The Greatest Occult & Supernatural Tales of Marjorie Bowen. Bowen Marjorie

and laid his slack body on the grass; as he did so he saw that the grey habit was stained with blood, there was wet blood, too, on the straps.

      “Now what is this?” he cried, and bent over the unconscious man to see where he was wounded.

      His searching hand came upon cold iron under the rough robe; Ambrose of Menthon wore a girdle lined with sharp points, that at every movement must have been torture, and that, at their brutal binding of him, had entered his flesh with an agony unbearable.

      “Make haste!” cried Dirk.

      Theirry straightened his back and looked down at the sweet face of Saint Ambrose; he wished that their victim had cried out or moaned, his silence being a hard thing to think of — and he must have been in a pain.

      “Be quick!” urged Dirk.

      Theirry joined him.

      “What shall we do with — that man?” he said awkwardly; his blood was burning, leaping.

      “’Tis a case for the angels, not for us,” answered Dirk. “But if ye feel tenderly (and certainly he was pleasant to us) we can tell, in the town, that we found him. ‘Deo gratias,’” he mocked the saintly, low calm voice, but Theirry did not laugh.

      A splendid yellow sunset was shimmering in their eyes as they came slowly down into the valley and passed through the white street of the little town.

      They visited the hostel, fed the white pony there and recounted how they had seen a monk in the wood they had just traversed, whether unconscious in prayer or for want of breath they had not the leisure to examine.

      Then they went on their way, eschewing, by common consent this time, the accommodation of the homely inn, and taking with them a basket of the best food the town afforded.

      Clearing the scattered cottages they gained the heights again and paused on the grassy borders of a mighty wood that spread either side the high road.

      There they spread a banquet very different from the saint’s poor repast; they had yellow wine, red wine, baked meats, cakes, jellies, a heron and a basket of grapes, all bought with the gold Ambrose of Menthon had toiled to collect to build God’s house amid the snows.

      Arranging these things on the soft grass they sat in the pleasant shade, luxuriously, and laughed at each other over their food.

      The heavens were perfectly clear, there was no cloud in all the great dome of sky, and, reflecting on the night before, and how they had stood shivering in the wet, they laughed the more.

      Then were they penniless, with neither hope nor prospect and in danger of pursuit. Now they were on the high road with more gold in their possession than they had ever seen before, with a horse to carry their burdens, and good food and delicate wine before them.

      Their master had proved worth serving. They toasted him in the wine bought with God His money and made merry over it; they did not mention Ambrose of Menthon.

      Dirk was supremely happy; everything about him was a keen delight, the fragrant perfume of the pine woods, the dark purple depths of them, the bright green grass, the sky changing into a richer colour as the sun faded, the mountain peaks tinged with pearly rose, the whole beautiful, silent prospect and his comrade looking at him with a smile on his fair face. A troop of white mountain goats driven by a shepherd boy went past, they were the only living things they saw.

      Dirk watched them going towards the town, then he said —

      “The chatelaine . . . Jacobea of Martzburg —” he broke off. “Do you remember, the first night we met, what we saw in the mirror? A woman, was it not? Her face — have you forgotten it?” “Nay,” answered Theirry, suddenly sombre.

      Dirk turned to look at him closely.

      “It was not Jacobea, was it?”

      “It was utterly different,” said Theirry. “No, she was not Jacobea.”

      He propped a musing face on his hand and stared down at the grass.

      Dirk did not speak again, and after a while of silence Theirry slept.

      With a start he woke, but lay without moving, his eyes closed; some one was singing, and it was so beautiful that he feared to move lest it should be in his dreams only that he heard it. A woman’s voice, and she sang loud and clearly, in a passion of joyous gaiety; her notes mounted like birds flying up a mountain, then sank like snowflakes softly descending.

      After a while the wordless song died away and Theirry sat up, quivering, in a maze of joy. “Who is that?” he called, his eager eyes searching the twilight.

      No one . . . nothing but the insignificant figure of Dirk, who sat at the edge of the wood gazing at the stars.

      “I dreamt it,” said Theirry bitterly, and cursed his waking.

      Chapter 11

      The Witch

       Table of Contents

      In a back street of the city of Frankfort stood an old one-storied house, placed a little apart from the others, and surrounded by a beautiful garden.

      Here lived Nathalie, a woman more than suspected of being a witch, but of such outward quiet and secretive ways that there never had been the slightest excuse for even those most convinced of her real character to interfere with her.

      She was from the East — Syria, Egypt or Persia; no one could remember her first coming to Frankfort, nor how she had become possessed of the house where she dwelt; her means of livelihood were also a mystery. It was guessed that she made complexion washes and dyes supplied secretly to the great court ladies; it was believed that she sold love potions, perhaps worse; it was known that in some way she made money, for though generally clothed in rags, she had been seen wearing very splendid garments and rich jewels.

      Also, it was rumoured by those living near that strange sounds of revelry had on occasion arisen from her high-walled garden, as if a great banquet were given, and dark-robed guests had been seen to enter her narrow door.

      That garden was empty now and a great stillness lay over the witch’s house; the hot midsummer sun glowed in the rose bushes that surrounded it; red roses all of them, and large and beautiful.

      The windows of the great room at the back of the house had their shutters closed so that only a few squares of light fell through the lattice-work, and the room was in shadow.

      It was a barely furnished chamber, with an open tiled hearth on which stood a number of bronze and copper bowls and drinking vessels. In the low window-seat were cushions of rich Eastern embroidery, hanging on the walls, hideous distorted masks made of wood and painted fantastically, some short curved swords, and a parchment calendar.

      Before this stood Dirk, marking with a red pencil a day in the row of dates.

      This done he stepped back, stared at the calendar and frowned, sucking the red pencil.

      He was attired in a grave suit of black, and wearing a sober cap that almost concealed his hair; he held himself very erect, and the firm set of his mouth emphasised the prominent jaw and chin.

      As he stood there, deep in thought, Theirry entered, nodded at him and crossed to the window; he also was dressed in dull straight garments, but they could not obscure the glowing brown beauty of his face.

      Dirk looked at him with eyes that sparkled affection.

      “I am making a name in Frankfort,” he said.

      “Ay,” answered Theirry, not returning his glance. “I have heard you spoken of by those who have attended your lectures — they said your doctrines touched infidelity.”

      “Nevertheless they come,” smiled Dirk. “I do not play for a safe reputation . . . otherwise should I be here? — living in a place of evil name?”

      “I