt a personal interest in the wealth which was to have come into the family, he declared it to be his opinion that the chest had been stolen by the two journeymen masons who lodged in the house.
He headed a search for them, which naturally began in Alario's house and ended in the carpenter's workshop, where the thieves were found discussing a measure of wine with the carpenter over the half-finished coffin, by the light of one earthen lamp filled with oil and tallow.
The search-party at once accused the delinquents of the crime, and threatened to lock them up in the cellar till the carabineers could be fetched from Scalea. The two men looked at each other for one moment, and then without the slightest hesitation they put out the single light, seized the unfinished coffin between them, and using it as a sort of battering ram, dashed upon their assailants in the dark. In a few moments they were beyond pursuit.
That is the end of the first part of the story. The tresure had disappeared, and as no trace of it could be found the people supposed that the thieves had succeeded in carrying it off. The old man was buried, and when Angelo came back at last he had to borrow money to pay for the miserable funeral, and had some difficulty in doing so.
He hardly needed to be told that in losing his inheritance he had lost his bride. In this part of the world marriages are made on strictly business principles, and if the promised cash is not forthcoming on the appointed day, the bride or the bridegroom whose parents have failed to produce it may as well take themselves off, for there will be no wedding.
Poor Angelo knew that well enough. His father had been possessed of hardly any land, and now that the hard cash which he had brought from South America was gone, there was nothing left but debts for the building materials that were to have been used for enlarging and improving the old house.
Angelo was beggared, and the nice plump little creature who was to have been his, turned up her nose at him in the most approved fashion. As for Cristina, it was several days before she was missed, for no one remembered that she had been sent to Scalea for the doctor, who had never come.
She often disappeared in the same way for days together, when she could find a little work here and there at the distant farms among the hills. But when she did not come back at all, people began to wonder, and at last made up their minds that she had connived with the masons and had escaped with them.
I paused and emptied my glass.
"That sort of thing could not happen anywhere else," observed Holger, filling his everlasting pipe again. "It is wonderful what a natural charm there is about murder and sudden death in a romantic country like this. Deeds that would be simply brutal and disgusting anywhere else become dramatic and mysterious because this is Italy, and we are living in a genuine tower of Charles V built against Barbary pirates."
"There's something in that," I admitted. Holger is the most romantic man in the world inside of himself, but he always thinks it necessary to explain why he feels anything.
"I suppose the found the poor girl's body with the box," he said presently.
"As it seems to interest you," I answered, "I'll tell you the rest of the story."
The moon had risen by this time; the outline of the Thing on the mound was clearer to our eyes than before.
The village very soon settled down to its small dull life. No one missed old Alario, who had been away so much on his voyages to South America that he had never been a familiar figure in his native place.
Angelo lived in the half-finished house, and because he had no money to pay the old woman-servant, she would not stay with him, but once in a long time she would come and wash a shirt for him for old acquaintance' sake.
Besides the house, he had inherited a small patch of ground at some distance from the village; he tried to cultivate it, but he had no heart in the work, for he knew he could neer pay the taxes on it and on the house, which would certainly be confiscated by the Government, or seized for the debt of the building material, which the man who had supplied it refused to take back.
Angelo was very unhappy. So long as his father had been alive and rich, every girl in the village had been in love with him; but that was all changed now. It had been pleasant to be admired and courted, and invited to drink wine by fathers who had girls to marry. It was hard to be stared at coldly, and sometimes laughed at because he had been robbed of his inheritance. He cooked his miserable meals for himself, and from being sad became melancholy and morose.
At twilight, when the day's work was done, instead of hanging about in the open space before the church with young fellows of his own age, he took to wandering in lonely places on the outskirts of the village till it was quite dark. Then he slunk home and went to bed to save the expense of a light.
But in those lonely twilight hours he began to have strange waking dreams. He was not always alone, for often when he sat on the stump of a tree, where the narrow path turns down the gorge, he was sure that a woman came up noiselessly over the rough stones, as if her feet were bare;
and she stood under a clump of chestnut trees only half a dozen yards down the path, and beckoned to him without speaking. Though she was in the shadow he knew that her lips were red, and that when they parted a little and smiled at him she showed two small sharp teeth.
He knew this at first rather than saw it, and he knew that it was Cristina, and that she was dead. Yet he was not afraid; he only wondered whether it was a dream, for he thought that if he had been awake he should have been frightened.
Besides, the dead woman had red lips, and that could only happen in a dream. Whenever he went near the gorget after sunset she was already there waiting for him, or else she very soon appeared, and he began to be sure of her blood-red mouth, but now each feature grew distinct, and the pale face looked at him with deep and hungry eyes.
It was the eyes that grew dim.
Little by little he came to know that someday the dream would not end when
he turned away to go home, but would lead him down the gorge out of which
the vision rose. She was nearer now when she beckoned to him.
Her cheeks were not livid like those of the dead, but pale with starvation,
with the furious and unappeased physical hunger of her eyes that devoured
him. They feasted on his soul and cast a spell over him, and at last
they were close to his own and held him. He could not tell whether
her breath was as hot as fire, or as cold as ice; he could not tell whether
her red lips burned his or froze them, or whether her five fingers on his
wrists seared scorching scars or bit his flesh like frost; he could not
tell whether he was awake or asleep, whether she was alive or dead, but
he knew that she loved him, she alone of all creatures, earthly or unearthly,
and her spell had power over him.
When the moon rose high that night
the shadow of that Thing was not alone down there upon the mound.
Angelo awoke in the cool dawn,
drenched with dew and chilled through flesh, and blood, and bone.
He opened his eyes to the faint grey light, and saw the stars were still
shining overhead. He was very weak, and his heart was beating so
slowly that he was almost like a man fainting. Slowly he turned his
head on the mound, as on a pillow, but the other face was not there.
Fear seized him suddenly, a fear unspeakable and unknown; he sprang to
his feet and fled up the gorge, and he never looked behind him until he
reached the door of the house on the outskirts of the village. Drearily
he went to his work that day, and wearily the hours dragged themselves
after the sun, till at last it touched the sea and sank, and the great
sharp hills above Maratea turned purple against the dove-coloured eastern
Angelo shouldered his heavy hoe
and left the field. He felt less tired now than in the morning when
he had begun to work, but he promised himself that he would go home without
lingering by the gorge, and eat the best supper he could get himself, and
sleep all night in his bed like a Christian man. Not again would
he be tempted down the narrow way by a shadow with red lips and icy breath;
not again would he dream that dream of terror and delight.
near the village now; it was half an hour since the sun had set, and the
cracked church bell sent little discordant echoes across the rocks and
ravines to tell all good people that the day was done. Angelo stood
still a moment where the path forked, where it led toward the village on
the left, and down to the gorge on the right, where a clump of chestnut
trees overhung the narrow way. He stood still a minute, lifting his
battered hat from his head and gazing at the fast-fading sea westward,
and his lips moved as he silently repeated the familiar evening prayer.
His lips moved, but the words that followed them in his brain lost their
meaning and turned into others, and ended in a name that he spoke aloud
With the name, the tension of his will relaxed suddenly,
reality went out and the dream took him again, and bore him on swiftly
and surely like a man walking in his sleep, down, down, by the steep path
in the gathering darkness. And as she glided beside him, Cristina
whispered strange, sweet things in his ear, which somehow, if he had been
awake, he knew that he could not quite have understood; but now they were
the most wonderful words he had ever heard in his life. And she kissed
him also, but not upon his mouth. He felt her sharp kisses upon his
white throat, and he knew that her lips were red.
So the wild dream
sped on through twilight and darkness and moonrise, and all the glory of
the summer's night. But in the chilly dawn he lay as one half dead
upon the mound down there, recalling and not recalling, drained of his
blood, yet strangely longing to give those red lips more. Then came
the fear, the awful nameless panic, the mortal horror that guards the confines
of the world we see not, neither know of as we know of other things, but
which we feel when its icy chill freezes our bones and stirs our hair with
the touch of a ghostly hand. Once more Angelo sprang from the mound
and fled up the gorge in the breaking day, but his step was less sure this
time, and he panted for breath as he ran; and when he came to the bright
spring of water that rises half way up the hillside, he dropped upon his
knees and hands and plunged his whole face in and drank as he had never
drunk before -- for it was the thirst of the wounded man who has lain bleeding
all night upon the battle-field.
She had him fast now, and he could
not escape her, but would come to her every evening at dusk until she had
drained him of his last drop of blood. It was in vain that when the
day was done he tried to take another turning and to go home by a path
that did not lead near the gorge. It was in vain that he made promises
to himself each morning at dawn when he climbed the lonely way up from
the shore to the village. It was all in vain, for when the sun sank
burning into the sea, and the coolness of the evening stole out as from
a hiding-place to delight the weary world, his feet turned toward the old
way, and she was waiting for him in the shadow under the chestnut trees;
and then all happened as before, and she fell to kissing his white throat
even as she flitted lightly down the way, winding one arm about him.
And as his blood failed, she grew more hungry and more thirsty every day,
and every day when he awoke in the early dawn it was harder to rouse himself
to the effort of climbing the steep path to the village; and when he went
to his work his feet dragged painfully, and there was hardly strength in
his arms to wield the heavy hoe. He scarcely spoke to anyone now,
but the people said he was "consuming himself" for love of the girl he
was to have married when he lost his inheritance; and they laughed heartily
at the thought, for this is not a very romantic country.
time Antonio, the man who stays here to look after the tower, returned
from a visit to his people, who live near Salerno. He had been away
all the time since before Alario's death and knew nothing of what had happened.
He has told me that he came back late in the afternoon and shut himself
up in the tower to eat and sleep, for he was very tired. It was past
midnight when he awoke, and when he looked out toward the mound, and he
saw something, and he did not sleep again that night. When he went
out again in the morning it was broad daylight, and there was nothing to
be seen on the mound but loose stones and driven sand. Yet he did
not go very near it; he went straight up the path to the village and directly
to the house of the old priest.
"I have seen an evil thing this
night," he said; "I have seen how the dead drink the blood of the living.
And the blood is the life."
"Tell me what you have seen," said
the priest in reply.
Antonio told him everything he
"You must bring your book and your
holy water to-night," he added. "I will be here before sunset to
go down with you, and if it pleases your reverence to sup with me while
we wait, I will make ready."
"I will come," the priest answered,
"for I have read in old books of these strange beings which are neither
quick nor dead, and which lie ever fresh in their graves, stealing out
in the dusk to taste life and blood."
Antonio cannot read, but he was
glad to see that the priest understood the business; for, of course, the
books must have been instructed him as to the best means of quieting the
half-living Thing for ever.
So Antonio went away to his work,
which consists largely in sitting on the shady side of the tower, when
he is not perched upon a rock with a fishing-line catching nothing.
But on that day he went twice to look at the mound in the bright sunlight,
and he searched round and round it for some hole through which the being
might get in and out; but he found none. When the sun began to sink
and the air was cooler in the shadows, he went up to fetch the old priest,
carrying a little wicker basket with him; and in this they placed a bottle
of holy water, and the basin, and sprinkler, and the stole which the priest
would need; and they came down and waited in the door of the tower till
it should be dark.
But while the light still lingered very grey and
faint, they saw something moving, just there, two figures, a man's that
walked, and a woman's that flitted beside him, and while her head lay on
his shoulder she kissed his throat. The priest has told me that,
too, and that his teeth chattered and he grasped Antonio's arm. The
vision passed and disappeared into the shadow. Then Antonio got the
leathern flask of strong liquor, which he kept for great occasions, and
poured such a draught as made the old man feel almost young again; and
gave the priest his stole to put on and the holy water to carry, and they
went out together toward the spot where the work was to be done.
Antonio says that in spite of the rum his own knees shook together, and
the priest stumbled over his Latin.
For when they were yet a few
yards from the mound the flickering light of the lantern fell upon Angelo's
white face, unconscious as if in sleep, and on his upturned throat, over
which a very thin red line of blood trickled down into his collar; and
the flickering light of the lantern played upon another face that looked
up from the feast, upon two deep, dead eyes that saw in spite of death
-- upon parted lips, redder than life itself -- upon two gleaming teeth
on which glistened a rosy drop. Then the priest, good old man, shut
his eyes tight and showered holy water before him, and his cracked voice
rose almost to a scream; and then Antonio, who is no coward after all,
raised his pick n one hand and the lantern in the other, as he sprang forward,
not knowing what the end should be; and then he swears that he heard a
woman's cry, and the Thing was gone, and Angelo lay alone on the mound
unconscious, with the red line on his throat and the beads of deathly sweat
on his cold forehead. They lifted him, half-dead as he was, and laid
him on the ground close by; then Antonio went to work, and the priest helped
him, thought he was old and could not do much; and they dug deep, and at
last Antonio, standing in the grave, stooped down with his lantern to see
what he might see.
His hair used to be dark brown,
with grizzled streaks about the temples; in less than a month from that
day he was as grey as a badger. He was a miner when he was young,
and most of these fellows have seen ugly sights now and then, when accidents
have happened, but he had never seen what he saw that night -- that Thing
which is neither alive nor dead, that Thing that will abide neither above
ground nor in the grave. Antonio had brought something with him which
the priest had not noticed -- a sharp stake shaped from a piece of tough
old driftwood. He had it with him now, and he had his heavy pick,
and he had taken the lantern down into the grave.
I don't think any
power on earth could make him speak of what happened then, and the old
priest was too frightened to look in. He says he heard Antonio breathing
like a wild beast, and moving as if he were fighting with something almost
as strong as himself; and he heard an evil sound also, with blows, as of
something violently driven through flesh and bone; and then, the most awful
sound of all -- a woman's shriek, the unearthly scream of a woman neither
dead nor alive, but buried deep for many days. And he, the poor old
priest, could only rock himself as he knelt there in the sand, crying aloud
his prayers and exorcisms to drown these dreadful sounds. Then suddenly
a small iron-bound chest was thrown up and rolled over against the old
man's knee, and in a moment more Antonio was beside him, his face as white
as tallow in the flickering light of the lantern, shoveling the sand and
pebbles into the grave with furious haste, and looking over the edge till
the pit was half full; and the priest said that there was much fresh blood
on Antonio's hands and on his clothes.
I had come to the end of my
story. Holger finished his wine and leaned back in his chair.
"So Angelo got his own again." he
said. "Did he marry the prim and plump young person to whom he had
"No; he had been badly frightened.
He went to South America, and has not been heard of since."
"And that poor thing's body is there
still, I suppose," said Holger. "Is it quite dead yet, I wonder?"
I wonder, too. But whether it
be dead or alive, I should hardly care to see it, even in broad daylight.
Antonio is as grey as a badger, and he has never been quite the same man
since that night.