'Twixt Dog and Wolf (Valancourt Classics) Read online

  The next moment she was in a vast cave. The roof thereof was arched like the roof of a church immeasurably great, and pillars on every side held up the roof. ‘This,’ said Elizabeth to herself, ‘is the place which Willebald saw. It is——’ ‘The Devil’s Minster.’ The words came to her as if spoken from without. ‘Then why,’ she thought, ‘am I not more afraid?’ Perhaps because she saw a well-known, long unseen shape drawing near. On all sides among the pillars beneath the innumerable arches were moving lights. Only in the approaching figure did she see of what nature the lights were. More and more clearly, as he drew near, and with a heart beating more and more, she recognised Willebald. His face shone, strangely illuminated by a point of light, which nestled in his thick hair.

  ‘Surely,’ Elizabeth thought, ‘that must be a jewel.’ She remembered the description which he had given Carl of the gems, which shone like sparks of flame; and it seemed to her as if once more she gazed on the stars in the night sky, burning white and green, blue, red, and yellow.

  Willebald took her hand. In and out among the pillars, beneath the arches, he led her to a hall which was like the chancel of the Minster Church at Andersbach, only far greater. Here, moreover, she saw no angels’ heads or wings in the roof. On a throne in this great chancel, much as she had seen in the other church the Archbishop of Treves, sat an Old Man with a wise and terrible face. ‘Welcome,’ he said to Elizabeth, and he nodded his head. ‘We have waited for you a hundred years.’ And a murmur of assent went round the choir. ‘Why have you brought me here?’ Elizabeth said to Willebald. Her companion did not answer. But the Old Man spoke again. ‘It was fated so,’ he said. ‘Do not you know who you are? from whom descended? Listen.’

  ‘Listen,’ said the Old Man of the wise and terrible face. ‘Once there was a young knight who rode through Rettenberg Forest. He came none knew whence nor whither he was going. And in the deepest part of the wood he met a maiden. She knew not how she had wandered into the wood. But while she was there, and thought she must starve to death, there had flown down to her a pigeon which bore a silver key in its bill. The bird said to her:—“With this key open yonder tree, and thou wilt find all the food thou needest.” She opened the tree, and found milk and bread. Presently came another pigeon, with another key, and it said:—“Dost thou see yonder tree? Open it, and thou shalt find a bed.” And this, too, she found. And the next morning came a third pigeon with a silver key, and it said:—“Dost thou see yonder tree? Open it, and thou shalt find rich clothes.” And this happened as with the other trees. This alone the maiden knew; nor could she remember how long she abode in the forest. Then the knight stayed with her in the wood. At last a child was born to her. But the knight went away. And the mother at last found her way to the village of Lehndorf. There she died. But the child of her lived. And because none knew its parentage or coming it was called Elizabeth the Out-born; and of this Elizabeth you are descended.’

  ‘But who was the maiden?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘She was the heiress of Rettenberg,’ answered the Old Man. ‘And for this cause must you join our company. For now the time is almost come for the attack on Rettenberg Castle. Hilda shall lead it, and the Army of Blankenroth moves up to the attack according to the old prophecy. But the attack could never be made until an offspring of Hilda of Rettenberg was found in the flesh willing in the flesh to join the band. You are she. . . .’

  ‘A child of the Wicked Hilda?’

  ‘Of her whom the peasants of Lehndorf call the Wicked Hilda. You were once of them and spoke their language. You are so no more. Behold I give you the token of those who are chosen.’ And he placed a jewel on her head.

  Even as he spoke Elizabeth knew that she was changed, that she was no longer and never would be again the peasant woman tending her kine, turning her thread upon the spindle, cooking the supper for her husband. Carl was far from her thoughts; even Willebald was half-forgot. She lifted her head proudly, and the jewel which she wore flashed like a flame.

  In the morning there lay in her bed a bright point like that she had seen in her vision. This, she thought, is the jewel: and she took it in her hand. Of a truth there must have been some mystic virtue in the gem; for the longer that Elizabeth handled it the less like a peasant woman did she feel. Moment by moment she seemed to herself to grow in pride and in strength. And she ceased to count her other treasures from this day.

  XIV

  Children had died in the houses, cattle in the stalls. Hay had rotted in the stacks, corn had mildewed in the fields. It was an evil year with Lehndorf. No one now rejoiced that the Freyherr was far away.

  Two years and more had passed since Lord Otto left the castle, and set out to join the army of the Crusade. No news had come to Rettenberg or to Lehndorf of him or of the army which the Emperor led to Palestine. Now the evil year was setting to its close. ‘ ’Tis the winter of Blankenroth,’ Jutta had been heard to say. The words had an ill-omened sound, whatever precisely she might have meant by them. The holy time of the Nativity came round, the dreadful time of the Twelve Days, when the Unseen of Earth and Air have redoubled powers. As all men now believed, they had a fearful ally among visible mortals; and this Christmas morning, as in the darkness the early bell began to toll for the Mass, men were debating, in themselves or with others, whether Elizabeth of the Corner would indeed brave Heaven by coming to the Mass of the Nativity; or would dare to absent herself on this day of days, as she had done for a month or more.

  ‘They say,’ Peter Ploughman’s wife had said the evening before, ‘that to-morrow she will not come to Mass. We shall see.’ Like many another she listened more keenly than her wont for the first voice of the morning bell, and got ready quickly to take her way to the little church. And now ensued the first of many strange tokens, that happened that day. For when the bell had sounded only a few times, of a sudden it stopped ringing. Some men ran to the church to know the cause. There stood Wishart the Sacristan, his eyes wide open, grasping the rope, but making no effort to pull the bell. The villagers shook him; and though his eyes were wide open, he had been fast asleep. Perhaps it was nothing but the great cold. . . .

  Now the villagers were standing huddled together in the little dark church. It was lighted by two small windows only, narrow and round-topped. There was no window in the chancel, which was lower than the rest of the chapel and round-arched like the windows. The east end, the walls, the ceiling of the chancel were painted with a representation of the Day of Doom. There stood the folk, huddled in the morning twilight. Old Gebhart by the illumination of one smoking torch began the Mass. The people peered about them, and saw no Elizabeth. ‘Kyrie Eleison,’ intoned the priest. ‘Kyrie Eleison,’ sang the Sacristan and the two Choristers. Wishart had put a live coal into the censer, and Poldsel began to incense the priest. He swung the censer to and fro, but neither smoke nor smell came out: then he glanced inside, and behold! the coal had gone dead black. ’Twas too late to rekindle it; and no one of the villagers could see what was being done.

  Now Gebhart, the good old man, took out the pyx.[2] More zealously the boy swung his censer. John, the acolyte, had gone to the bell. Alas! what had happened? The priest let fall the monstrance. At the same moment a light laugh passed round the church over the heads of the worshippers. The priest picked up the fallen monstrance, and on went the service. ‘Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth,’ he chanted. The choristers and villagers chanted back; while John the Acolyte pulled the bell, and the sick and bedridden of Lehndorf waited to hear its holy sound. But instead of the tolling which drives away all evil spirits, what sound was heard? The noise of a knocking, as of a hammer on an anvil, not loud, but regular, mechanic! O, what could these things portend?

  Who was to bring to account the cause of such strange doings—the instrument, rather? Who was to make accusation? ‘If Lord Otto were but here!’ some said. But Lord Otto was far away.

&nbs
p; XV

  Hans, Simon Forester’s son, did a bold thing. For on the Night of the Three Kings he crept up alone to Elizabeth’s cottage determined to spy upon her doings. Much had her case been talked over in the village. Hans had been challenged to do the thing he set about.

  He walked up the path by the edge of the wood; and as he went, his feet crunched in the snow. Every shadow which lay across the whiteness seemed a live thing, and the blackness thereof was shot with a shifting red as of flames. Yet still he kept on; he gained the very door; with trembling hand he lifted the latch. Next moment he stood transfixed with dread of what might be to come. Howbeit he saw at the first nothing stranger than the mistress of the cottage bending over her hearth. She was passing something—bright sparks—from hand to hand. A witch at least!

  For all that Hans said to himself such a sight had no great terrors. But, even as he tried to reassure himself, he was aware of something else. He had noted, as he supposed, Elizabeth’s shadow black against the cottage wall. Now the Shadow began to move. It glided along the wall, drawing ever nearer and nearer to the bending figure. And while his eyes were fascinated by this sight, and he was turned so cold that he could neither move nor cry, behold! from another corner another Shadow stole in like fashion along another wall. Another followed it; and then another. Then of a sudden Elizabeth of the Corner raised herself. But was it indeed Elizabeth? Hans felt that she looked like some dreadful queen. She held up the jewels, which were now grown into one tiara of gems, and placed the glittering band on her forehead. Then she spoke. ‘Come out if you will,’ she said. Hans trembled and almost sank to the earth. But it was not to him the words were spoken. For one by one the Shadows came out from the walls. In shape like women, young, not old. Did they not wear helmets on their heads, and their dusky hair sweep down from beneath the casques? And Hans unseen heard the voices of the mortal woman and of those dusky Shapes asking and answering.

  ‘I have seen you before,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘We have been always with you,’ said the First Shadow.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the woman.

  ‘We are the Daughters of Earth and Gloom,’ answered the Shapes.

  ‘What would you with me?’

  ‘You are of us. We have been always near you, for from our land do you come, and are of our territory. We brought you back thereto. From the day you married Carl, and came to live in this house, we have watched over you. We brought you here, we brought Willebald to you . . .’ Here Elizabeth shuddered. ‘We sent the Two Foresters to take them both away again. For now you have nought more to do with Carl or with Willebald. The time has come to join our company.’

  ‘O, I am afear’d,’ cried Elizabeth. One of the Shadows stretched forth her hand and took Elizabeth’s. ‘You were afear’d,’ it said. And Hans, the Forester’s son, beheld the face of her who had been a peasant woman. It was more than ever like the face of some dreadful queen.

  ‘You ride with us to-night,’ said the Shadow which had last spoken. ‘ ’Tis the night for which we have waited a hundred years.’

  ‘Am I then to fight under Hilda’s banner?’ asked Elizabeth; for still she shuddered at that name.

  ‘You fight with Hilda, under the banner of a greater than she. Of One whom we do not name.’

  And as he heard those words Hans, the Forester’s son, trembled so violently that he was like to fall. ‘See now,’ said another of the Dark Maidens, ‘the signs in the Northern Sky.’ Hans turned himself round at the words. Behold! all the sky before his face was suffused with red, and one moment it seemed to him that out of the glow there upreared itself a spectral Shape, in plume and harness red, on a red steed. But along all the horizon—all that he could see—coursed black clouds trailing towards the earth. In two great semi-circles they seemed moving towards him. It was but during one second that he beheld this vision. ‘Who is that who has dared to place himself at the door?’ said a hollow voice behind him. He did not pause, nor turn to see the speaker: he rushed forward from where he stood, sliding and stumbling breathlessly in the darkness down the path he had mounted. He dared not so much as raise his eyes. Yet he seemed to be aware that the coursing clouds now swept close by him; and once from out of them came a strange sound—a horse’s neighing.

  No one in the village was in wait to hear Hansel’s report. Yet, though it was now deep in the night, not a soul was abed or in his house. They all stood huddled in the Place by the talking fountain, whispering fearfully and pointing trembling fingers towards the northeast—towards Blankenroth. ‘ ’Tis indeed thither it lies,’ said one, shivering as he spoke. ‘It is the army that is marching from Blankenroth.’ ‘But—but not an army of men,’ shivered another. ‘Would it were!’

  The wind had begun to howl. The red light darted up into the sky. Some heard a whinnying sound come through the air or along the ground. Yet there was nothing visible. Then for the first time a woman screamed with terror. Another and another followed her; till it was enough to make a bold man’s blood run cold. ‘O mercy!’ ‘O Mary Mother!’ ‘O Jesu, save and protect us!’ ‘Where is Gebhard, the priest!’ ‘Where is Walter, the forester!’ they cried. Then came one running, white with terror, to say that Gebhard, the good old man, had been found strangled in his bed.

  XVI

  ‘One who has been for the last time bold,’ answered another of the Dark Maidens. ‘And now, behold! the steeds are at the door.’ Then, giving her hand to Elizabeth, she led her from the cottage.

  Those that were black clouds in the sky, as they swept to earth before her door took, Elizabeth saw, shapes as nine riderless steeds. She and her eight companion Shadows mounted upon them, and one set a helmet on her head. And no sooner was this done than behold! all the horizon of Heaven seemed filled with like companies—dark maidens on dark horses. Before them went the screech-owl’s cry, no longer harsh to her ears but musical, like the music of a chant. And now the chant was sounding on all sides of her, they were singing the Night-riders’ song:—

  Nine nines of maidens

  Ride to the maiden’s moot

  On the burnt hill;

  And ONE before them goes.

  Black the steeds that bear them.

  Their horses shake themselves,

  And from their manes there fall

  Dews in the deep dales,

  Upon the high hills hail,

  But in the underworld sparks of flame.

  This is the Night-riders’ song, and Elizabeth sang it as she was borne away from Lehndorf.

  XVII

  Too late came the Abbot of Andersbach, with cross and candles, and all his choir chanting after him as he marched. For when the villagers had joined the march—for, though ’twas a terrible thing to enter Rettenberg Forest, it was more dreadful to separate oneself from the holy band—they proceeded through the deep wood toward the castle. Of a sudden the forest cleared, and in a much wider circle of open country than of old, behold! the hill which should have been the castle-hill came into view. Only now no castle was there. A bare hill, no more: save that on the summit grew Three Pines.

  [1]recked: noticed.

  [2]pyx: a box containing the consecrated bread of the Eucharist.

  III

  THE FOUR STUDENTS

  A bare attic room; on a wooden table one candle only in a wooden candlestick, and the candle was in snuff. Raynaud paused in his reading for the bad light, and Gavaudun snuffed the wick with his fingers. Then they all remained for a moment pensive, listening to the sounds of the night. For the wind had arisen again, and the leaded windows rattled; and from below came the monotonous low groan of the street lamp swaying to and fro upon its chain. The room, which the four students shared in common, contained little else save their four truckle beds,[1] beside each of which stood a pail for washing purposes. There were four chairs and th
e wooden table, round three sides of which they were sitting, close against the fire, for the night was bitterly cold. Blank darkness looked in upon them through the two lattice windows, which had neither shutter nor blind. The house had once been a hotel standing in its own grounds, but was now compressed into the Rue Pot-de-Fer, close to the corner where that street ran into the Rue des Postes. It lay in the quarter much frequented by Parisian students, just outside that densely packed district known in those days as l’Université. At the end of their street, beyond its junction with the Rue des Postes and at the end of the Rue des Postes itself, stood two of the thousand barriers which shut in Paris proper.

  It was in the winter of 1787. The world without, though these four recked little of it, was in a ferment, nominally because the King’s Minister, Loménie de Brienne, was at loggerheads with the Parliament of Paris; really because the times were big with much greater issues which no man then foresaw.

  The wind softened a little, the windows rattled less, and Raynaud took up his book again. It was a book which he had bought that day off a stall on the Petit Pont. Le Bossu du Petit Pont, as the keeper of the stall was called, was a familiar figure to most of the students of that quarter. On examination it proved to be the work De Invocatione Spirituum, by Johannes Moguntiensis, or John of Menz; a man whom Cornelius Agrippa speaks of several times in his Philosophia Occulta, and in his familiar letters, as having been in some sort his master. Raynaud read on, and the others,—Sommarel, Gavaudun, Tourret—listened rather languidly to the Latin of the magician, as he set forth the processes by which might be formed between two, three, or four persons (but best of all if they were four) a mystic chain so called, ‘each one with the others,’ and how the supernal powers were to be conjured to aid the work. The author was at once prolix and obscure; and none of the four, not even the reader, paid strict attention to his words.