AL 1019, 8.35

Harvard College
Library

By Exchange








The Viking's Skull





-
-
-
-



CYRUS CASO


:-Viking's Skuil
Toy
j. R. Corlisse
-psy of "The 'stion will
on
,',"ction wir.
Bosio:
I ictie, Prown, and Company
1904





The Viking's Skull
By
John R. Carling
Author of "The Shadow of the Czar,” etc., etc.
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1904


461019.8.35
Harvard Cutiere Library
May 27, 1913
By Exchange
Copyright, 1903, 1904
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
All rights reserved
Published March, 1904
HUBLEY PRINTING CO. L'T'D
TYPESETTERS AND BLECTROTYPERS
YORK, PA., U. S. A.
PRESSWORK BY
THE UNIVERSITY Press, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.


Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER
PAGE
I
I. “THE ENGLISH LADY” .. .....
II. THE Runic Ring .... · · · · ·
III. A RETROSPECT . . . . . . . .
IV. TRAGEDY! . . . . . . . . . . . ..
THE STORY
I. THE RAVENGARS OF RAVENHALL . . . .
II. THE MYSTERY OF THE RELIQUARY . . . .
III. IDRIS REDIVIVUS . . . . . . . . . . 70
IV. THE SECRET OF THE Runic RING ..... 82
V. “THE SHADOW OF THE OFT-CARRIED
THRONE” . . . . . . . . . .
VI. “THE FIRES OF THE Asas!” . . . . . 106
VII. “WITHIN THE LOFTY TOMB" .... 119
VIII. LORELIE RIVIÈRE ........ 132
IX. IDRIS MEETS A RIVAL . . . . . .
X. A LITTLE PIECE OF STEEL .. .... 165
XI. THE LEGEND OF THE RUNIC RING ....
XII. IDRIS DECLARES His Love . . . . . . 197
XIII. AT LORELIE'S VILLA ........
.
150
178


Contents
CHAPTER
PAGE
XIV. TOLD BY THE VASE . . . . . . . . 232
XV. A PACKET OF OLD LETTERS .... 245
XVI. LORELIE AT RAVENHALL . . . . . . 264
XVII. THE SECRET OF THE FUNERAL CRYPT.. 277
XVIII. A CRANIOLOGICAL EXPERIMENT .... 300
XIX. THE VENGEANCE OF THE SKULL . . . . 318
XX. FINALE . . . . . . . . . . . . 344





The Viking's Skull
to and fro in front of his house, thoughtfully smoking a
pipe. After half an hour spent in this pleasant idling he
suddenly quickened his pace and entered his abode, pass-
ing to the parlour with its red-tiled sanded floor, where,
around the bright polished chaufferette sat Madame
Marais and three or four old dames, all busily knitting,
and all enjoying those pleasures dear to the heart of
every Breton woman, to wit, cider and gossip.
“ Celestine,” said Pol,“ the diligence is coming.”
“ Paul Marais,” replied his wife with tart dignity,“ don't
be a fool.”
And Pol, expecting no other answer, whistled softly
and withdrew.
To explain madame's reproof it is necessary to state
that two or three years previously a gentleman calling
himself a count had visited Quilaix, and, charmed with
the old-world air of the place, had dwelt in Pol's house for
the space of six months.
The handsome profit derived by Pol on this occasion
disposed him to look forward to the coming of other vis-
itors : but, alas ! Quilaix is too obscure to be mentioned
in the ordinary manuals issued for the guidance of tour-
ists. The count's sojourn was an exception to the nor-
mal course of events.
Nevertheless Pol would not abandon hope; and, day
by day, he awaited the arrival of the diligence, for the pur-
pose of inviting the chance stranger to his own dwelling,
before any other person should have the opportunity of
appropriating him.
“ Everything comes to the man who waits," muttered
Pol to himself, as he watched the distant vehicle swaying
its zigzag course down the hillside road. “ This dili-
gence is perhaps bringing me a visitor. Who can tell ?”
Twilight drew on; and, as the lamplighter was prepar-
ing the illumination of La Rue Grande by the primitive


“The English Lady"
method of fixing an oil-lantern to the middle of a rope
slung across the street, the diligence came up, but instead
of going on as usual to the auberge in the little market
square, the driver stopped short in front of Pol's house,
and there alighted a young lady accompanied by a little
boy, a child of two years.
“ Madame Marais lives here?" she asked with an in-
quiring glance at Pol.
“My wife's name," replied Pol. He pocketed his pipe,
doffed his cap, and bowed profoundly. “ Permit me to
lead you to her. - By the saints,” he muttered to himself,
“a boarder at last, or may I lose my harbour-mastership.
Now, Celestine, it is my turn to laugh at you."
The young lady, holding the child by the hand, fol-
lowed Pol to the parlour.
"God bless you all, great and small,” she said, using
the greeting customary in that part of Brittany.
“Heaven bless you, too, stranger, whoever you may
be,” replied all, as they rose and curtsied.
This intercourse was conducted in the Breton tongue,
the guttural voices of Madame Marais and her compan-
ions forming a marked contrast with the sweet voice of
the stranger.
“Can one have apartments here? The voiturier has
assured me that one can.”
Pol, about to reply with an eager affirmative, was
checked by a glance from his more cautious spouse, who
was not disposed to give herself away too easily or too
cheaply.
“ It is not our custom to accommodate visitors," she re-
plied, speaking with great dignity. “At least, not as a
rule. But still with a little trouble we might arrange.
How many rooms does madame require. Would four
be
“ That number will do. Will you let me see them?"


The Viking's Skull
After a brief inspection the lady expressed her ap-
proval, being especially pleased with the sitting-room, an
apartment marked by a charming air of antiquity. The
oak flooring and pannelling were black with age. Within
the huge fireplace an ox could have been roasted whole.
Over the carved mantel was a boar's head, a trophy
gained by Pol in a hunting expedition among the Breton
hills. On a dark oaken press an ivory crucifix, browned
by time, imparted a sort of solemnity to the place.
Terms were arranged; and the lady's luggage was
brought in and deposited up-stairs by the strong arm of
Pol himself.
“ How long is madame likely to remain here?” asked
the harbour-master's wife, lingering with her hand on the
handle of the sitting-room door.
“ Months. Years, perhaps,” replied the stranger with
a sad smile. " That is,” she went on, “ if you are willing
to let me stay so long."
“ And madame's name is - p".
“ Edith Breakspear.”
“ Breakspear? Then madame is not French ?" ex-
claimed the harbour-master's wife, wondering to what
nationality she should ascribe the name.
“ No, I am English,” said the lady, with a faint touch
of pride in her voice.
“ Madame speaks the Breton like an angel."
“ I have lived a long time in Brittany."
“Ah! madame loves Brittany,” said the other, who
like all Bretons was intensely patriotic. “The climate re-
minds her of her own land. We Bretons came from Eng-
land. Centuries ago. And when we came we brought
the weather with us. Is it not so ?”
And with these words she smiled herself out of the
room, and went down-stairs to discuss the event with her
cronies.


“The English Lady”
. “She is going to pay me four Napoleons a week.
Think of that now! It is more than the count ever gave.
Ah, ciel! but if I had been wearing my best Sunday cap
with its point lace and gold embroidery I could have
asked double. But how could one ask more with only a
plain white cap on, and a necklace of blue beads ?”
As may be guessed, the coming of a stranger into the
little world of Quilaix set the tongues of all the gossips
wagging. The men were as much interested as the
women, and various were the surmises of the nightly
frequenters of the Auberge des Pêcheurs as to her previous
history. But of this they could learn nothing. Mrs.
Breakspear let fall no word as to her past, and even
Madame Marais' keen eyes failed to penetrate the veil of
mystery that undoubtedly hung around “ The English
lady.”
Mrs. Breakspear had not seen more than twenty-one
summers; she was in truth so girlish in appearance that
the people of Quilaix could scarcely bring their lips to use
the matronly “ Madame," but more frequently addressed
her as “ Mademoiselle.” It was clear that some secret
sorrow was casting its shadow over her young life. Her
pale face and subdued air, the sad expression in her eyes,
were the visible tokens of a grief, too strong to be re-
pressed or forgotten.
As she was always dressed in black the gossips con-
cluded that she was in mourning, the general opinion
being that she had recently lost her husband, though a
few ill-natured persons sneered at the word “ husband," in
spite of her gold wedding-ring.
Mrs. Breakspear made no attempt to form friendships.
Firmly, yet without hauteur, she repelled all advances,
from whatever quarter they came. She seemed to desire
no other companionship than that of her child, Idris.
He was evidently the one being that reconciled her to life.


The Viking's Skull
Thus passed five years: and Mrs. Breakspear, though
still as great a mystery as ever to the people of Quilaix,
ceased to occupy the chief place in their gossip.
Idris was now seven years old, a handsome little fellow,
endowed with an intelligence beyond his years.
His education was undertaken solely by his mother,
concerning whom the opinion went, that, in the matter of
learning, she was equal, if not superior, to Monsieur le
Curé, the only other person in the place with any pre-
tensions to scholarship.
At the back of Quilaix rises the moorland, an extensive
wind-swept region, blossoming in early summer with the
beautiful broom that furnished our first Plantagenet with
his crest and surname. Over this brown, purple-dotted
expanse run two white lines intersecting each other in the
shape of the letter X. These lines indicate the only two
roads over the moor; and, just at the point of inter-
section, there stands an irregular block of grey stone
buildings.
The part of the moorland immediately above the town
was the usual place of study, that is, whenever the day
was warm and sunny. Then, mother and son would
climb to some high point, and seat themselves on the
grass; and while the boy, with the breeze of heaven lift-
ing the curls from his temples, would endeavour to fix
his eyes on his books, Mrs. Breakspear would fix hers
on the grey stone building. Nothing else on land or sea
seemed to have any interest for her. The distant and
beautiful hills would often change their colour from grey
to violet beneath the alternation of sunshine and cloud:
ships with their fair sails set would glide daily from the
haven of Quilaix; bands of Catholic pilgrims, bound for
some local shrine, would occasionally cross the moor-
land, carrying banners and singing hymns: sea-gulls
would wheel their screaming flight aloft : trout leap and


“The English Lady”
gleam in the brook at her feet. But Mrs. Breakspear had
eyes for none of these things. Her attention, when not
given to Idris and his book, was set upon the lone, dun
edifice.
On certain days human figures, dwarfed by the dis-
tance, would issue from the building, spreading themselves
in little groups over the landscape; and, after remaining
out some hours, would return upon the firing of a gun.
At such times Mrs. Breakspear would clasp her hands and
gaze wistfully on the distant moving figures.
One day her emotion was too great to escape the boy's
notice: and, following the direction of her eyes, he said,
speaking in English, the language used by them when
alone :-
“ Mother, what are those men doing?”
“ They are quarrying stone."
" What for?”
“ Well, to make churches with, for one thing," replied
the mother, with a curious smile.
“ What! churches like that?”.
And Idris pointed to the Chapelle des Pêcheurs, which
glowed in the setting sunlight like sculptured bronze.
“ Yes : they quarry the stone and shape it into blocks,
which are then sent to Nantes, or Paris, or wherever
wanted, and fitted together.”
Idris was silent for a few moments, turning the infor-
mation over in his mind.
“ They must be good men to make churches,” he
presently remarked.
“ On the contrary, they are bad men.”
Idris was puzzled at this, being evidently of opinion
that the character of the work sanctified the workers.
“ Then why do they cut stone for churches ? ”
“ Because they are made to do so by other men who
watch to see that the work is done.”


The Viking's Skull
clabour, returne bad — every his mother, here is one
Idris becoming more puzzled at this compulsory state
of labour, returned to the moral character of the workers.
“ Are they all bad — every one ?"
“ No; not all,” exclaimed his mother, with an energy
that quite surprised the little fellow. “ There is one there
who is the best, the truest, the noblest of men.”
Her eyes sparkled, and a beautiful colour burned on
her cheek. She sat with a proud air as if defying the
world to say the contrary.
“ Is he as good as father was ?".
“ About the same,” replied Mrs. Breakspear, her features
softening into a smile.
“Why, you have said that no one was ever so good as
father.”
.“ Have I? Well, this man is. There is no difference
between them."
“ If he is so good, why has he to work among all those
bad men ?"
"Some day, child, you shall know," replied his mother,
folding him within her arms. “ Don't ask any more
questions, Idie.”
"Why doesn't he run away ? " persisted the little
fellow.
" Because soldiers are there, who would shoot him down
if he tried to escape,” said Mrs. Breakspear with a shud-
der. “Come, let us be going. It is growing cold. See
how the mist is rising!”
The boom of a distant gun was rolling faintly over the
moorland. A fog creeping up from the sea curtained the
prison from view as they turned to descend the slope that
led to Quilaix.
It was market-day. Buying and selling had now come
to an end, but many persons still lingered in the square,
chiefly natives from remote districts. “Robinson Cru-
soes,” Idris called them, nor was the name inappropriate.


“The English Lady”
.
Clad in garments of goatskin with the hairy side turned
outwards, and with long tresses hanging like manes from
beneath their broad-brimmed hats, they might have been
taken for wild men of the woods : a wildness that was in
appearance only, for no one is more tender-hearted than
the Breton peasant.
Suddenly there was a movement among them, and it
could be seen that they were forming a circle around a
man who had just made his appearance. The maidens,
who were beating and washing clothes in the stream that
flowed along one side of the square, ceased their work
and came running up to the circle, their wooden sabots
sounding upon the stone pavement.
The cause of all this commotion was a man belonging
to a class, formerly more common in Brittany than now-
adays, the class called Kloers or itinerant minstrels, who
recite verses of their own composing upon any topic that
happens to be uppermost in the public mind, accompany-
ing their rude improvisation upon the three-stringed
rebec.
“ It is André the Kloer,” cried Idris gleefully, who had
caught a glimpse of the minstrel. “Let us listen. He
will tell us some fine stories.”
The Kloer having glanced towards the ground at his
hat, which contained several sous, said: -
“For your help, friends, many thanks. I will now re-
cite · The Ballad of the Ring,' a ballad dealing with a
murder that happened some years ago at Nantes.”
The minstrel spoke in the language of the province, a
language which Idris understood as well as any Breton
boy of his own age. The word “ murder” gave promise
of something exciting. He glanced up at his mother,
supposing that she, too, would be equally interested in
the coming story: but, to his surprise, he saw that her
face had become whiter than usual - that it wore a


The Viking's Skull
strange look, a look of fear, a look he had never before
seen. The hand that held his own was trembling, and,
in a voice so changed from its ordinary tone as to be
scarcely recognizable, she said :-
“ Home, Idie, let us go home.”
Suddenly the Kloer paused in the midst of his speak-
ing. A tender expression came over his face; a gentle
light shone from his eyes, and with hand solemnly up-
lifted, he said :-
“Christian brethren, ere we go further let us all say a
Pater and a De Profundis for the assassin as well as for
his victim.”
In a moment his hearers with spontaneous and genuine
piety were kneeling upon the pavement, their heads
bowed, their hats doffed, while the Kloer, after making
the sign of the cross, began to say the prayers.
As Idris and his mother alone remained standing the
attention of the minstrel was naturally drawn to them.
No sooner did his eyes fall upon Mrs. Breakspear than a
change came over him. His look of solemnity was suc-
ceeded by one of wonderment, and after stammering out
a few broken phrases, which, though intended as pious
petitions to Heaven, conveyed scarcely any meaning to
his hearers, he brought his prayer to an abrupt conclusion,
“Good folk," he cried, " I will not give you · The Bal-
lad of the Ring. It is too mournful. It would sadden
the hearts of some who are present.”
Mrs. Breakspear tightened her grasp on the wrist of
Idris, and, much to his grief, drew him away from the
presence of the Kloer, and hurried him onward to Pol's
house.


CHAPTER II
THE RUNIC RING
\HAT same evening Idris lay reading on the
hearth-rug before a bright fire. Since their re-
turn from the moorland he had found his mother
unusually quiet, and he had therefore turned for com-
panionship to his favourite book, “ The Life of King
Alfred." Having reared the volume against a footstool
he rested his elbows upon the floor, and his chin upon
his hands, and in this attitude was soon absorbed in the
doings of the Saxon hero.
Suddenly he looked up and addressed his mother, who
was sitting in an armchair watching him.
“ Mother, what are runes ? "
What was there in this simple question to startle Mrs.
Breakspear, for startled she certainly was ?
“Why do you wish to know? Who has been talking
to you about runes ?”
“This book says that the Vikings used to carve runes
on the prows of their galleys. What are runes ?"
The mother's face lost its look of alarm, yet it was
with some hesitancy that she replied, “ They were letters
used in olden times by the nations of the north.”
“ But how could letters carved on the prow protect
the vessel ? ”
What a pair of earnest dark eyes were those fixed that
moment upon the mother's face!
"Well, as a matter of fact, they couldn't. But men
fancied that they could. They were very superstitious in
those days."
II


The Viking's Skull
As Idris showed a desire for further knowledge, his
mother continued :-" The old Norsemen believed that
these letters when pronounced in a certain order would
have a magical effect. Some runes would stop the course
of the wind: others would cause an enemy's sword to
break. Some would make the captive's chains fall off:
and others again would cause the dead to come forth
from the tomb and speak. But you know, dear Idie, all
this is not true. The runic letters have no such power.
But the old Norse people believed so much in the virtue
of these characters that they engraved them on the walls
of their dwellings, on their armour, on their ships, on
anything, in fact, which they wished to protect.”
“Were these letters like ours in shape ? "
“ Very different. You would like to see some Norse
runes ?”
Mrs. Breakspear rose, and going to an oak press pro-
duced a small ebony casket, whose exterior was decorated
with miniature carvings of Norse warriors engaged in
combat.
Seating herself upon the hearth-rug beside the little
fellow she unlocked the casket and lifted the lid. Within,
upon the blue satin lining, there lay a silver ring, meas-
uring about eight inches in circumference, and obviously
of antique workmanship.
“This,” said Mrs. Breakspear, “ is a very old runic ring."
“How old ?"
“ More than two thousand years old. Tradition says
that it was made by Odin himself. Do you know who
he was, Idie ?”
“ The book calls him an imaginary deity. What does
that mean?"
“ It means a god who never lived.”
" Then how can the ring have been made by Odin if
there never was an Odin ?".
12


The Runic Ring
“ Odin, the god, is, of course, a fable; but Odin, the
man, may have had a real existence. He was, so the
wise tell us, a warrior, priest, and king of the North, who
after death was worshipped as a deity. The legend states
that, having made up his mind to die, Odin gave to him-
self nine wounds in the form of a circle, guiding the point
of his spear by this ring, which was laid on his breast for
that purpose. The ring thus became sacred in the eyes
of his children and descendants : and they showed their
reverence for it by using it as an altar-ring in their relig-
ious ceremonies. Guthrum, the famous Danish warrior,
was of Odin's race, and this is said to have been the iden-
tical holy ring, celebrated in history, upon which he and
his Vikings swore to quit the kingdom of Alfred.”
Idris listened with breathless interest. Guthrum !
Alfred! Odin! To think that his mother should pos-
sess a ring that had once belonged to these exalted char-
acters! It was wonderful! If the relic were gifted with
memory and speech what an interesting story it might
unfold!
He turned the ring over in his hands. How massive
it was! None of your modern, hollow bangles, but solid
and weighty. The ancient silversmith had not been
sparing of the metal.
“Oh, couldn't we make a lot of franc-pieces out of it!”
cried Idris.
The outer perimeter of the ring was enamelled with
purple, and decorated with a four-line inscription of tiny
runic letters in gold, so clear and distinct in outline, that
a runologist would have had no difficulty in reading
them; though whether the characters, when read, would
have yielded any meaning, is a different matter.
“Are these the runes?” asked Idris, pointing to them.
" What funny looking things! Here is one like an
arrow, and here it is again, and again. Why, some of
13


The Viking's Skull
them are like our letters. Here is one like a B, and here
is an R, and an X. What does all this writing mean,
mother ? "
“ No one has ever yet been able to interpret it. When
you are older, Idie, you shall study runes, and then per-
haps you will be able to explain the meaning.”
Idris knitted his little brows over the inscription as if
desirous of solving the enigma there and then, without
waiting till manhood's days.
“Did Odin engrave these letters ?” he asked.
“He may have done so. He is said to have been the
inventor of runes, you know."
As Idris turned the ring around in his hand his eye
became attracted by a broad, black stain on the inner
perimeter.
“ What is this dark mark ?”
His mother hesitated ere replying: -
“ It is perhaps a blood-stain.”
“Why isn't it red like blood ?".
“ A blood-stain soon turns black. I have said that
this was an altar-ring. Let me tell you what is meant by
that. You know if you go into La Chapelle des Pêcheurs
you will see upon the altar a — what, Idie ? ”.
“ A crucifix," was the prompt reply.
“Well, if you had gone into any temple of the North-
men -- and their temples were often nothing more than a
circle of tall stones in the depth of a forest — you would
have seen on their altar a large silver ring. And just as
Catholics nowadays kiss a crucifix and swear to speak the
truth, so in old Norse times men employed a ring for the
same purpose. Before they took the oath the ring was
dipped in the blood of the sacrifice. Then if a man
broke his word it was believed that the god to whom
the sacrifice had been offered would most surely punish
him."
14


The Runic Ring
The book that Idris had been reading contained an ac.
count of the Norse mode of sacrificing: and so with his
eye still on the dark stain, he said:-
“ Mother, didn't the old Norsemen sometimes offer up
inen on their altars ?”
“ Sometimes they did.”
“ Then this stain may be a man's blood ? "
“ It is very likely.”
“ Perhaps the very blood of Odin, made when he gave
himself the nine wounds," said Idris, in a tone of glee,
and fascinated by the ring, as children often are fasci-
nated by things gruesome. “What a long time the stain
has lasted! But it can't be Odin's blood,” he continued,
with an air of mournfulness : “ the stain would have
worn off long ago. — I would like to know whose blood
it is !”
"Hush! Hush! We do not yet know that it is
human blood. Come, you must not talk any more
about such dreadful things."
And sensible that the conversation had taken a turn
not at all suited to a tender mind, Mrs. Breakspear tried
to divert his thoughts. Putting away the altar-ring, she
seated herself beside him, and drawing him partly within
her embrace, she said, “ Now what shall I talk about ? "
- which was her usual preface when beginning his in-
struction in history, geography, and the like.
“ Tell me about Vikings — all about them,” he replied
with the air of one capable of taking in the whole cycle
of Scandinavian lore.
As Mrs. Breakspear had made a study of Northern
history, she was able to gratify her little son's request by
regaling him with a variety of tales drawn from Icelandic
sagas and early Saxon chronicles. For more than two
hours Idris sat entranced, listening to the doings, good
and bad, of the famous sea-kings of old.
15


The Viking's Skull
“ I wish,” he cried, when his mother had finished her
stories for the night, “ I wish I were a Viking, like Mr.
Rollo and Mr. Eric the Red. It would be fine.”
For several days Idris would listen to no history that
did not relate to Vikings. He took likewise to drawing
Norse galleys from his mother's description of them,
giving to every vessel the orthodox raven-standard,
dragon-prow, and a row of shields hung all around above
the water-line. And he somewhat startled the good
Curé of Quilaix, who had made a morning-call upon
Mrs. Breakspear: for when told to hand the reverend
gentleman a glass of wine, he held the drink aloft with
the cry of “ Skoal to the Northland, skoal !” adding im-
mediately afterwards, “ Runes ! runes! I wish some one
would teach me how to read runes. Won't you, mon-
sieur ?"
Runes! Monsieur le Curé had had a reputation for
scholarship once upon a time: but thirty years inces-
santly spent in doing good among the people of his
parish had left him so little time for study that he could
now read his Greek Testament only by the aid of the
French translation.
" And why do you wish to learn runes, my little
man ?” he said, patting the boy on the head.
“ Because — because — " began Idris ; but, observ-
ing that his mother was pressing her finger upon her lip
as a sign for him to be silent, he stopped short, and Mrs.
Breakspear adroitly turned the conversation to other mat-
ters. After the departure of the Curé, she said :-
“ Idie, you must never let any one know that we have
that runic ring in our possession.”
“Why not?” he asked in surprise.
“Because there are men who desire to lay their hands
upon it, and if they learn that it is in this house they
may try to steal it; nay, will perhaps kill us in order to
16


The Runic Ring
obtain it. The ring has been the cause of one murder,
and if you speak of it out of doors it may be the cause
of another. Remember, then, you must not mention the
ring to any one. Remember, remember!”.


CHAPTER III
A RETROSPECT
DRIS slept in a room the window of which, being a
dormer one, overlooked the roofs of the other
houses, and gave him an interrupted view of the
sea.
One morning, as soon as he had drawn the curtain,
he came running to his mother's room with the news :-
“Oh, mother, come and look. There's a pretty little
ship in the bay.”
So, to please him, Mrs. Breakspear stepped from her
lit clos, or cupboard bed, and stole, even as she was, in
her night-robe, to take a view of the vessel.
“See, there it is,” cried Idris, excitedly pointing it out.
“ Is it a Viking ship, mother ?”
“ There are no Vikings nowadays,” was the reply, a
reply which Idris took as a proof of the degeneracy of
the times. “ It is a yacht.”
As this term conveyed no more enlightenment to Idris'
mind than if she had said that it was a quinquereme, he
naturally asked, “ What is a yacht ?”
The explanation was deferred till breakfast-time, when
his mother entered into the meaning of the term. Idris
made a somewhat hasty meal, being eager to run off to
the quay for the purpose of taking a nearer view of the
newly-arrived vessel.
Dancing down the stairs of the old house into the
street he made for the end of the stone pier, and sitting
down at the head of the steps he took a long survey
of the yacht, wondering whether it equalled in point


A Retrospect
of swiftness and beauty the famous Long Serpent of Olaf,
built by that master-shipwright, Thorberg.
A boat was rapidly making its way from the vessel to
the harbour. Idris recognized it as the revenue-cutter,
at the tiller of which sat Old Pol himself.
“ Ha! Master Idris,” he said, as soon as he had
mounted the stairs, “what a pity you were not out an
hour earlier! You could then have gone with us to yon
vessel.” And then, turning to those who had accom-
panied him, he remarked: “So Captain Rochefort is the
owner of that yacht. Well, everybody has heard of
him: one of the bravest in the Emperor's service, and
an officer of the Legion of Honour. Nothing wrong
with that craft, eh, Baptiste ?”
“Humph!” growled the man addressed, a grizzled old
coastguard with a saturnine cast of countenance. “So
they have put Captain Rochefort ashore at Port St.
Remé, and he is coming on foot to Quilaix. But if the
Captain wants to visit Quilaix, why does he not come
with the yacht, instead of walking over the moorland ?”
“ Why, Baptiste, you talk like one who is suspicious,"
remarked Pol in surprise.
" And I am suspicious. There's something wrong in
the wind. Harbour-master, listen to me. As every-
body in Quilaix is going to the Pardon to-day the town
will be deserted until a late hour. The night will be
dark, as this is the time of no moon. Captain Rochefort
has been put ashore in order to signal the favourable
moment. They are going to run a cargo."
This statement was received by Pol with a burst of
laughter.
“ Baptiste, you talk like a fool. What cargo can such
a small craft carry? Besides, they have no cargo. Did
we not overhaul her thoroughly ? Captain Rochefort a
contrabandist! A military officer hazard his reputation
19


The Viking's Skull
:
in a smuggling venture! Impossible! He would have
everything to lose and nothing to gain by such a
course."
Baptiste, by a shake of his head, implied that he was
not to be moved from his opinion.
“ Very well, Baptiste, since you are so suspicious, we
had better put you on the watch for the next twenty-
four hours.”
“I intend to watch, whether put on or not. And by
the key of Saint Tugean I shall have discovered some-
thing before to-morrow morning comes.”
“ Undoubtedly. You will discover that you would
have acted more wisely by going with us to the Pardon
to-day. That's the ticket for me. Life is sad: then let us
not miss any of its gaieties. And in all Finistére there
are no pancakes and cider like those of St. Remé."
The rest of the coastguard, murmuring their approval
of these sentiments, dispersed in order to prepare for the
Pardon, or church-festival, to be held that day in a dis-
tant village; of which festival the harbour-master's wife
had, on the previous evening, drawn so pleasant a fore-
cast in the hearing of Idris, that the little fellow had felt
great disappointment on learning that his mother in-
tended to take no part in the celebration.
Madame Marais had been somewhat troubled by the
question as to how her tenant's meals were to be pre-
pared during her absence, but Mrs. Breakspear had
solved this difficulty by offering to arrange for herself.
Meantime Idris, still at the head of the pier-steps, con-
tinued his survey of the vessel.
A piece of canvas hanging over the taffrail was
suddenly drawn up by a sailor on board, an act that en-
abled Idris to see the name of the yacht painted in big
black letters.
N-E-M-E-S-I-S.
20


A Retrospect
Nemesis! This was a word new to him. He had
known sailors call their boats Marie, Isabelle, Jeanne,
and the like, with various epithets prefixed, as jolie, belle,
and petite, but never Nemesis. He could not tell
whether it was the name of man or woman: so, on re-
turning home, he sought enlightenment of his mother.
" It's a curious name to give to a ship,” commented
the little fellow thoughtfully, after Mrs. Breakspear had
tried to explain the meaning of the term. “ Why do
they call it that? Are they going to take vengeance on
somebody?”
Shortly afterwards Madame Marais came out of her
house, wearing the wonderful lace cap that had de-
scended to her through several generations. Leaning
upon the arm of Old Pol, who was likewise gorgeously
arrayed, she moved off in great state to take her place
in the line of the procession which, under the direction
of Monsieur le Curé, was slowly forming before the
porch of La Chapelle des Pécheurs.
When all preliminaries had been satisfactorily com-
pleted, the simple-hearted peasants, with flags flying and
pipes playing, set off on their pilgrimage, walking at a
somewhat leisurely pace, for your true Breton is seldom
in a hurry.
Idris, regretting that he could not accompany them,
clambered to an eminence on the moorland, where, aided
by his mother's opera-glasses, he watched the course of
the procession till it faded from view.
Nearly everybody in Quilaix had gone off to this
Pardon. All the shops were closed, and the town was
as silent as on a Sunday morning during the time of
high mass. A few of the fishermen and of the coast-
guard had indeed remained behind, but these were
slumbering in the shadow of the sardine-boats drawn
high up on the beach. From these slumberers must be
21


The Viking's Skull
excepted old Baptiste Malet, who throughout the day
glided to and fro along the shore, now and then dropping
behind a rock to take a scrutiny of the yacht by the aid
of a telescope nearly as long as himself.
The Nemesis still remained at the point where the
anchor had first been cast. She was certainly a mysteri-
ous vessel; none of her occupants had come ashore:
none could be seen on deck. It was quite clear that for
some reason or other the crew shrank from the observa-
tion of those on land.
A gala-day it may have been for others, but for Idris
it proved a somewhat dull time. His mother seemed too
much preoccupied to set him his regular lessons: or per-
haps she did not deem it fair to put him to study while
others were festively engaged. She sat during the greater
part of the day turning over the leaves of a large scrap-
book filled with newspaper cuttings — a book which Idris
was never permitted to see, Mrs. Breakspear being accus-
tomed, as soon as her readings were ended, to lock the
volume within a drawer of the old oak press. She had
read these extracts so often as to be able to recite the
greater part of them by heart: nevertheless, she con-
tinued to con them daily, as if they were quite new to
her, though their perusal must have given her pain.
The first of these newspaper extracts was a long article
from the journal L'Éioile de la Bretagne, worded as
follows:-
“Let us review the facts of this remarkable case.
“Eric Marville is a gentleman of English birth who
settled at Nantes in the spring of 1866. Of handsome
person and polished manners, speaking our language with
the ease of a native, and recently married to a rich and
beautiful wife, M. Marville soon became a favourite in
the higher circles of Nantes society. The Armorique
22


A Retrospect
Club, the most fashionable of its kind, admitted him to
membership. It would have been well had M. Marville
never entered the salons of this establishment, since it
was here that he first met Henri Duchesne. The latter
by all accounts was a professional gamester, though up
to the present time nothing dishonourable has been
proved in connection with his play.
" From the very first these two men, Eric Marville and
Henri Duchesne, for some unknown reason, appear to
have been in a state of secret hostility to each other,
hostility which finally developed into open rupture. A
remark uttered by Marville one evening, and doubtless
uttered with no ill intent, on the wonderful luck attend-
ing M. Duchesne at cards, was interpreted by the latter
as a reflection upon his mode of playing, and he imme-
diately challenged the other to a duel. M. Marville
merely shrugged his shoulders with the words :— It is
not the fashion of my countrymen, monsieur, to fight a
duel over trifles.' •Do you call the honour of my name
a trifle ?' exclaimed Duchesne, at the same time con-
temptuously flinging a glass of wine in Marville's face.
“In a moment the club was in an uproar, the friends
of each striving to keep the two men apart, an object
successfully accomplished. All efforts, however, to effect
a reconciliation failed, and the two men left the club
avowedly enemies.
"The next evening M. Marville was again present at
the Amorique Club, but, confining himself to the news-
papers and political gossip, took no part in the play that
went on. M. Duchesne was likewise present, and entered
the lists against M. Montagne, a young lieutenant of
Chasseurs. The usual good fortune attended Duchesne,
and his opponent having lost all the money upon his
person, said :- I have one more stake, if M. Duchesne
does not object to play against it.' And with these
23


The Viking's Skull
words Montagne drew forth a large silver circlet having
every appearance, according to an antiquary who was
present, of being an altar-ring, such as was used in the
religious rites of ancient Scandinavia.
“ M. Marville, happening to set eyes upon this circlet,
became singularly agitated; and, stepping up to the
table where the two men were at play, he said, address-
ing Montagne: How came you by that ring?' M.
Montagne, absorbed in the play, or perhaps deeming the
question an impertinent one, made no reply. The play
resulted in the transference of the ring to the pockets of
M. Duchesne, who shortly afterwards took his departure.
Five minutes later M. Marville likewise quitted the club,
and, on being asked by a friend why he left earlier than
usual, replied: - To recover my ring.'
“ Two hours afterwards, a sergent-de-ville, going his
accustomed round, heard cries for help coming from the
Place Graslin, and on running to the spot found M.
Duchesne lying on the pavement with blood flowing
from a wound in the breast. M. Marville was kneeling
beside him and calling for help.
“ The injured man was at once removed to the adjacent
surgery of M. Rosaire, who, upon examination, found
that life had fled.
“The body was conveyed to the Préfecture, accom-
panied by M. Marville, who gave evidence as to the find-
ing of it. His statement amounted to no more than that
in walking homewards he had come by accident upon the
body of the fallen man.
“ The high position held by M. Marville, and his
plausible explanation of the situation in which he had
been found by the sergent-de-ville, prevented the authori-
ties from attaching suspicion to him, and on giving his
recognizances to appear when required, M. Marville was
allowed to depart.
24


A Retrospect
“ But the investigations carried on next day gave a
different turn to the affair. The quarrel at the Armorique
Club and the threatening language of the two men were
recalled. Marville's remark on leaving the club in the
wake of M. Duchesne to the effect that he was going to
recover the ring seemed to supply an additional motive
for the deed, especially when taken in conjunction with
the fact that though M. Duchesne's money and jewellery
were untouched the ring itself was missing.
“ But the most significant circumstance of all was the
finding of the dagger with which the murder had been
effected. Shown to M. Lenoir, the well-known dealer in
antiquities, whose establishment is in the Rue Crébillon,
he identified it as one that had been purchased from him
by M. Marville on the morning of the day on which the
crime took place. The weapon is an Italian stiletto, one
warranted to have belonged originally to the famous
bravo, Michele Pezza, better known to frequenters of the
opera as Fra Diavolo. M. Lenoir mentioned this cir-
cumstance as he handed the weapon to the purchaser,
adding:-. It is a dagger that has shed the blood of
Frenchmen.'—' And may do so again,' was the singular
reply of M. Marville.
“ These circumstances seem to justify the arrest of M.
Marville, who now stands charged with the murder of M.
Duchesne.
“A peculiar feature of the case is the vanishing of the
altar-ring. The prisoner declines to make any statement
respecting it, and though his house has been searched no
trace of it can be discovered.”
Mrs. Breakspear put away the book with a heavy sigh.
“Ah, Eric!” she murmured. “Will your innocence
ever be established ?”.
25


CHAPTER IV
TRAGEDY!
MES
RS. BREAKSPEAR sat by the open case-
ment enjoying the deep beauty of the even-
ling. The air was still and clear, and over the
bay hung one star sparkling in a sapphire sky.
Idris, seated with her, had eyes for nothing but the
yacht Nemesis, which still lay out in the offing, rising and
falling with the motion of the tide, and showing a tiny
light at the stern.
“Look, mother !” he cried suddenly. “They are put-
ting out a boat.”
By the faint starlight they could see in the boat seven
men, one of whom steered while the rest rowed. Their
garb was that of ordinary French seamen, but Mrs.
Breakspear noticed with surprise that each was armed
with cutlass and pistol.
“Why are they not coming to the harbour ?" asked
Idris, a question which found an echo in his mother's
mind.
The boat glided smoothly on, and finally vanished be-
hind the cliffs to the east of the town.
"I wonder whether old Baptiste is watching them ? "
said Idris. “He said that the men in the yacht were
smugglers, and that they would come ashore this even-
ing. And sure enough they've come.”
“ If the men in that boat are smugglers, don't you
think, Idie, that they would wait till it is much darker ?”
Idris was forced to admit the reasonableness of this re-
mark.
26


Tragedy!
" Why are they all wearing swords ? Perhaps they are
Vikings, after all ?” he went on, loth to believe that such
heroes had vanished from the earth.
His mother shook her head in mild protest, not know-
ing that there was a good deal of latter-day Vikingism
in the enterprise that was taking these seven men
ashore.
Now as Mrs. Breakspear sat in the silence and solem-
nity of the deepening twilight she became subject to a
feeling the like of which she had never before exper-
ienced. A vague awe, a presentiment of coming ill,
stole over her; and, yielding to its influence, she resolved,
before it should be too late, to carry out a purpose she
had long had in mind.
“Idie,” she said, closing the casement and moving to
the fireplace, “ come and sit here. I have something to
tell you."
Wondering much at her grave manner the little fellow
obeyed.
“ Idie,” she began, “ you have been taught to believe
that your father died when you were an infant. I have
told you this, thinking it right that you should know
nothing of his sad history. But, sooner or later, you are
sure to hear it from others : told, too, in a way that I
would not have you believe. Therefore it is better that
you should hear the story from me: and remember to
take these words of mine for your guidance in all future
years: and if men should speak ill of your father, do not
believe them: for who should know him better than I,
his wife?"
She paused for a moment: and Idris, new to this sort
of language, made no reply.
“ Idie, your father is not dead.”
Idris' eyes became big with wonder.
“ Then why doesn't he live with us ?” he asked.


The Viking's Skull
“ Because,” replied his mother, sinking her voice to a
whisper, “ because he is in prison.”
As prison is a place usually associated with crime, Idris
naturally received a shock, which his mother was not slow
to perceive.
“ Idie, you know something of history, and therefore
you know that many a good man has found himself in
prison before to-day.”
“O yes: there was Sir Walter Raleigh, and that Earl
of Surrey who was a poet: and — and— I can't think of
any more at present, but I can find them in the book.”
- “Well, your father, like many others in history, is
suffering unjustly."
“ What do they say he did ?".
“They say,” replied his mother, once more sinking her
voice to a whisper, " they say he committed murder.
But he did not: he did not: he did not. I have his word
that he is innocent. I will set his word against all the
rest of the world.”
“ How long is he to remain in prison ?"
“ He is never to come out,” replied Mrs. Breakspear;
and, unable to control her emotion, she burst into a fit of
sobbing.
Idris, touched by the sight of his mother's grief, began
to cry also. Now for the first time he understood why
his mother so often wept in secret. How could men be
so cruel as to take his father away from her and to shut
him up in prison for a crime he had not committed ?
“Why didn't they put him under the guillotine ?” he
asked, when his fit of crying was over.
A natural question, but one that caused his mother to
shiver.
"Do not use that awful word,” she said. “He was
condemned to death, but the sentence was afterwards
changed."
28


Tragedy!
Certain past events were now seen by Idris in a new
sight.
“ Mother, I know in what prison father is. It is the
one on the moorland over there,” he exclaimed, indicat-
ing the direction with his hand.
“You are right, Idie: and now you know why I live
at Quilaix. It is that I may be near your father. I am
happier here - if indeed I may use the word happy in
speaking of myself — than in any other place. I have a
beautiful house at Nantes, but I cannot live there in ease
and luxury while your father is deprived of everything
that makes life bright. Now listen, Idie, for I am going
to require of you a solemn promise. Since your father
did not commit the murder it is certain that some one
else did. I want you to find that man.”
“ I, mother?”
“Of course I do not mean now. In after years. When
you are a man.”
“ But supposing the murderer should be dead?”.
“ You must find him, living or dead: if living, you
must bring him to justice: if dead, you must show to the
world that your father was guiltless of the deed. He
himself, confined as he is within prison walls, can do noth-
ing to establish his innocence: and as for me, I have the
feeling that I shall not live long. Grief is shortening my
days. To you, then, I leave this task: to it you must
devote your whole life. You will be spared the necessity
of having to earn your living, since you are well pro-
vided for. But though health, strength, and fortune be
yours, you will find these advantages embittered by the
constant thought, · Men think me the son of a mur-
derer!' Will you let the world do you this injustice ?
Will you not try to clear your father's memory? Will
you not ever bear in mind your mother's dearest wish ?”
Moved by her earnestness Idris gave the required
29


The Viking's Skull
promise, consoling himself over the present difficulty of
the problem by the thought that it would perhaps seem
easier in the days to come.
“You have not forgotten the story we read the other
day,” continued his mother, “ of the great Hannibal ;
how, when he was a boy his father, leading him to the
altar, made him swear to be the lifelong enemy of
Rome? You, too, must make a similar oath. Bring me
the Bible.”
Idris brought it, and at his mother's command laid his
hand upon a page of the open Book, and repeated after
her the following words :-
“I swear on reaching manhood to do my best to es-
tablish my father's innocence. May God help me to
keep this oath !”
“ Say it again, Idie.”
Idris accordingly repeated the vow, feeling somewhat
proud in thus imitating the Carthaginian hero.
His mother brushed back the curls from his forehead
and looked earnestly into his eyes.
“ Little Idris ! little Idris !” she murmured. “Am I
acting foolishly? I am forgetting that you are only
seven years of age — scarcely old enough to understand
the meaning of what you have just uttered. No matter :
when you are older, if you are a true son, as I feel sure
you will be, you will not require the memory of this
oath to teach you your duty. And now I will tell you
the story of the murder, and why your father came to be
suspected of — Ha! what is that?" she gasped,
breaking off abruptly. “Listen! O, Idie, who is it?"
They had believed themselves to be alone in the house.
Mrs. Breakspear, before retiring to this sitting-room, had
made fast the outer doors as well as the lower windows.
In such circumstances, therefore, it was alarming to hear
footsteps ascending the staircase — footsteps which Mrs.
30


Tragedy!
Breakspear instinctively felt to be those of a man, and
not of a woman; footsteps, not of Old Pol, but of a
stranger! How had he gained access to the house, and
what was his object ?
The unknown visitor had mounted to the head of the
staircase and was now advancing along the passage lead-
ing to the room in which Mrs. Breakspear sat. Unable
to speak from surprise and fear mother and son gazed at
the door with dilated eyes as if expecting to see some
awful vision.
The door was pushed open, and Mrs. Breakspear
could scarcely suppress a scream at sight of the man
who entered, for his face was hidden behind a black silk
vizard, such as might be worn at a bal masqué, and
through the holes of the vizard two eyes could be seen
sparkling, so it seemed to Mrs. Breakspear, with a sinister
expression. A low-crowned soft hat covered his head;
and a cloak, reaching to his heels, completely concealed
his person.
He came forward a few paces, glancing round the
room as he did so, and seeming to derive satisfaction
from the fact that it contained no persons more formida-
ble than a woman and a child.
“ You are alarmed, madame, but without reason," he
began. “It is not my purpose to do you hurt —” he
paused for a moment, and then added, “ unless your
obstinacy should call for it.”
The man's voice was altogether strange to Mrs. Break-
spear. He spoke in French, but with an accent that
somehow impressed her with the belief that he was an
Englishman: one, too, accustomed to move in good
society.
“ The first fact I would impress upon your mind is
this,” continued the stranger, “ that you are alone, un-
protected, in my power absolutely. If you raise your
31


The Viking's Skull
voice there is no one either in the house or in the street
to hear you. The town is practically deserted. All are
gone to the Pardon, a fact I have taken into my calcula-
tions. If you will reflect upon this, it may facilitate my
errand.”
These words, and the tone in which they were spoken,
did not tend to allay Mrs. Breakspear's fears. With
difficulty she gathered voice to speak.
“Who are you?”
A smile appeared beneath the fringe of the silken
vizard.
“ This mask is sufficient proof that I wish to conceal
my identity.”
“What do you want?"
“A more sensible question than your first, since it
brings us to the point at once. I require, nay, I demand
of you, the Norse altar-ring now in your keeping."
“What reason have you for supposing that it is here?”
said Mrs. Breakspear, growing bolder.
“Do not equivocate." The eyes in the mask flashed
like polished steel. " I know it to be in your possession.
Do you deny it ?” Mrs. Breakspear was silent. “You
do not deny it? Good! The ring being here, I de-
mand it.”
“Why do you want it?".
“I decline to be catechised. Give me the ring."
“ You are evidently a gentleman by education, if not
by birth.” The stranger gave a start at this. “And yet
you seek to act the part of a common thief, a part you
would not dare act,” she cried with spirit, “ were I a man,
and not a defenceless woman.”
The man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“I did not come to listen to moral vapourings, but to
receive the ring."
“ And what if I refuse to comply with your demand?"
not equivear, growing boldosing that it is
32








Tragedy!
“ You are alone, let me repeat, and absolutely at my
mercy.”
A dagger flashed from beneath his cloak. With a cry
Mrs. Breakspear clasped Idris in her arms to shield him
from a possible attack. Yet even amid her fear it did
not escape her notice that the hand which held the weapon
was small, white, and decorated with a diamond ring.
" Listen to the voice of prudence,” continued the
stranger. “It is within my power to despatch you both,
and to search these apartments for the ring which you
admit is somewhere here. I am quite prepared to go to
that extreme rather than return without it. You will,
therefore, see the wisdom of surrendering the ring: you
thus save your life and that of your child: I save time
and trouble—an arrangement mutually advantageous.”
Something in his tone convinced Mrs. Breakspear that
he was quite capable of carrying out his threat.
“ You will find the ring in an ebony case in the top
drawer of that cabinet. Take it: and if it should bring
upon you the curse which it has brought upon me and
mine, you will live to rue this day.”
The man smiled, put up his weapon, walked towards
the oak press, and in a moment more the casket was in
his hands.
“Yes, this is it,” he murmured in a tone of satisfaction,
as he drew the ring from the case, and scrutinized the
runic inscription.
“ May one ask,” he continued, concealing the relic
upon his person, “ how you came to deny all knowledge
of it at the trial of your husband ?”.
“I spoke truly,” she answered, “ being unaware at the
time that my husband had secretly entrusted it to the
care of his friend, Captain Rochefort."
“ After stealing it from the body of his victim,” added
the stranger.


The Viking's Skull
“ His victim? There you err,” cried Mrs. Breakspear
with flashing eyes, loathing to answer the stranger, yet
eager to vindicate her husband. “When my husband
left the Armorique Club on that fatal evening he overtook
M. Duchesne on his way home, and upon the latter's ex-
pressing regret for his violence of the preceding night a
reconciliation took place. As a pledge of amity M.
Duchesne, remembering the interest my husband had
shown in the ring, made him a present of it: in return my
husband insisted that Duchesne should accept the antique
poniard purchased by him that morning. Thus they
parted: the one with the ring, the other with the dagger.
The assassin, whoever he was, that attacked Duchesne,
must, during the struggle, have become possessed of the
dagger, and with it he inflicted the fatal wound. Next
morning, my husband, foreseeing that he might be ac-
cused of the murder, and aware that his possession of the
ring would seem a suspicious circumstance, handed it to
Captain Rochefort, enjoining him, very unwisely as I now
perceive, to keep silent on the matter."
“And so," commented the stranger, “Captain Roche-
fort conspired to defeat the ends of justice.”
“ The word justice comes with an ill grace from the lips
of a coward and a thief,” retorted Mrs. Breakspear, her
spirit rising, as it always rose, whenever her husband's
innocence was put to the doubt. “Say, rather, that in
concealing the ring Captain Rochefort was seeking to
prevent the Law from drawing an erroneous conclusion.”
“He failed, however,” sneered the stranger, “ for the
Law pronounced your husband guilty – greatly to my
interests. A pity they didn't guillotine him! Still, he
is in prison: there let him rot! and - Ah!” he
muttered in a hoarse voice, breaking off abruptly. “In
the name of hell, what's that?”
He could not have been a very brave man, Idris
34


Tragedy!
thought, for he seemed unable to keep his hand which
rested on the table from shaking.
All three were silent, listening for a renewal of the
sound. It soon came - a dull boom slowly rolling
through the air like distant thunder.
With the air of one mad the stranger dashed to the
window, and Alinging wide the casement looked out into
the night, a night of glory and beauty, such as is seldom
seen in misty Brittany. The air from horizon to zenith
was alive with countless stars that seemed to float like
silver dust in the blue depth. Their faint light falling
over a wide expanse of rippling sea, and on a long arc of
yellow sand terminated at each end by dark cliffs, formed
a picture that would have charmed the eye of an artist.
Idris, his curiosity getting the better of his fear, slipped
from his mother's embrace, and, stealing to a second case-
ment, looked through its latticed panes.
On the water was the boat he had noticed earlier in the
evening, the boat that had been put out from the yacht.
If its occupants had gone ashore for the purpose of
taking some one aboard they had failed in their object,
since the boat contained the same seven sailors. They
were evidently in a state of perplexity: for, without any
apparent motive, they were rowing backwards and for-
wards in a line parallel with the shore, the steersman now
and then standing up and sweeping the coast with a night-
glass.
Turning his eyes upon the yacht Idris saw jets of black
smoke issuing from the funnel. The engineer was evi-
dently getting up steam.
Here, thought Idris, was the explanation of the boom-
ing sound. The yacht was about to weigh anchor, and
had fired a gun as a signal of departure.
The masked man, however, did not seem to think that
the sound came from the yacht. With his body half out
35


The Viking's Skull
of the window he was staring at the plateau of brown
moorland with its faint silvery crown — staring as if be-
hind that white mist some exciting event were happening
that he would fain witness.
Once more came the dull, rolling reverberation, and at
that sound the man reeled from the window as if buffeted
by a giant hand.
“Damnation ! he has escaped," he hissed between his
set teeth. “Is this their vigilance, after being warned of
the plot? But my enemy shall not escape. I'll join in
the chase myself. That gun invites pursuit. It is law-
ful,” and here a sinister smile appeared beneath the fringe
of his mask, “it is lawful to shoot a fugitive convict."
With that he darted from the room and dashed down
the staircase: the slamming of a door followed, and the
next moment his tread could be heard going up the street
in the direction of the moorland prison.
The indignation felt by Mrs. Breakspear at the theft
of the ring became lost in a new emotion. A convict
had escaped, and the stranger's words seemed almost to
imply that the fugitive was — her husband! She strove
to banish this idea as a wild fancy, as a too daring hope
on her part, but it would persist in forcing itself upon her.
With her hand pressed to her side she sat, powerless to
speak, trembling at the thought that at that very moment
Eric Marville might be fleeing over the misty moorland
with armed warders in close pursuit eager to bring him
down with a carbine shot.
“ Hark! there goes another gun," cried Idris. “Who
is it that is firing, and why are they doing it?"
Something else besides the gun was now heard. Along
the lonely and usually silent road that led down from the
moorland to Quilaix came a sound, which, at first faint
and undistinguishable in character, became gradually
more distinct, and finally developed into the thud-thud
36


Tragedy !
of horse-hoofs, accompanied by the noise of wheels rat-
tling madly forward as if speed were a matter of life and
death to the driver of the vehicle.
Louder and ever louder grew the sound of the gallop-
ing horse-hoofs; they descended the moorland: they
reached the outskirts of the town: they came plunging
up the Rue Grande, and at last the wild race was brought
to a sudden standstill in front of the harbour-master's
door.
Idris, looking from the window, saw in the street be-
low a light gig, and in it a man of soldierly aspect, who
was holding the reins with a tight hand and using his best
endeavours to keep the panting and steaming mare steady
in order to facilitate the descent of a second man.
“For God's sake, Eric, make haste," cried the one in
the gig, with a backward glance. “They can't be far be-
hind us."
The man to whom these words were spoken delivered
a succession of knocks at the street-door, the loud, im-
perative knocks of one whose errand will brook no delay.
Without waiting for his mother's bidding Idris flew
down the stairs eager to learn the meaning of this strange
summons.
On opening the door he found on the threshold a man
draped from neck to ankles in a grey ulster, a man who
acted in a very strange way, for he lifted Idris completely
off his feet and kissed him several times.
Now Idris, though not at all averse to the kisses of his
mother or of the fishermen's daughters, had an objection
to the kisses of a man, and especially of a strange man,
and he struggled to be free.
“Where's your mother ?” cried the stranger, setting
Idris down.
"She's up there," answered Idris, indicating the stair-
case. “But you'd better not kiss her. She won't like it.”


The Viking's Skull
The man gave a joyous laugh.
“Won't she? Well, let us see," was his answer, and
he darted swiftly up the staircase, first calling out to the
man in the gig:-
“ See to the boy, Noel.”
“Now, my little man,” said the military gentleman,
“jump up here. You are going for a sail in that pretty
ship yonder in the bay.”
Idris' eyes sparkled at this enchanting prospect.
“But I can't go without my mother."
“Oh, she's coming too; your father as well."
“My father?” laughed Idris. “Why, my father is
in — "
He checked the word “prison" upon his lips, and
substituted for it the euphemism, “ Over there."
“ By God! that's where he'll be again, unless he
hurries,” cried the military gentleman. “That's your
father who has just run up-stairs.”
His father up-stairs ! The day had been a succession of
surprises to Idris, and this was the climax of them all.
He had never known such an exciting time. Deaf to the
gentleman's command to ascend the vehicle he turned
and scampered hastily up to his mother's sitting-room,
where he beheld a sight that struck him dumb.
The stranger was standing in the middle of the room
with Mrs. Breakspear in his arms, her cheek pillowed on
his breast.
“ Eric, O, Eric !” she murmured: and the pure joy of
that moment transfigured her face with the light and
beauty of an angel's.
“ Edith, my sweet wife!” cried the man pressing her
lips to his. « This kiss is a compensation for all I have
suffered. There ! you mustn't faint. Why, here's our
boy. What a fine fellow he is becoming! Well, Idris,
what do you think of your father and his court dress ?"
38


Tragedy!
Idris' face fell as he surveyed the newcomer. This
man with his close-cropped head, grimy visage, stubbly
beard, and half-savage air, his father! Beneath the grey
ulster there peeped out the prison livery, clad in which
garb divine Apollo himself would lose all grace and
majesty.
Eric Marville was not slow to read the thoughts of his
little son, and he smiled grimly.
“Upon my word, he stares as if I were some wild ani-
mal. I verily believe I am: prison life grinds every trace
of the godlike out of a man. — But come, Edith, we
haven't a moment to lose. You can hear that they have
discovered my escape," he continued, as another boom
rolled over the moorland. “Rochefort was for hurrying
me on board his yacht at once, but it wasn't likely that I
would leave you and the boy behind, when you were so
close at hand. Come, Edith and Idris, wife and son,
come! Away to a new life in a new land!”
At that moment there came from without the warning
voice of Captain Rochefort.
“ Marville! Marville,” he roared. “Look to yourself.
They're here."
As he spoke quick footsteps came clattering over the
pavement of the Rue Grande, and the ping-ping of car-
bine shots rang out on the night-air. The bullets were
intended for the Captain, but missed their mark; and the
mare taking fright at the report set off at a gallop, fol-
lowed by the pursuers, who were on foot.
“ Halt!" shouted an authoritative voice. « Let the car
go; that's not the quarry. Our man's in here; this is his
wife's abode. Through the house, two of you, and guard
the rear. Two of you watch the front. Leave the rest
to me. I'll unearth him.”
The man who gave these commands rushed through
the doorway of the harbour-master's dwelling, and, as if
80; that!" shollisters, the repo


The Viking's Skull
guided by instinct, neglected the lower storey and made
his way up the staircase.
All this took place so quickly that Marville was for the
moment paralyzed with surprise, and stood motionless
and silent, with his scared wife clinging to him.
"Don't make any resistance, Eric, dearest,” she pleaded.
“ It will be better not.”
Springing from his lethargy Marville put aside the arms
of his wife and made for the open window, only to per-
ceive two watchful gendarmes in the street below, who
instantly levelled their carbines at sight of the convict's
face.
The only other outlet from the room was through the
doorway : but there, framed within the entrance and
pistol in hand, stood a grey-haired, fine looking veteran,
clad in military uniform, Duclair, governor of the prison,
who, alive to his responsibility, had himself joined in the
chase.
“Run to earth,” he said, with a grim smile. “ You're
fairly cornered. It's no use resisting.”
“We'll see about that,” muttered Marville, pulling forth
a revolver — a recent gift of Rochefort's — with the in-
tention of forcing his way over the disabled or dead body
of the governor.
“Drop that, or by - "and Duclair punctuated the
sentence with the significant raising of his own weapon.
Seeing the pistol levelled Mrs. Breakspear, with up-
lifted arms, flung herself forward to shield her husband.
Simultaneously with her movement came a deadly
click from Marville's weapon, followed instantly by a
loud bang. The report was accompanied by a cry of
“ Ah! Eric!” and by the fall of a body - sounds that
sent a cold thrill to the hearts of those who heard them.
There, ainid faint wreaths of bluish smoke, lay Mrs.
Breakspear, prostrate on the carpet, her forehead dis-
40


Tragedy!
figured by a spot from which came the slow ooze of
blood.
“O, you have shot my mother !” wailed Idris, casting
a look of anguish at his father.
The little fellow dropped on his knees beside her, but
it was only a piece of clay upon which he now gazed :
his mother was gone forever : was as much a part of the
past as the dead Cæsars of history. Dread change, and
all the work of a moment!
" Edith! my wife! O God, I have killed her!”
Dropping the weapon Eric Marville staggered forward
to lift up the dead form and implore forgiveness from her
who was beyond power to grant it, but ere he could reach
the fallen figure, strong hands were laid upon him, and a
pair of steel manacles was clasped upon his wrists.
« Mon Dieu ! who has done this ?” cried one of the
gendarmes, appalled at the sight.
“ The prisoner,” responded the governor. “Take no-
tice, all of you, that my weapon is undischarged.”
The gendarmes lifted the silent form and laid it upon a
couch, and there Idris knelt, sobbing bitterly and calling
upon his mother to speak.
“My poor boy,” said the governor, after a brief inspec-
tion of the body, “she will never speak again. — We
ought,” he added, turning to address his men, “we ought
to send for a doctor, though he can do no good, for she
is stone dead.”
There was but one doctor in Quilaix, and he, Idris ex-
plained amid his tears, had gone with the procession to
the Pardon.
“We must have some woman to attend to the body,"
continued Duclair. “We can't return to Valàgenêt leav-
ing the boy alone with a corpse. Surely all the women
folk haven't gone to this cursed Pardon ?".
Idris, as well as his grief would let him, explained
41


The Viking's Skull
where a woman was likely to be found, and a gendarme
was at once despatched to fetch her.
The man who had done the deed offered now no re-
sistance to his captors. His desire for liberty had fled.
Overwhelmed by the awful result of his own act he had
sunk into a stupor, staring with glassy eyes at that which
but a few minutes before had been a living woman.
Touched by the spectacle of his grief they allowed him
to sit beside her; and, as he showed a desire to clasp her
hand, the governor made a sign to one of the party to
remove the manacles.
This done, he sat holding the limp fingers within his
own, pressing them as if expecting the pressure to be
returned.
The gendarmes stood aloof in pitying silence. Not
even the governor spoke, feeling the emptiness of any
attempt at consolation.
As for Idris, he shrank, not unnaturally, from the man
who had killed his mother. Once he addressed to him a
piteous reproach: — “Oh, why did you come here? —
Oh, mother, mother, speak to me!”
Absorbed in his own grief, however, the man did not
hear, or, at least, did not reply to this plaint. It was a
melancholy scene, and the men awaited with secret im-
patience the coming of the woman to end the oppressive
spell.
The silence was broken by the prisoner himself. All
bent forward to listen, but the words spoken conveyed no
intelligible meaning to his hearers. For, in a cold, me-
chanical voice, that sounded like the monotone of a
mournful bell, he murmured over and over again :-
“The curse of the runic ring! The curse of the runic
ring!” .
Next day the Minister of the Interior received the


THE STORY
CHAPTER I
THE RAVENGARS OF RAVENHALL
\HE Ravengars of Ormsby-on-Sea, a town on the
Northumbrian coast, come of an ancient stock;
for, as students of the Gospel according to St.
Burke are aware, the original Ravengar antedates by two
centuries that Ultima Thule of heraldry, the Norman Con-
quest.
Yet, though so ancient a race, one, moreover, that has
taken part in all the great events of English History, it
was not until the days of the Merry Monarch that the
Ravengars entered the charmed and charming circle of
the peerage.
At the battle of Naseby that gallant and loyal cavalier,
Lancelot Ravengar, contrived to disfigure the face of the
great Protector by a sword-cut that left behind it a scar
for life. So valuable a service to the State merited right
royal recognition. “Something must be done for Rav-
engar,” said the courtiers of the Restoration. That some-
thing took the shape of a patent of nobility, a favour the
more readily granted by the Monarch, inasmuch as it
cost him nothing. So the heretofore plain Lancelot Rav-
engar became the noble Viscount Walden, and at a later
date was advanced to the Earldom of Ormsby, a title de-
rived from the Northumbrian sea-town, whose rents and
leases supplied him with the wealth requisite to maintain
his dignity.
44


The Ravengars of Ravenhall
This Lancelot Ravengar deserves mention, as being
not only the first peer of the family, but likewise the
originator of a very curious funeral rite instituted by his
testamentary authority.
When the Civil War broke out in Charles's days, Rav-
enhall, the seat of the Ravengars, shared the fate of many
other historic mansions: it was besieged by the Puritan
soldiery, and notwithstanding a gallant defence, was forced
to yield to the foe. Its owner, Lancelot, however, was
fortunate enough to escape to a secret subterranean
chamber, specially made for such emergencies, where, in
addition to the family heirlooms, provisions for many
weeks had been stored. The Roundheads, not finding
the Cavalier after a long and careful search, concluded
that he had fled.
For several days the victors remained at Ravenhall
feasting and drinking; and then, larder and wine cellar
failing them, they proceeded to plunder and dismantle
the place “ for the glory of the Lord,” and so took their
departure.
Now, during this period of hiding, Lancelot, with no
companion but a Bible, had ample leisure for meditation.
The seclusion became the turning-point in his spiritual
life : from that time the hitherto careless Cavalier devel-
oped religious tendencies which were not to be shaken
by all the gibes of the Merry Monarch.
The place of his conversion naturally became invested
with more than ordinary interest in the eyes of Lancelot
Ravengar: he spent much of his time there in contem-
plation and prayer, becoming at last so attached to the
spot as to desire it for his place of sepulture.
Accordingly, his last will and testament enjoined that
not only his own body, but the bodies likewise of his
successors in the earldom should be buried in the secret
vault. This rite constituted the condition of an entail,
45


The Viking's Skull
cry outch
inasmuch as neglect on the part of the next of kin to in-
ter his predecessor in this chamber necessitated the for-
feiture of the inheritance. The will furthermore directed
that the secret ingress to this crypt should not be made
known to more than four persons at a time, viz: the then
earl, his heir-apparent, the family lawyer, and any fourth
person whom these three should choose to take into their
confidence.
When an Earl of Ormsby died his body was carried to
the mortuary chapel on the estate, where the burial
service of the Anglican Church was read. The coffin
was then carried back to Ravenhall: all the servants,
without exception, were dismissed for the day, and the
four executors proceeded to remove the body to the secret
crypt.
Such was the singular testament of Lancelot Ravengar,
first Earl of Ormsby, and its injunctions were faithfully
observed by all his successors in the title.
Some years prior to the events related in the prologue
of this story, the dignity of the family was represented
by Urien Ravengar, the tenth peer. He was the father
of Olave, Viscount Walden, who, as being the only son,
and heir to the title and estates, was naturally the object
of his father's affection. The old earl did not keep a
steward, being content to leave his affairs in the hands
of the young viscount, who consequently managed his
father's correspondence, all letters addressed to the earl
being freely opened by the son.
Then came a memorable day in the annals of the House
of Ravengar.
A letter arrived for the Earl bearing the postmark of a
town in Kent. Olave, who was passing through the en-
trance-hall at the time of its delivery, took it from the
servant, and, following his usual practice in regard to his
father's letters, opened it.
46


The Viking's Skull
in full sight of hundreds of spectators on the beach, who
were powerless to give help. None of the servants at
Ravenhall, however, felt disposed to go and view the
wreck: their master's death, which was hourly expected,
affected them far more than the drowning of a hundred
strangers. They clustered in the entrance-hall, waiting
for the fatal news, and conversing in hushed tones.
Suddenly, out of the darkness, there stalked into the
entrance-hall a lofty figure, drenched to the skin, without
hat or cloak, his long hair lying wet and lank on his pale
cheek.
He looked neither to right nor left, asked no question
of the startled servants, but passed quickly up the grand
staircase with the air of one to whom the way was famil-
iar, with the air of one, too, who had the right to do as
he did. Like the electric flash, he had come and gone in
a moment.
“Lord save us !” gasped the butler, a lifelong servitor
of the family. “ Here's Master Olave come back after all
these years !”
Olave it was. He had evidently received some intima-
tion of his father's condition, for he walked to the bed-
room where the earl lay dying. To the three persons at
the bedside, physician, nurse, and rector, he was a
stranger, but his likeness to the patient was sufficiently
striking to apprise them at once of the relationship.
The viscount, keeping in the background, addressed
himself to the physician.
“How is he?"
“ Sinking fast.”
“ Is his mind clear?”
“Now it is. He wandered earlier in the evening."
“ Then leave us, please.”
There was something so authoritative in the viscount's
manner that the three watchers were constrained to obey.
58


The Viking's Skull
Henceforth the earl remained single.
He had sadly changed from the lively youth whose
pranks had been a constant source of merriment to the
people of Ormsby.
His long absence had developed a cold and unsympa-
thetic temperament which led him to avoid society; and
though he did not refrain from giving an occasional din-
ner or ball, he was evidently bored by these social offices.
He found his greatest pleasure in the seclusion of the
magnificent library at Ravenhall. He withdrew himself
more and more from the world of men to the world of
books.
More than two decades went by, and the mystery
which overhung the earl became a thing of the past, was
forgotten by the people of Ormsby, or at least was rarely
recalled. Gossip occupied itself chiefly with the doings
of the earl's only son, Ivar, or to give him his courtesy
title, Viscount Walden, who was now in his twentieth
year.
To this son the earl appeared much attached : he de-
signed him, so it was rumoured, for the diplomatic ser-
vice: and to this end Ivar, accompanied by a tutor, was
supposed to be travelling on the continent, perfecting
himself in foreign languages, and studying on the
spot the workings of the various European constitu-
tions.
All the collateral branches of the Ravengars had died
out with the exception of one family, and even this was
limited to a single person – Beatrice, daughter of Victor
Ravengar. This Victor, the earl's cousin in the sixth
degree, had taken as his wife a widow with one son,
Godfrey by name. Beatrice was the sole issue of this
marriage.
The earl was naturally much interested in this little
maiden as being next in succession after his son: and
50


The Ravengars of Ravenhall
accordingly when Beatrice became an orphan at the age
of sixteen (her parents having died within a month of
each other), the earl invited her and her half-brother,
Godfrey Rothwell — her senior by seven years — to take
up their residence at Ravenhall, offering to settle a hand-
some annuity upon each.
But to the earl's surprise the favour was declined both
by brother and sister. It had happened that Mrs. Victor
Ravengar had never been a very welcome visitor at
Ravenhall, the marriage having been regarded by the
earl as a mésalliance: and though Beatrice was of a for-
giving nature, she could not entirely forget sundry slights
put upon her mother.
Godfrey was determined not to eat the bread of de-
pendency, and Beatrice, who was devoted to her half-
brother, sympathized with him in this feeling, and
refused to live apart from him. He had applied himself
to the study of medicine, and had lately set up in
practice at Ormsby. In Beatrice, Godfrey found a ready
assistant. She helped him in his surgery, often accom-
panied him when visiting his patients, and never hesitated
to take upon herself the duty of nurse if occasion re-
quired. Hence she was all but worshipped by the people
of Ormsby; the earl might take their rents, but Beatrice
possessed their hearts, and often was regret expressed
that it should be Viscount Walden, and not Beatrice
Ravengar, who must succeed to the fair demesne of
Ravenhall.
“ Absolutely no more patients to visit,” remarked
Godfrey Rothwell, returning home one afternoon to his
neat little villa, called Wave Crest.
“ Charming !” said Beatrice, clapping her hands. “It
is so long since we had an evening together.”
“Humph !” muttered Godfrey, lugubriously. “But
we are doomed not to spend it together. We have re-
51


The Viking's Skull
ceived an invitation to dine this evening at Ravenhall,
where a small and select company is assembling to wel-
come Master Ivar home. He returns to-night from the
continent. The earl's carriage will call for us at six, so
we can't very well decline.”
Beatrice pouted her pretty lips. Simple in her tastes,
unconventional in her habits, she disliked the stately
banquets, the funereal grandeur, of Ravenhall. She
would not, however, oppose her brother, and that same
night found them both within the drawing-room of
Ravenhall, conversing with their distant kinsman, the
Earl of Ormsby.
He was a man verging upon sixty; his hair and
moustache were of an iron grey; his eyes somewhat
dimmed by long study; his features fine and striking,
but marked by an air of profound melancholy.
He received Godfrey kindly, and made inquiries as to
his medical practice, but it was clear to all that his
interest centred chiefly in Beatrice, whom he kissed with
an old-fashioned courtesy
Beatrice's figure was small and graceful, and her
features, if not precisely regular, were nevertheless very
pretty, and rendered more attractive by the sparkling
colour and the vivacious expression that played over
them. She wore an evening dress of white silk with a
cluster of violets at her breast, a diamond star gleaming
in her bronzed hair, which was tied in a knot behind
in antique Greek fashion. In Godfrey's opinion his
sister had never looked more charming than on this
evening.
"You have the fairest face in all the county,” said the
old earl, tenderly stroking her hair. “I wish that Ivar
would think so,” he added significantly.
It was not the first time that he had given expression
to this wish in the presence of Beatrice.
52


The Ravengars of Ravenhall
“ Did you notice what he said, Trixie,” said Godfrey,
when he had found an opportunity of whispering to her.
“ He wants to see you married to Ivar.”
But Beatrice Ravengar tossed her head in scorn.
“No one who has sneered at you, as Ivar has, shall
ever be husband of mine, though he bring with him title
and lands. It will require some one a good deal better
than Ivar to separate you and me, Godfrey,” she said,
pressing his arm affectionately.
Godfrey felt justly proud of his sister's attachment.
How many women, he thought, would willingly have
thrown over a poor struggling medico of a brother, and
have become wild with joy at the idea of obtaining a
coronet and the stately towers of Ravenhall ?
Godfrey wondered, and not for the first time, why the
earl should desire this match, since Beatrice was portion-
less, and, therefore, from a worldly point of view, no
very desirable alliance for the heir of the Ravengars.
Godfrey had never quite taken to the earl : in fact, he
had a secret distrust of him, he could not tell why: and
he refused to believe that that peer's attitude towards Bea-
trice was dictated by pure disinterestedness, though it
was difficult to see how either the earl or Ivar would be
advantaged by the match.
While Godfrey was occupied with these thoughts, the
butler appeared with the message that the keeper of the
lodge had announced by telephone the arrival of the
viscount's carriage at the park-gates.
“Let us give the heir of Ravenhall a welcome at his
own portal,” said Lord Ormsby, rising; and without de-
lay the company made their way to the grand entrance-
hall, where the butler, the housekeeper, and the rest of
the servants, were assembled to do honour to the young
viscount's return.
On the panelled wall within the Gothic doorway, and
53


The Viking's Skull
suspended by a silver chain, was a bugle of ivory, wrought
with gold, and decorated with runic letters.
It was a relic of ancient days, credited to have be-
longed originally to the old Norse chieftain who had
founded the House of Ravengar. Owing to the peculiar
construction of this bugle some practice was required by
those desirous of blowing it. Indeed, it was a family
tradition that in former times the only persons gifted
with the power of sounding it were the lord of Raven-
hall and his immediate heir, all others essaying the feat
being foredoomed to failure. Hence, in mediæval times,
when the lords of Ravenhall returned from a Crusade, or
some other equally protracted war, it was their practice
to sound this horn as a guarantee of the legitimacy of
their title.
“We will greet the heir in the ancient fashion of our
house,” cried the earl, a great upholder of the traditional
usages of his family. “ Pass me the bugle. Jocelyn, the
wine!”.
The butler, who was standing by, holding a silver tray
with a decanter on it, poured some port into the broad
funnel-shaped end of the horn, the tight-fitting silver cap
over the mouthpiece preventing the emission of the
liquid.
“ Custom enjoins that a lady should hand the bugle to
the returning heir, and wish him welcome,” said Lord
Ormsby, fixing his eyes on Beatrice.
With some reluctance she accepted the bugle from the
hand of the earl, who briefly instructed her - Beatrice be-
ing not very well versed in the Ravengar traditions — as
to the form of words to be used in this ceremony.
The rattle of wheels was now heard coming along the
avenue of chestnuts, and amid murmurs of “Here he
is !” from those assembled at the porch, a brougham
rolled up. When it had stopped, there alighted a figure,
54


The Ravengars of Ravenhall
fair, slight, and, though youthful, of decidedly blasé ap-
pearance. He was dressed in a light travelling ulster, and
held a cigar between his fingers, throwing it away, how-
ever, as soon as he beheld the company.
“Welcome, Ivar," said the earl, warmly returning the
clasp of his son's hand: and then, waving him towards
Beatrice, he continued, “ But one moment: we must not
neglect the ancient custom of our house. Now, Beatrice,
you know the words.”
And Beatrice, holding aloft the horn of wine, in an at-
titude that displayed all the grace of her figure, ap-
proached the young viscount.
" Is it peace, O heir of Ravenhall ?”.
“ It is peace, O lady fair,” replied the viscount, using
the words of the traditional formula.
“ Then drink of thine own, O heir of Ravenhall,” con-
tinued Beatrice, extending the bugle to him.
“ To the souls of the departed warriors,” replied Ivar,
tossing off the contents at one draught.“ Hum! port.
Very good liquor for boys ; but, I confess, I like my
aliquid amari stronger.”
This last sentence formed no part of the Ravengar
ritual, and the earl, who liked everything en régle, frowned
slightly.
“Now prove thy title, heir of Ravenhall.”
“ Prove it? Ay, with a blast that shall rival that of
the immortal Roland.”
Removing the silver cap from the narrow end of the
bugle, and placing the mouthpiece to his lips, Ivar blew
with all his might. But no sound issued from the horn
other than that of a faint soughing. The viscount, sur-
prised at this result, removed the bugle from his mouth,
and eyed it curiously. Then, thinking he had perhaps
employed too much force, be blew again, but this time
more gently.
55


The Viking's Skull
ie our title by that peace ia he added, thasia being
The bugle continued silent. The company looked at
each other in surprise, tinged with amusement. The
earl, however, seemed to take it much amiss. Beatrice
found his eyes set upon her, and upon her only, with a
look that made her feel uncomfortable, for it somehow
conveyed to her mind the idea that he was mentally
blaming her for his son's failure !
“ This is a very serious matter, you know," said the
viscount, looking round upon the company with an air
of mock gravity. “ The ancestral bugle refuses — posi-
tively refuses — to acknowledge me as the heir of Raven-
hall.”
“ Try again, Ivar," said the earl.
“Not I. Devil take the bugle," exclaimed Ivar laugh-
ing. “Let us read a parable in my failure. In days of
old the blast of the horn was the sign of battle; its
silence implies that we Ravengars have no longer to
vindicate our title by arms. But it permits me to drink,
thereby symbolizing that peace and festivity are now to
be our lot. Have I not said ?” he added, theatrically,
turning to his father. “And now, this fantasia being
over — Why? what? is this little Trixie ?”
Till that moment he had not recognized Beatrice, so
much did she differ from her appearance when last seen
by him; but now that recognition came, he stopped
short in surprise at her loveliness.
“ Trixie !” he repeated.
He bent forward as if to kiss her, but, with quiet dig-
nity, Beatrice drew back, offering her hand.
“What, and must we dispense with the sweet greeting
of old days? Nay, then.”
And with this he seized her in his arms, and pressed
his lips to hers in kisses of a distinctly vinous flavour.
“ How dare you ?" exclaimed Beatrice, breaking
breathlessly and indignantly from his embrace.
56


CHAPTER II
THE MYSTERY OF THE RELIQUARY
TVAR, with a laugh at Beatrice's indignation, turned
his attention to the brougham, apparently with a
view of superintending the removal of his impedi-
menta.
“O, never mind your luggage," said the earl, in some
surprise." Jocelyn will see to that.”
But Ivar, ignoring the suggestion, was concentrating
all his care upon what seemed to be a long box wrapped
in a covering of coarse linen. This a footman was bring-
ing into the hall upon his shoulders, and while giving his
burden a jerk to place it in a position more easy for
carrying, the cloth, by some mischance, became partly
ripped open.
A half-smothered exclamation and an angry glance at
the awkward footman were eloquently expressive of
Ivar's annoyance.
“Eh ! what have we here?” said the earl, motioning
the bearer to lay down his burden.
He removed the cloth, and all crowded round to ad-
mire the richness and beauty of the object thus revealed
to view. It was a chest of black wood bound at the
corners with silver. The lid and sides were divided into
compartments, carved with alto-relievos of a decidedly
ecclesiastical character.
" This is a very fine work of art,” said Lord Ormsby,
who was somewhat of an authority on antiquities. Put-
ting on his pince-nez he stooped to examine the chest
more closely. “French, I should judge, of the fourteenth
century. What wood is it?”
57


The Viking's Skull
“ Cypress.”
Godfrey did not fail to notice Ivar's somewhat sullen
intonation.
“ And the cypress,” remarked the earl," is the em-
blem of death. This chest is evidently one of those
shrines in which mediæval folk put the relics of their
saints.”
“Yes, it is a reliquary.”
“ How did you become its possessor ?"
" I bought it from the sacristan of an old church in
Brittany. Whence he obtained it is perhaps easy to
guess. Naturally I refrained from questioning him too
closely.”
Lord Ormsby shot a curious glance at his son.
“O, did you extend your tour to Brittany, then?” he
observed : after which he refrained from further remarks,
becoming silent and thoughtful, as if his mind had been
stirred by some troubling reminiscence.
“Does it still contain the bones of the saint?" asked
Godfrey, jocularly.
"It contains souvenirs of my continental tour — noth-
ing more," replied Ivar with a dark glance, as if inviting
the surgeon to mind his own business.
And then, apparently impatient of further questions,
he cut the matter short by motioning the man to take up
the chest again, and he himself led the way up the grand
staircase to his own bedroom, where, after seeing the
precious reliquary locked within a wardrobe, he seemed
to be more at ease.
The irritation betrayed by Ivar over this incident
puzzled Beatrice, and left a somewhat disagreeable im-
pression upon her mind.
“ Master Ivar," she whispered to her brother, “was
trying to smuggle that chest into Ravenhall. Why
should he desire to conceal the fact that he is bringing
58


The Mystery of the Reliquary
home a reliquary? Depend upon it, the chest contains
something that he does not wish his father to see. What
can it be?”
During the course of the dinner that followed, Ivar
was the principal speaker, rattling off various incidents
of his continental tour.
There was nothing particularly edifying or brilliant in
these reminiscences, but Lord Ormsby evidently thought
otherwise: for, from time to time he would turn to his
guests with an air of pride, as if inviting them to take
note of his son's remarks.
“ That is one good trait in the earl's character," thought
Beatrice. “He has great affection for his son. I doubt
very much whether the son deserves it.”
When, at a late hour, she and her brother rose to take
their departure, so heavy a storm was raging that the
earl pressed them to stay for the night, and to this ar-
rangement Godfrey and his sister assented, the former
little foreseeing that his stay would have a remarkable
bearing on the events of the future.
“Well, Ivar,” said the earl, when the two found them-
selves alone. “What do you think of Beatrice ?"
“She has grown devilishly handsome.”
“She is a girl whom any man might be proud to
marry."
Ivar was resting his head upon his hand, and his face
was hidden in shadow: therefore the earl did not perceive
the sudden change in his son's expression.
“Marry?" echoed the viscount.
“I want to see you married, Ivar, and to no one but
Beatrice.”
“The devil!” muttered Ivar uneasily; and then,
aloud, he added, “Does Trixie know of this wish of
yours ?”
“I have occasionally hinted at it.”
"What
She has
59


The Viking's Skull
“ Her manner towards me to-night can scarcely be
called encouraging. She was decidedly cold and stand-
offish.”
“ Perseverance on your part will soon overcome her
indifference.”
“If I must take a wife, why must she be cousin
Trixie, seeing that she hasn't a penny to bless herself
with ?"
“She is richer than you or I," said the earl, with a dry
laugh. “ Ivar, I am about to tell you a secret, the knowl-
edge of which will soon cause you to waive your objec-
tion — if you have any — to this match.”
“Richer than I,” thought Ivar. “What does the old
fool mean?"
The earl seemed ill at ease. He remained silent for
several minutes, evidently debating within himself as to
the wisdom of disclosing the secret. At last, after glanc-
ing all around the apartment, as if to make certain that
no one was within hearing, he bent forward in his chair
towards Ivar, and began to speak in a low tone. The
communication took a long time in the telling, and when
it was ended, the viscount sat in silence with a look of
consternation on his face.
Recovering from his amazement he muttered hoarsely,
“ Why have you not told me of this before ?”
“ You were not of an age to hear it. You are old
enough now to understand the virtues of silence and
secrecy."
“ And this, this son — what did you call him, Idris ?-
where is he now ?"
For reply Lord Ormsby produced from the bookcase
a copy of the Times newspaper, dated seven years pre-
viously.
One of its columns was headed, “ Terrible fire at Paris.
Burning of the Hôtel de l'Univers." The earl's fore-
60


The Mystery of the Reliquary
finger, moving down a list of victims, stopped at the
name, “ Idris Marville, aged 23."
Ivar's features relaxed something of their dismay.
“ Satisfactory from my point of view," he muttered. •
“ None but you and I know this secret, but it is per-
petually open to discovery as long as that church and its
records exist. You now see the necessity for this match
with Beatrice. Ravenhall and the coronet are really
hers. Marry her then, and you will thus secure your
position as lord of Ravenhall. - What is your answer ?"
“ Humph! Suppose it'll have to be."
The sullen look on Ivar's face caused his father to ele-
vate his eyebrows in surprise. It certainly did seem
strange that the viscount, who had pronounced Beatrice
to be“ devilishly handsome," should evince dissatisfaction
at the prospect of marrying her!
The sleeping apartment allotted to Godfrey Rothwell
contained the most luxurious bed he had ever occupied,
and he speedily fell into a sound sleep, from which he
was abruptly roused by a noise in the corridor outside
his bedroom door.
He sat up and listened. Before stepping into bed he
had switched off the electric light, but the darkness now
became faintly illumined by a horizontal line of light ap-
pearing at the foot of the door. Its origin was obvious :
some one was walking in the corridor and bearing a
lamp or candle.
The line of light had no sooner appeared than it disap-
peared, showing that the person had passed by.
Moved by the thought that it might be a burglar,
Godfrey stepped quietly from his bed, and cautiously
opening the door to the extent of a few inches, peeped
out.
There, a few feet distant, with his back towards him,
61


The Viking's Skull
was Viscount Walden moving quietly along the corridor.
Evidently he had not been to bed, for he was still wear-
ing the dress suit he had worn at dinner: to it he had
added a hard felt hat, into the brim of which there was
stuck a lighted candle, after the fashion of a Cornish
miner.
With both hands he was half-dragging, half-carrying
the cypress chest about which he had displayed so much
concern. It was the accidental fall of this reliquary that
had roused Godfrey from sleep.
Now, when a young man is detected in the dead of
night stealing along with a reliquary that he has tried to
introduce surreptitiously into his father's house, it may
be inferred that he is actuated by a bad motive ; such, at
least, was Godfrey's inference. Accordingly, though
conscious of the meanness of espionage, yet, moved by a
feeling for which he could not account, he resolved to
follow the viscount, and ascertain, if possible, the mean-
ing of this strange proceeding.
Waiting till Ivar had turned a corner of the corridor,
Godfrey, having hurriedly slipped into his clothes, stole
forth in his stockinged feet and followed at a distance,
lurking within the shadows, and exercising the utmost
vigilance to prevent himself from being seen. Fortu-
nately, there were at intervals, various pieces of furniture,
as well as curtains and recesses, of all which Godfrey took
prompt advantage whenever Ivar seemed on the point
of giving a backward glance.
The viscount's course, after he had left the corridor in
which the bedrooms were situated, conducted him down
a staircase and along a second corridor, this latter ter-
minating at the door of the Picture Gallery. Here he
paused, and sat down upon the box to rest himself. He
was no athlete, and the moving of this heavy chest was
a tax upon his strength.
this stranunt, and ascenot account.
Go Waiting tilinge proceedinertain, if
62


The Mystery of the Reliquary
By the grim and dismal circle of light shed around by
the taper in Ivar's hat Godfrey could see that the vis-
count's face was pale and marked by an expression of
fear, and that he gave a start at the sudden coughing of
the night wind among the trees without.
Some of the fear manifested by him seemed to pass
over to Godfrey, who found himself becoming strangely
suspicious as to the contents of the chest. The secrecy
observed by the viscount was extremely suggestive of the
theory of crime. Was the reliquary the receptacle of
guilty evidence which Ivar, unable to dispose of else-
where, was bringing to Ravenhall as the safest place of
concealment?
The reliquary itself, apart altogether from the consid-
eration of its contents, had something gruesome about it.
Though the exterior carvings were mediæval in char-
acter, Godfrey, who was somewhat of a connoisseur on
wood, had felt, when surveying the chest at the entrance-
hall, that it was far more ancient than the middle ages :
with that durability peculiar to cypress wood, the chest
might have seen the classic days of Greece: differing lit-
tle in shape from an Egyptian mummy-case, it might
have held the embalmed remains of a Rameses : nay, its
antiquity perhaps antedated the very Pyramids them-
selves!
He had ample leisure for these reflections, for the vis-
count, having once seated himself, seemed loth to move
forwardast, pulling outo his feet,
Picture Galleryer ring
At last, pulling out a spirit flask, Ivar took a deep
draught, and, rising to his feet, produced a key with
which he unlocked the door of the Picture Gallery.
Then, lifting the reliquary by means of a silver ring
affixed to the lid, he proceeded to traverse the entire
length of the hall, dragging his burden with him.
Godfrey, who was no stranger to the place, surmised
63


The Viking's Skull
that the viscount's journey was almost at an end, since
the gallery terminated in a room from which Ivar would
have no egress, except by the same door that he was now
approaching
The viscount's first act on entering the room was to
close the door. Upon this Godfrey glided swiftly for-
ward, and falling upon one knee, endeavoured to obtain
a glimpse of the interior by applying his eye to the key-
hole. In this he was thwarted by the key in the lock,
and though the key was on his side of the door, he hesi-
tated to remove it, lest the sound should attract Ivar's -
attention.
Godfrey could detect no light within the chamber, and
therefore he assumed that Ivar must have extinguished
his taper.
Why?
Godfrey placed his ear to the door. No sound came
from within. If the room contained an occupant, that
occupant was motionless, or, if moving, was moving
silently and in the dark.
Then suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps Ivar
had quitted the chamber by a secret exit known only to
himself.
Godfrey grew perplexed, impatient. In standing thus
inactive he was losing the chance of discovering the
viscount's secret. Still, Ivar might be within, and the
surgeon deemed it imprudent to push open the door.
A way of solving the difficulty presented itself. He
suddenly turned the key in the lock, clicking it loudly,
to the end that, if Ivar were really within, he could not
fail to learn that he was now a prisoner.
Godfrey listened. There was no cry of surprise: no
hasty rush of feet to the door: no movement at all.
After waiting a few moments, he came to the conclusion
that the room was untenanted.
64


The Mystery of the Reliquary
He turned the key, and pushed open the door.
Aided by a subdued light, tender and dreamy, that
stole through a latticed casement, he had visible proof
that the chamber was devoid of anything in human shape.
The cypress chest had also vanished.
No way of egress was visible save by the window; but
Ivar had not made his exit by this, as the state of its
fastenings clearly showed. His disappearance was obvi-
ously due to the existence of some secret passage.
Godfrey, loth to turn back now that he had come thus
far, resolved to make an examination of the room, even
at the risk of being discovered by the returning Ivar.
He began his search with the fireplace.
Surely some propitious fairy was directing his steps !
A long slab of stone, that formed one side of the fire-
place, had sunk to the level of the hearth, revealing a
passage behind. This slab was worked by a pulley, since
he could feel at each side the ropes by which it had been
lowered; but without stopping to examine the mechan-
ism, he entered the passage and moved forwards through
the darkness, exploring the way before him both with
hand and foot in order to guard against a possible pre-
cipitation down a flight of stairs. The sequel justified
this precaution, for he soon found himself at the head of
a flight of stone steps. He counted forty of them before
he reached the level flooring of another passage. At
the end of this a faint light could be seen proceeding
from behind a door that stood ajar. He concluded that
the viscount had at last attained his destination, and was
occupied on the task, whatever it was, that had brought
him there.
Godfrey, drawing near, ventured to take a peep through
the partly-opened door, and caught a glimpse of a large
stone chamber, octagonal in shape. From its vaulted
roof hung a lighted sconce. No window was visible,
65


The Viking's Skull
and, connecting this circumstance with the number of
stairs he had descended, Godfrey was of opinion that it
was a subterranean chamber. The floor was devoid of
carpet, and the only pieces of furniture were a table
of carved oak and four antique chairs of the same
material.
Of the eight sides of the chamber one was occupied by
the doorway where Godfrey stood : the other seven were
severally pierced by recesses, the depth of which he was
unable to ascertain, since the entrance of each was hung
with a curtain of black velvet of such length that the
silver lace fringing its foot touched the floor. The cur-
tains draping two of the alcoves were plain : the remain-
ing five were adorned with lettering worked in silver
thread. As he read the lettering by the light of the
flame that burned in the antique sconce Godfrey, fa-
miliar though he was with death, dissection, and all that
the non-medical mind regards as gruesome, could not re-
press some uneasy sensations. That silver lettering
recorded the names and titles of the deceased Earls of
Ormsby, from Lancelot Ravengar, the first peer, to Urien
Ravengar, the tenth.
Godfrey knew himself to be on forbidden ground. He
was standing on the threshold of the secret burial vault
of the lords of Ravenhall !
Ivar was in one of the alcoves, whither he had be-
taken himself with the cypress chest, but as the curtain con-
cealed him from view, it was impossible for Godfrey to
see what the viscount was doing. What Godfrey heard,
however, was sufficiently alarming. From the recess
came a recurrence of sounds that could be attributed
only to the use of a screw-driver. There could be no
doubt that Ivar was engaged in the work of removing one
of the coffin lids, and Godfrey felt, moreover, that this act
had some connection with the contents of the reliquary.
66


The Mystery of the Reliquary
Was Ivar about to transfer the evidences of his guilt -
for of his guilt Godfrey now entertained no doubt — from
the reliquary to one of the coffins ? There could scarcely
be a safer place of concealment than a coffin contained
in a secret vault, the entrance of which was known to
four persons only. Yet this theory seemed precluded by
the fact that a coffin constructed to hold one body would
not suffice for two. Ivar could scarcely intend to carry
off from the crypt the relics of one of his ancestors, since
he would have the same difficulty in disposing of a dead
earl as of less distinguished remains.
Suddenly there came from Ivar a cry, or rather a yell;
he dropped the screw-driver, or whatever tool he was
using, and thrusting aside the black velvet curtain, stag-
gered into the vault and tumbled into a chair, where he
sat for some moments, his eyes fixed in terror upon the
alcove from which he had emerged.
“ Bah!” he presently muttered. “What a fool I am !
Yet I could swear I heard a whisper coming from the
coffin. By God! what creepy work this is !”
A long pull at the spirit flask seemed to infuse new
courage into him. He arose and moved again towards
the alcove, though with somewhat slow steps.
As Ivar lifted the curtain Godfrey tried to ascertain
what lay behind, but succeeded only in catching a glimpse
of the reliquary, which stood on the floor with the taper-
lit hat resting upon it.
The viscount picked up the fallen tool and resumed
the task of screw-loosing. Then, after what seemed an
age to the waiting surgeon, the screw-driver was dropped,
and Godfrey became aware that Ivar had removed the
coffin-lid, for he had placed it on the floor in such a man-
ner that one end of it projected beneath the curtain and
appeared in the vault.
Godfrey was unable to tell what followed. Ivar's work,
67


The Viking's Skull
whatever its character, was performed in silence, and
lasted a considerable time.
More than once Godfrey stole into the vault for the
purpose of peering behind the curtain, but on each occa-
sion he did not get beyond the table, the fear of detec-
tion restraining him from proceeding farther.
Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he took out his
penknife, and turning to the alcove nearest the door, he
quickly and silently cut off a corner from the velvet
drapery.
“ This may be of service," he thought, thrusting the
fragment inside his pocket, “ if at any time it should be-
come necessary to prove that I have stood in the secret
funeral vault of the Ravengars.”
Ivar's task was evidently coming to an end, for the
coffin-lid was now drawn from beneath the curtain into
the alcove, and the peculiar sounds caused by the appli-
cation of the screw-driver recommenced.
With their cessation Ivar reappeared from behind the
curtain, wearing his taper-lit hat again, and dragging the
chest, which, judged by the effort required for its re-
moval, was in no way diminished from its former weight
- a circumstance which puzzled Godfrey not a little.
He was preparing for flight, but as Ivar had seated
himself in the chair again, he was tempted to linger a
moment.
“ Thank the devil that's over,” said the viscount in a
tone of satisfaction,“ and I hope Lorelie will be satisfied.”
“ Lorelie!” murmured Godfrey with a start. "Lorelie!
Surely he does not mean Mademoiselle Rivière ?"
He had no time just then to consider this question, for
Ivar, having drained the few drops that remained in the
flask, was now extinguishing the flame in the sconce,
preparatory to leaving the crypt.
Godfrey immediately stole off, and succeeded in reach-
68


The Mystery of the Reliquary
ing his room without detection. He went to bed again
and slept soundly.
He awoke to find the sun glinting pleasantly through
the diamond panes. The brightness of the morning had
so cheering an effect on his spirits that he felt disposed
at first to regard the event of the preceding night as the
result of a dream.
Then, his memory quickening, he thrust his hand be-
neath his pillow and drew forth a piece of black velvet
edged with silver lace.
" It was no dream,” he muttered, gazing at the relic.
“I have really stood in the secret burial vault of the
Ravengars. What a story this will be for Beatrice!”
Godfrey was accustomed to make his sister his con-
fidante in all things; but, somehow, upon reflection, he
resolved, for the present at least, to maintain secrecy
respecting Ivar's strange doings.


CHAPTER III
IDRIS REDIVIVUS
"I VAR has been at home two months, yet we have
had no visit from him."
The speaker was Godfrey Rothwell, and the
scene the breakfast-room of his villa, Wave Crest.
“Why should he visit us ? " asked Beatrice.
“Ahem! as a suitor for your hand, in compliance with
his father's wish.”
“ Ivar had better not insult me by such an offer."
“ An offer of marriage can scarcely be called an insult,
Trixie.”
" It would be — from him," returned Beatrice with a
heightened colour. “I speak what I know,” she added
oracularly.
She began to pour out the coffee: while Godfrey,
somewhat puzzled by her words, turned to the letters
awaiting him. No sooner had he glanced at the hand-
writing on the envelope of the first than he gave a great
start.
“ Heavens ! have the dead returned to life?”
He hastily broke the seal and ran his eye over the let-
ter, while the mystified Beatrice awaited the explanation
of his words.
“ From my old college-friend, Idris Marville."
“ What ? ” cried Beatrice with a little scream of sur-
prise. “Is he not dead, then? Did he escape the
fire ?"
“That's self-evident. There has been a dreadful mis-
take somewhere. He will prove that he is alive by pay-
70


Idris Redivivus
ing us a visit. In fact, he will be here this very morning.
Well, this is a surprise !”
“ More - a pleasure,” added his sister.
Beatrice had never seen Idris, but she had often heard
of him from Godfrey, and knew the painful story of his
boyhood. She was aware, too, that on one occasion,
Godfrey, being in pecuniary difficulties, had applied to
Idris in preference to the Earl of Ormsby, and had re-
ceived by return of post a handsome cheque. The mem-
ory of this event was still fresh in her mind, and she was
desirous of showing her gratitude to her brother's bene-
factor.
" He signs himself. Breakspear,' I see,” she said, glanc-
ing at the signature of Idris.
" Yes : he has dropped the name of Marville, and has
taken his mother's maiden name. It is easy to guess his
reason.”
True to the promise contained in his letter Idris arrived
that same morning, and Beatrice took a good view of him
from behind the curtain of her bedroom window, as he
strode up the garden path accompanied by Godfrey.
Twenty-three years had passed since that memorable
night at Quilaix, and Idris was now verging upon thirty
- dark-eyed, handsome, athletic, with a face bronzed by
southern suns. His appearance impressed Beatrice
favourably.
“ There is nothing mean or ignoble about him," she
murmured.
The first greetings being ended, Idris sat down to a
pleasant luncheon, presided over by Beatrice.
“ Your name has been so often on Godfrey's lips," she
said, “ that you seem quite like an old friend, though I
never thought to see you after the announcement of your
death in the newspapers.”
Idris smiled.


The Viking's Skull
“ Perhaps I have done wrong in letting people think
that I perished in the burning of the Hotel de l'Univers.'
At the time of the fire I was at the opera-house. On
leaving I found the boulevards ringing with the news. I
bought a newspaper and discovered my own name erro-
neously inserted among the list of victims. I resolved
not to set the mistake right, for it suddenly occurred to
me that here was a convenient opportunity to die - to
the world. Wherever I went, the name Marville recalled
my father's crime, or rather, supposed crime. Let the
world think that Eric Marville's son is dead,' I thought,
"and let him begin life anew, and under a different
name.'”
“ Was the yacht Nemesis, in which your father escaped,
never heard of again ?" asked Godfrey.
“ It vanished, leaving not a trace behind.”
“ Strange! The news of your father's escape, together
with a description of the delinquent vessel, would be tele-
graphed to all civilized countries. Every ocean-steamer,
every seaport, would be on the watch for the yacht, and
yet you say it was never seen again.”
"Its disappearance shows how well Captain Rochefort
had devised his plans,” Idris answered.
“ Since your father did not communicate with you, his
only son, it follows, almost as a matter of course, that he
did not communicate with his more distant relatives ?”
"His relatives, if he had any, are unknown to me: in
fact, I am quite in the dark as to my father's antecedents.
Among all his papers there was not one letter relating to
his kinsfolk, nor any clue whatever to indicate his history
prior to his settling at Nantes in 1866."
“ You are certain that your father was English born ?
Because if so, his name, and date and place of birth, to-
gether with his parents' names, should be among the rec-
ords of Somerset House."
72


Idris Redivivus
“I have tried Somerset House, and have traced several
Eric Marvilles, some living and some dead, but none of
them could I identify as my father. I am sometimes dis-
posed to believe that Marville was not his real name, but
one assumed by him on settling at Nantes.”
“ Cannot your mother's relatives give you any infor-
mation ?"
“ They, too, are ignorant of my father's origin. My
mother was an English governess at Nantes when she first
met my father. A few months after her marriage the
death of an aunt endowed her with an ample fortune, a
fortune which has devolved upon me.”
“If twenty-three years have passed since your father
was last heard of,” said Beatrice,“ do you not think that
the probabilities point to his death ? He must be dead,"
she added. “ He would not be so unfatherly as not to
communicate with you during all these years.”
“ That is my opinion - at times : and at other times I
think he is still living, but resolved, from some mistaken
notion of honour, to ignore me until he can give me the
heritage of a fair name.”
“If he is alive," continued Beatrice,“ he has perhaps
married again, and has children, and, though it sounds
harsh to say it, other and new interests which your ap-
pearance on the scene might embarrass."
This was a bitter thought, but by no means new to
Idris.
“I trust I am not offending you by the question," ob-
served Godfrey, “but do you really, in your heart of
hearts, believe that your father was innocent?”.
“ There, the torture. My mother was firmly convinced
of his innocence, and only an hour or two before her
death, as if gifted with prevision, she did her best to im-
press me with her belief; nay, more, she made me take
an oath that I would, on attaining manhood, use all my
73


The Viking's Skull
endeavours to clear my father's name. Yet the thought
often strikes me that I am nursing an illusion in thinking
him innocent. Who am I that I should set up my opin-
ion against that of the judge, the jury, and the press ?”
“And the masked man who stole the runic ring -
what of him ?” Godfrey asked.
"He, too, is a person who has eluded all my inquiries.
And small wonder! Had I been a man at the time
when these events happened, instead of a boy of seven,
my investigations, begun at once, might have met with
success, whereas the long lapse of years has handicapped
my efforts. And yet, fanciful as it may sound to you,
Godfrey, I am not without hope, even at this late day, of
finding my father, and of vindicating his innocence. At
any rate, this is the object to which my life is devoted,
and from which I shall never swerve."
And Idris, having satisfied the curiosity of his friends
on various other points, immaterial in themselves, dropped
the subject, and the conversation flowed into other chan-
nels.
Presently they were interrupted by the appearance of
the page-boy, with a note addressed to Godfrey, who,
finding that he was wanted in a critical case, withdrew,
leaving Beatrice to entertain the guest.
"I am afraid, Mr. Breakspear,” she said, “ that you will
spend a rather dull time here; our household is a quiet
one, and Ormsby offers little in the shape of entertain-
ment. Our only show-places are the old Saxon church
on the hill-top, and Ravenhall — Lord Ormsby's seat.”
"I think I'll take a stroll towards the old Saxon
church,” said Idris, who was simple in his tastes, and
easily pleased.
“I have to pass that way,” Beatrice said, “and, if you
care to accompany me -
Idris, who found Beatrice's soft grey eyes very attrac-


Idris Redivivus
tive, readily accepted her offer; and, after a pleasant walk
of half an hour, the two reached the ancient church of
the Northumbrian saint, Oswald.
"This,” said Beatrice, as they passed through an arched
doorway, and stood within the subdued light cast by the
stained glass, “this is the Ravengar Chantry.”
“A sort of oratory and burial-place of the Raven-
gars ?”
“ Yes. These monumental brasses are the tombs of
my ancestors, that is, of those who antedated the Res-
toration; those who lived after that time are interred in
the private crypt at Ravenhall. For you must know-
Ah, listen!” she said, breaking off abruptly. “Some
one is playing the organ."
"And playing with a masterly touch, too,” remarked
Idris, after a brief interval of listening.
“Who can it be?” murmured Beatrice. “Our own
organist is not capable of such music.”
She was about to advance on tiptoe from the transept
to the nave in order to obtain a view of the organ-loft,
but Idris gently checked her.
“ Stay a moment. If we show ourselves we may dis-
concert the musician and put an end to his playing."
He sat down on a stone seat in the transept. Beatrice
followed his example: and for several minutes they lis-
tened in silence, entranced by the sweet and noble strains
flowing from the organ-loft.
Then, gradually, a peculiar change came over the spirit
of the music.
“Ah! what an eerie strain!” murmured Beatrice, a
shiver passing over her.
Idris, too, found himself curiously affected. Becoming
oblivious of external things, yielding himself entirely to
the influence of the music, he essayed to enter into the
spirit and meaning of the piece. Those solemn rhythmic
75


The Viking's Skull
cadences that thrilled him with a melancholy awe could
be interpreted only as a Funeral March. At intervals
there pealed from the organ shivering, staccato notes,
like the heart-sobs of those who “keen” for the dead,
succeeded by a mournful, stately measure, as if the cold
voice of Fate were declaring that death must be endured
as the common lot of all. The very soul of grief was
voiced in those notes, which, lofty and sad, mysterious as
the moonlight, seemed to weep as they kissed the cold
stones of the chantry.
During the dream-like spell induced by the weird char-
acter of the requiem Idris suddenly became subject to a
very strange feeling, the like of which he had never be-
fore known. Vivid as fire on a dark night there came
upon him the startling conviction that this was not his
first visit to the Church of St. Oswald. He had been in
this chantry in time past; he had seen these monumental
brasses before: that Funeral March was a familiar air.
The interior of the edifice was as the face of an old friend
who has not been seen for years.
He was sitting in a part of the transept from which it
was impossible for him to view the opposite ends of the
nave, unless he possessed the power of being able to see
around a distant corner; yet, directing his mental eye
towards the interior of the church, he could see the
chancel-window at its eastern end, and the hexagonal
font by the western porch.
He felt that he could find his way about the building
without once stumbling, even though it were wrapped
in the gloom of night. Every part of it, from the
belfry tower above to the crypt below, was familiar
ground
With a solemn and long drawn-out diminuendo the
music ceased.
Shivering like one roused from a sleep upon the cold
76


Ídris Redivivus
ground Idris started from his reverie, to find Beatrice re-
garding him with a curious, half-frightened look.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Breakspear. I have
spoken to you three times, and you have given me no
answer. Have you seen a ghost? You look quite
fey, as we say in these parts."
“I have been subjected to a very singular experience,”
Idris answered, looking around with a perplexed air.
“ Till to-day I have never set foot in Ormsby. Yet I
know this church, know it as well as I know my cham-
bers in the Albany. Now, tell me, does not the chancel-
window contain three divisions ?"
Beatrice murmured an affirmative, seeing nothing
wonderful in Idris' remark, inasmuch as chancel-windows
usually contain three divisions.
“ And in the central pane is painted the Madonna,
treading upon the Old Dragon, with the Holy Child in
her arms ?"
Beatrice, beginning to be surprised, said that this was
correct.
“The right-hand pane represents King Oswald setting
up the Cross as his standard for battle, while the left
portrays him at his palace-gate, distributing his gold and
silver plate among the poor.”
“ Yes. How do you know, if you have never
been here before?” Beatrice burst forth, her amaze-
ment increasing as Idris proceeded to enumerate other
details.
“ Mr. Breakspear, you must have been here before !”
“Never! I solemnly assure you ; at least, not in the
body.”
He walked towards the head of an oblong marble
sepulchre, surmounted by the gilt effigy of a crusading
Ravengar, lying in cross-legged repose.
“ Mark me,” he said, turning to Beatrice, “ I shall find


The Viking's Skull
on the other side of this tomb a circular hole large
enough to admit my hand.”
At the foot of the stone knight was sculptured the
heraldic shield of the Ravengars, much defaced, and
crumbling with age; in the first quartering of which was
a round orifice of sufficient dimensions to admit the inser-
tion of Idris' hand.
“ What do you say to this ?” he asked of Beatrice,
who had followed him to the tomb.
But Beatrice, full of wonderment, could say nothing.
“I have a distinct remembrance of placing my hand
here in days gone by," Idris continued. “Yes : I have
been in this church before: I am as certain of that as I
am of my own existence. But how? There's the
puzzle. Not in the body, for my life has been passed at
a distance from Ormsby. How then? Has the knowl-
edge been imparted to me in a dream? Or is it a fact
that during sleep the spirit of man may visit distant
places? Or was old Pythagoras right in asserting that
we have all had a previous existence? Am I a reincar-
nation of one who was familiar with this place in time
past? Miss Ravengar, how is one to explain this
psychological puzzle ?”.
Beatrice's reply was checked by a light footfall. A
young lady, attired in a soft clinging dress of muslin, was
coming slowly towards the chantry.
Idris looked up and met her eyes, eyes of a dark,
tender violet. One glance : and then — and then —
If he had been previously required to write an essay
on love, that essay would have run on the lines that
love, to be sincere and lasting, must be grounded on the
esteem that a man and a woman have for each other's
good qualities; that love therefore must be the product
of time; and that, consequently, genuine love at first
sight is an impossibility.
78


Idris Redivivus
He thought differently now, as he gazed upon a face
fairer than any he had ever seen: so pure the spirit
breathing from it that, like the face of a Madonna upon
a cathedral window, it seemed hallowed by a light com-
ing from beyond.
If, in the language of the mystic, all beauty be a
manifestation of the Divinity, is it any marvel that Idris,
as he stood mute and motionless, should have felt an
awe, a sense of adoration, stealing over him?
As the young lady drew near she acknowledged
Beatrice's presence with an inclination of her head, an
action to which Beatrice responded with a frigid air, an
air that seemed to trouble the other, for her eyes
drooped, and a faint colour mantled her face. With
quiet dignity she passed by, and the next moment had
vanished through the porch.
Not till then did Idris find his tongue.
" What a divine face!” he murmured. “Who is
she?"
“Her name is Rivière - Lorelie Rivière," answered
Beatrice somewhat coldly.
“Rivière. She is French, then ?".
Though evidently disinclined to pursue the subject,
Beatrice, seeing Idris' interest in the stranger, proceeded
to enlighten him so far as she was able.
"Mademoiselle Rivière is a lady, apparently of inde-
pendent means. She came to Ormsby about four
months ago, taking for her residence The Cedars, a villa
on the North Road. She lives a quiet and secluded life.
Her name indicates French nationality, but beyond that
fact no one knows anything of her origin and antecedents.
Godfrey once attended her professionally, and she im-
pressed him as being a lady of birth and refinement :
but," added Beatrice, compressing her lips, " I do not
like her."
79


The Viking's Skull
The tone in which she delivered herself of this last
sentiment somewhat vexed Idris : but whatever might
be the cause of her dislike, he felt that it did not
originate from jealousy of the stranger's beauty. Bea-
trice was too high-minded to be actuated by so paltry
a motive. For his own part he could not associate any-
thing bad with the sad grave eyes of Lorelie Rivière.
Beatrice, in her judgment of the other's character, must
surely be the victim of some misapprehension.
“But — but — was she the musician ?” he asked.
“ It seems so," replied Beatrice, moving into the nave.
“ There is no one in the organ-loft now. But here comes
the boy who blows. He will tell us. Roger, was it
Mademoiselle Rivière who was playing just now?"
The lad gave an affirmative nod, and exhibited with
pleasure the coin he had received as a fee.
“Comes here often,” he said. “Calls at our cottage
when she wants me to blow."
Idris was silent, marvelling that one so young should
play with a touch so masterly: marvelling still more that
her music should have wrought upon him an impression
so weird.
He moved around the church with Beatrice, and then
mounted the stairs leading to the gallery, feigning to be
interested in what he saw, in reality seeing nothing but
the beautiful face of Lorelie Rivière.
On the seat fronting the organ was a book, left behind
probably by an oversight. Idris lifted the volume, a
handsome one, bound in vellum and gold, and was much
surprised at the title.
" Paulus Diaconus de Gestis Langobardorum," he read
aloud.
“What a dreadful title !” murmured Beatrice. “What
does it mean?”
“ It is Paul Warnefrid's History of the Lombards, a
fronting the or idris lifted thed was much
80


Idris Redivivus
book you'll scarcely meet with once in a lifetime. Quite
a thrilling work, no doubt, to antiquaries of the Dryas-
dust order, but I cannot imagine a lady taking to this
style of literature. To begin with, it's all in Latin : evi-
dently she understands that language.”
“ Perhaps the book does not belong to Mademoiselle
Rivière."
" The margin of almost every page contains notes in a
lady's handwriting — obviously the remarks of one who
understands the work. She seems to have been a dili-
gent student,” continued Idris, observing the numerous
annotations. “Ah! what is this? The Fatal Skull,'
written across the title-page. On other pages are the
initials · F. S.,' presumably standing for the same words,
• Fatal Skull. See here, 'F. S.,' and here again, 'F. S.'”
“ The Fatal Skull !” said Beatrice in wonderment.
“ What is meant by that?”
At Beatrice's request Idris translated some of the pas-
sages marked with the letters « F.S.,” but he failed to
grasp their significance, there being no connection what-
ever between a skull and the subject-matter of the para-
graph. Then, becoming conscious that it was an unchiv-
alrous proceeding to pry into an absent lady's book, he
was on the point of closing it, when his eye was caught
by the following words written upon the fly-leaf :-
Lorelie Rivière,
? 16, Place Graslin,
Nantes.
“ 16, Place Graslin ?” murmured Idris in great surprise.
“ Heavens! It was before the door of 16, Place Graslin
that M. Duchesne was murdered twenty-seven years
ago !”
81


CHAPTER IV
THE SECRET OF THE RUNIC RING
N\HE room that Godfrey Rothwell was accustomed
to call his study was a small and cosy apartment,
I well furnished with books; while, here and there,
were many ornaments betraying the taste of Beatrice,
for the room was jointly occupied by brother and sister.
They loved to be together, and while Godfrey studied
his medical tomes, Beatrice's fingers would be busy with
sewing or embroidery.
On this particular evening the presence of Idris caused
both study and needlework to be suspended. He had
whetted the curiosity of his entertainers by affirming
that his coming to Ormsby had something to do with the
search for his father: he was, in fact, following a clue.
His hearers pressed for enlightenment.
“ Let us sit around the fire, and I will explain my
meaning.”
Drawing a comfortable arm-chair to the hearth Beatrice
composed herself for what she felt was about to be an
interesting disclosure.
“ Among the papers,” Idris began,“ handed to me on
my eighteenth birthday by my mother's executors was a
piece of vellum with runic letters upon it. Though
eleven years had passed I immediately recognized these
characters as being identical with those engraved on the
Ring of Odin. My mother had had the forethought to
make a copy of the inscription."
Here Idris paused, reading a question in Beatrice's
eyes.
82


The Secret of the Runic Ring
within the porcke the characters
cisely,” said
besight of this I resolved to might cast a ray
“ Have you the transcript with you ?" she asked. “It
will be interesting to look at, though we do not under-
stand it.”
Idris produced from his pocketbook a scrap of vellum
inscribed with four lines of tiny runic letters.
“And these are runes ?” said Beatrice, looking at
them attentively. “ They are very like the characters on
the bugle that hangs within the porch of Ravenhall."
“ Precisely,” said Godfrey, “ inasmuch as that is an old
Norse drinking-horn. But we are interrupting Idris'
story."
“ The sight of this inscription naturally interested me,”
continued Idris, " and I resolved to make an attempt at
its decipherment, in the hope that it might cast a ray of
light upon the mystery of Duchesne's murder, for I have
always held to the belief that he was assassinated for the
sake of the altar-ring. With this view I procured the
services of a professor eminent for his knowledge of
Norse antiquities, and under his tuition I began the study
of runology.
"I was soon able to read all the letters of the inscrip-
tion, and to pronounce what I supposed were syllables
and words : but syllables and words would not yield any.
sense. And here and there came a juxtaposition of con-
sonants quite unpronounceable. To add to the difficulty
there were no spaces to show where one word ended and
another began. All the characters were equally close
together and seemed to form one long word. I did my
best to break the inscription up into its component parts,
but failed. I could not distinguish one familiar term.
Either the language was not old Norse, or the professor
had taught me wrongly.”
“Why did you not lay the inscription before the pro-
fessor," asked Beatrice, “ and get him to decipher it for
youp"
83


The Viking's Skull
“ Because I did not wish any one to know the secret
till I myself had first ascertained its value. In the belief
that it might be written in some language other than old
Norse I made incursions, not very deep, I fear, into
Danish, Frisian, Icelandic, and other northern dialects,
but failed to identify the inscription with any one of these
tongues.
"At last in despair I cast aside the caution I had hith-
erto exercised, and placed the writing before my tutor ;
but, eminent runologist as he was, he could extract no
meaning from it.
“ Anxious to begin the search for my father, I parted
from the Norse professor ; but yet, amid all my wander-
ings through Europe, I never quite gave up the hope of
being able to decipher the inscription.
“Now, a few weeks ago, it occurred to me that the art
of secret writing may have been practised in Norse times
just as in our own. Hitherto, following modern usage, I
had always read the inscription from left to right: why
not from right to left, as ancient Hebrew is read? I
tried the course, but it made me no wiser.
" However, the cryptographic idea grew upon me, and
was not to be shaken off. As you perceive, it is a four-
line inscription; I therefore read downwards, combining
the letters in the first line with those directly beneath in
the second, third, and fourth lines, but with no success.
I read upwards : disappointment was still my lot. I tried
the plan of omitting every alternate letter. I seemed as
far off as ever."
“But you succeeded in the end,” said Beatrice.
“ Yes. By playing at random with the letters, I hit
upon the key to the decipherment. Observe this char-
acter,” continued Idris, pointing to one in the first line,
shaped thus :-*. “ It is called Hagl, and corresponds
to our H. As it is slightly larger than the other letters,
84


The Secret of the Runic Ring
I had come to regard it as the initial one in the series,
and the sequel proved that I was correct. Beginning
with this Hagi, I omitted the three following letters,
taking the fifth which corresponds to our i.”
That gives us H-i,” said Beatrice.
“ Just so. Passing over the next three characters we
come to the equivalent of our 1."
“H-i-1,” said Beatrice.
“ Proceeding in this way I add two more letters, and
the result is a woman's name, as common in Norse days
as in our own."
“ You mean Hilda ?”
“ Precisely. Hilda is the first word of the inscription.
Light had dawned at last. I had discovered the key to
the writing, and it is this : every fourth letter is to be
treated as if in immediate sequence.
“I instantly marked off the characters into sets of four.
By taking out the first letter in each quartette, and plac-
ing them in consecutive order, I found the result was an
intelligible sentence. By treating the second letter of
each quartette in like manner the sentence was con-
tinued : and so with the third and fourth letters. There
could be no doubt about it. I had mastered the secret
of Odin's Ring."
“And what is the secret ?” said Beatrice breathlessly.
Idris could not avoid smiling at her eagerness. It was
pleasant to have so fair and interested a listener.
“Impulsive Beatrice!" said Godfrey. “ Idris may wish
to keep the secret to himself.”
" It will be very unfair, then, after having excited our
curiosity," she retorted.
“ You shall have the secret,” said Idris ; “ though you
will probably be as much disappointed with it as I was.
There is nothing very startling in it. It does not relate
to Odin and the gods of Valhalla, but to an old Viking
85


The Viking's Skull
and a buried treasure. This is my rendering of the
Norse runes engraved on the broad perimeter of the
ancient altar-ring."
And here Idris drew forth a second piece of vellum,
and read from it as follows:-
“« Hilda, the Alruna, to her son, Magnus of
Deira, greeting. — Within the lofty tomb of thy
sire Orm, the Golden, wilt thou find the treasure
won by his high arm. The noontide shadow of
the oft-carried throne will be to thee for a sign.
And may the fires of the Asas guard thy heri-
tage for thee. — Farewell.'”
“ That,” continued Idris, after a pause,“ is the secret
of Odin's Ring: and though, as I have said, I was disap-
pointed at first, yet in course of time I began to think
that the knowledge I had acquired might furnish me
with a clue — a very faint one, it is true, - towards dis-
covering my father.”
“I fail to see how," observed Godfrey.
“In this way. Captain Rochefort, who was instru-
mental in effecting my father's escape, possessed — so I
have learned a copy of this runic inscription. Now, let
us suppose that he and my father turned their attention
to its decipherment, and, like myself, succeeded. Let us
further grant that they had reasons for believing that the
old Viking's treasure still existed in the spot where it
was originally placed. Allowing these premises, what is
the conclusion ?"
“That they would endeavour to possess themselves of
this treasure."
" Just so. They would try to find the Viking's tomb.
Therefore, if I, too, could hit upon the place –
“I understand. You might come upon some trace of
your father.”
86


The Secret of the Runic Ring
“ That is my meaning. I admit that it is a very
slender thread upon which to hang my hopes, but it is all
that is left me. To find the burial-place of Orm the
Golden became my next object, a somewhat difficult feat,
seeing that he is a person who has altogether escaped the
historian's pen. However, I have succeeded.”
“What !” exclaimed Godfrey, incredulously. “You
have discovered the burial-place of this unknown Viking,
who, granting the reality of his existence, must have
lived at least a thousand years ago ?" And on receiving
a nod of affirmation, he asked, “How did you accomplish
it? Within the lofty tomb of thy sire Orm, the Golden,'”
continued he, reading from Idris' translation of the in-
scription, “. wilt thou find the treasure, won by his high
arm. There is nothing here to indicate the site of this
• lofty tomb.'”
“ There is just a hint. Magnus, the Viking's son, is
said to be of Deira.' I infer, therefore, that the father
Orm was likewise of Deira ; that in Deira he lived, in
Deira he died, and in Deira he was buried. Look for
the tomb in Deira,' became my watchword.”
“ Deira," said Beatrice quickly. “Is not Deira the
ancient name for this part of the country?".
“ Yes,” Godfrey answered, “and it is rather a wide
area for our friend Idris to explore, seeing that the name
included all the country from the Tyne to the Humber,
and from the Pennines to the sea.”
“ True," assented Idris; “but we may narrow the area
of our search considerably. These old Vikings had such
love for the sea that they were usually buried within
sound of the breakers. We shall not err, therefore,
if we confine our attention to the sea-board only of
Deira.”
“Even then you will have a coast-line of more than
one hundred miles to explore."
87


The Viking's Skull
“A glance at an ordnance map will help us to fix the
site."
“ In what way?”
“ Thus. I take it that Orm the Viking, being master
of much wealth, as is clear from the words on the ring,
would build for himself a dwelling or castle by the sea.
Around the abode of their chief the vassals and depend-
ants would fix theirs, thus forming the nucleus of a town.
Now what name would such a place be likely to take?”
“ My dear Idris," said Godfrey, protestingly,“ how can
I tell ? — or you either ?” he added.
« Well, like most town-names of Norse origin it would
probably end in the syllable by."
“ I will grant you that much — no more.”
“ You cannot see at what I am aiming?"
“ I am completely in the dark.”
“ Receive a ray of light, then. Don't you think that
if this Orm built a town, that town would bear his
name?"
“Surely you are not alluding to Ormsby?"
“But I am. This town must have received its name
from some one called Orm, and it is my belief that this
Orm was none other than the Viking who figures on the
runic ring. In the neighbourhood of this town, then, we
must look for the • lofty tomb' of my Norse warrior.
Now, four miles to the north of us, there is, so local
guide-books say, a lonely valley called Ravensdale, con-
taining — "
“ Containing,” Beatrice broke in, excitedly, “contain-
ing a rounded, artificial hillock, over fifty feet high, and
known by the name of Ormfell.”
“Ah! I see you know it,” smiled Idris. “ Yes, Orm-
fell, or Orm's Hill, is the spot where I shall find the bones
of the ancient Viking."
“And do you really intend," asked Beatrice, “ to bore
88


The Secret of the Runic Ring
your way to the heart of that hillock in order to see what
it contains ?”
"Such is the purpose that has brought me to Ormsby,
my object being to discover whether this tumulus ex-
hibits traces of having been recently opened. It may be
that in the sepulchral chamber within the hillock I shall
light upon something that will afford a clue towards dis-
covering my father. It may be a handkerchief merely, a
discarded lantern, a tool, a match-box, a button, or some
other article trifling in itself, but which a skilled detec-
tive will know how to employ in tracing the man he
wants. I may come even upon a pocketbook or a letter
unwittingly dropped — who can tell ? Ormfell is my
last hope. Fanciful as it may appear to you, Godfrey,
something seems to whisper to me that the interior of
that tumulus will furnish me with the means of lifting the
veil that has so long shrouded my father's fate."
There was in Idris' manner a confidence which his
hearers did not like to quell by the expression of cold
doubt, though they considered his expectation fanciful in
the extreme.
“Do you intend to obtain the earl's sanction to make
your excavations ?” asked Beatrice. “Ormfell stands on
the Ravengar lands, you know.”
“Humph! if I should ask for permission I may meet
with a refusal. In such circumstances, therefore, I feel
myself justified in committing a bold trespass."
“Well, if you should be caught, Mr. Breakspear,” said
Beatrice with a blush, “ I will intercede for you with Lord
Ormsby, for I believe I am rather a favourite of his.”
Idris tendered her his thanks. He had almost forgot-
ten that the pretty maiden sitting beside him might one
day be the inheritrix of Ravenhall, and owner of those
very lands the proprietary rights of which he was prepar-
ing to set at naught.


The Viking's Skull
“ But,” continued Beatrice, " if you are not going to
apply for the earl's permission, how do you intend to
escape observation?”
“ By conducting my operations in the dead of night.”
“ Break into a Viking's tomb in the dead of night!
What a weird idea!”
“I shall not be the first who has so acted, Miss
Ravengar.”
“ You will not object to my help, I presume?” God-
frey remarked.
« On the contrary, I shall be glad of it."
“I am half-disposed to join in this romantic business
myself,” said Beatrice with a smile. “How interesting if
you should discover the treasure !”
• We are not very likely to discover treasure that was
secreted a thousand years ago," commented Godfrey.
“And yet,” said Idris, “many sepulchral barrows,
opened in our day, are found to contain treasure - coins,
drinking-horns, armour, and the like.”
“ True: but in this case you forget that the words
on the runic ring were an express invitation to Orm's son
— what was his name, Magnus ? — to possess himself of
the treasure. He would not leave much for posterity to
glean."
“Yes, if he received his mother's ring; but how if it
miscarried ? Hilda evidently lived far away from her son
Magnus, else why should she have engraved her com-
munication on metal, when she could more easily have
delivered it vivâ voce and face to face? The messenger
entrusted with the ring may have gone astray. Travel-
ling was a difficult matter in Norse times, and many perils
beset the wayfarer, especially a wayfarer who carried any-
thing worth stealing. Or consider this point, that though
Magnus was capable of understanding the runic riddle —
otherwise his mother would not have adopted such a
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The Secret of the Runic Ring
mode of communication — yet it does not follow that his
son or successor was equally skilled. Supposing, then,
that Magnus was dead when the messenger arrived with
the ring, there may have been no one in Deira capable of
interpreting the message. The ring might thus retain its
secret, and the hillock its treasure, down to our own
time."
“ Possible, but not probable,” smiled Godfrey.
Beatrice's eyes rested upon the vellum containing Idris'
translation of the runic inscription.
“ The fires of the Asas guard thy heritage for thee !'”
she read. “What does that mean?"
“ The Asas were the old Norse gods, who were sup-
posed to dart forth flames upon any one venturing to dis-
turb the sleep of the dead.”
“Then beware, Mr. Breakspear,” she said playfully,
“ for you are going the very way to evoke their wrath.
• The noontide shadow of the oft-carried throne will be to
thee for a sign. How do you interpret that ?”
"I wish I could answer you, Miss Ravengar. That
sentence is an enigma I've never been able to solve. It
is my intention to pay a visit to Ormfell at noon to-
morrow, when an inspection of the hillock may perhaps
throw some light on the matter."
Soon afterwards Beatrice retired for the night, but it
was a long time before sleep came to her. She lay
awake, thinking of Idris, and of the passionate look that
came into his eyes at the sight of the beautiful Lorelie
Rivière.
91


CHAPTER V
“ THE SHADOW OF THE OFT-CARRIED THRONE”
NVOUR miles to the north of Ormsby lies the valley
of Ravensdale, extending due east and west, with
1 sides steep and wall-like.
The eastern end opens out upon the sea-beach, and
here the width of the valley is greatest, the distance across
being about half a mile. Farther inland the breadth con-
tracts, and the sides approach each other till they meet in
a narrow leafy gorge, whence issues the slender, silvery
Ravensbec.
The valley contains no human habitation. The only
sounds that disturb the stillness are the melancholy mur-
mur of the sea, and the occasional tinkling of sheep-bells.
In the middle of the dale, and distant a few hundred
yards from the beach, rises the eminence that for cen-
turies has borne the name of Ormfell, an eminence circu-
lar at the base, about fifty feet in height, and covered with
green turf.
Upon this hillock Idris was now gazing with deep in-
terest.
It was a beautiful summer morning, and with Beatrice
for his companion he had come to take a view of the
tumulus, preliminary to the task of breaking into it at
night.
“We want no geologist,” he remarked, “ to tell us that
this is an artificial elevation. Nature never carved out
this pyramid; it has been raised by the hand of man.
This is the • lofty tomb’spoken of on the runic ring.
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« The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne"
Within the heart of this tumulus we shall find all that re-
mains of old Orm the Viking."
Beatrice shared fully in his enthusiasm. She had seen
the mound many a time, but now the words on the runic
ring had invested the spot with a new and mysterious
charm.
“Orm's warriors were men with a taste for the pictur-
esque,” she said. “They could not have chosen a pret-
tier place for the grave of their hero.”
“ Ay, close to the sea, that he doubtless loved well, as
became a Norse Viking. And here for ages he has re-
mained in solitary glory, with the surge forever murmur-
ing his requiem."
« This is certainly a tremendous mass of earth to pile
over one poor mortal,” said Beatrice, contemplating the
mound.
“Every vassal was supposed to contribute one helmet-
ful of soil to the grave of his chieftain."
" Judged by that test Orm must have had a pretty
numerous following,” said Beatrice.
“Or else each follower contributed more than the or-
thodox helmetful. O, they could toil as well as fight,
these old Norsemen. They were not afraid of work.”
“ May the old Norse blood in us never die out, then !”
“ Amen to that! But I see an upright stone crowning
the apex of our fell. Let us examine it. There may be
runes upon it.”
Idris extended his hand to Beatrice and assisted her up
the side of the mound. Arrived at the summit he closely
inspected the stone, which was a six-sided pillar, about
four feet in height, black in colour, relieved here and
there by curious red convolutions.
“So far as I can see,” he said, “ this pillar does not be-
tray any mark of a tool. Its hexagonal shape, then, is
due to nature. The stone is basalt, which often assumes
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The Viking's Skull
a six-sided form. These red spirals are apparently sand-
stone. It is evident that the mass of basalt, of which
this pillar is a fragment, was forced upwards in an igneous
liquid state through a bed of sandstone, taking up some
of the latter in its passage. Hence these red convoluted
bands.”
“I have heard that there is only one place in Europe
where basalt of this character is to be found," said Bea-
trice,“ and that is in a certain valley of the Crimea.”
“ It may be so. The old Norse people are said by
some historians to have been of Scythian origin, and to
have migrated from the region of the Crimea. Perhaps
they carried this piece of basalt with them. It may have
been a baitulion, or holy stone; in fact," continued Idris,
as he removed some moss from the foot of the pillar,
“there can be no doubt about it. Look on this side, and
you will see why a sacred character was attributed to it.
Tell me, Miss Ravengar, what does this red streak re-
semble ?”
“A curved sword!” cried Beatrice, in wonderment.
“ Why have I never noticed it before? A curved sword,
with blade, hilt, and cross-guard, as perfect as if drawn by
human hand.”
" Just so. And history says that the ancient Scythians
worshipped a scimitar — an appropriate deity for a bar-
baric and warlike race. This hexagon, stamped with the
image of their god, would be holy in their eyes. It
would be their altar-stone, and a necessary companion in
all their migrations.”
Beatrice, not doubting the truth of Idris' theory, gazed
with a feeling almost akin to awe upon the mysterious
stone, which the superstition of a far-off age had elevated
to the rank of deity. Eternity seemed to be its attribute.
In its presence she and Idris were but as the quickly-
evaporating dew; long after their bodies should have
94


“ The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne"
crumbled to dust this altar would remain. A silent con-
temporary of the rise and fall of past empires, it would
survive the rise and fall of many to come. If ever stone
was eloquent on the evanescence of all things human,
surely this stone was!
Such were Beatrice's thoughts, while Idris, more pro-
saic, was on his knees, removing the earth from the foot
of the pillar, and scraping the surface of the stone with
his penknife in the hope of finding runic letters engraved
upon it: but in this he met with disappointment; each
face of the hexagon was free from inscription.
"I was hoping,” he said, rising to his feet, “ to come
upon some epitaph, such as, 1, Magnus, raise this stone
to the memory of my sire, Orm,' which would give me
proof that I am on the right track, since, after all, my
opinion that this is the tomb of the Golden Viking is
purely conjectural.”
They descended to level ground again, and Idris pro-
ceeded to walk slowly around the base of the hillock, en-
deavouring to take no more than a foot at each step.
“ The circumference is, roughly speaking, about one
hundred and fifty feet,” he remarked, when he had com-
pleted the circuit. “ The diameter, therefore, will be
about fifty, and the centre about twenty-five feet off.”
“ If you have that distance, or nearly that distance, of
solid earth to bore through, you have a hard task," said
Beatrice.
“ My work will be of a much lighter nature, I trust.
If this tumulus has been constructed like the generality
of its kind, there should be a stone chamber in the centre
with a stone passage leading to it from the side of the
mound. Earth was piled over the mouth of the passage,
but marks, usually taking the shape of two upright stones,
were left to indicate the entrance.”
“What point of the compass did the Norsemen
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The Viking's Skull
favour when constructing the entrance-passage of their
tumuli ?”
“ The point of ingress usually faced the east.”.
“This is the easternmost point, nearest the sea," said
Beatrice, moving onward a few steps; and full of their
enterprise, she cried, “ Let us try to find the guide-
the sea,” said
stones.,, she cried as a few steps:
They carefully surveyed the eastern curve of the base,
Beatrice probing with the point of her sunshade, and
Idris with the ferule of his walking-stick, among the long
grass and bracken that grew in profusion at the foot
of the hillock. Their search, however, was without
result.
"I am at fault, it seems,” said Idris,“ or, it may be,
the rain of centuries has washed down so much earth
from the side of the mound that the guide-stones at its
foot have become buried. We can do nothing without
proper tools.”
“ Let us explore all round,” suggested Beatrice, the
spirit of adventure growing upon her.
They examined the entire circuit of the base, and,
when that investigation was over, were no wiser than
when they had begun.
Beatrice seated herself on a grassy bank facing the
tumulus, and Idris took his place beside her.
“ This will never do,” he muttered, ruefully contem-
plating the hillock. “I must discover the mouth of the
passage. If I begin to bore at any other point I might
indeed reach the wall of the central chamber, but I should
be on the outside, and it would be difficult, if not impos-
sible, to make a way through the masonry. Besides, as
I cannot admit the coöperation of any one but Godfrey,
tunnelling through twenty feet of earth is a task that will
take several nights, not to speak of the impossibility of
concealing our work in the daytime.”
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“ The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne"
“Or the risk of your tunnel falling upon you, in which
case," added Beatrice, demurely, " you would have much
ground for complaint.”
“ Wicked Miss Ravengar! Would you jest at my
misfortunes ? I will defeat your hopes by finding the
legitimate entrance."
“ And how do you propose to find it ?”
“Well, I conceive that the entrance is shaped like an
ordinary doorway, that is to say, it consists of two up-
right stones a little distance apart, with a third resting
horizontally upon them. I shall have to move round the
base of the hillock with an iron implement, striking into
the soil till I meet with stone. A little judicious probing
will soon tell me whether it be a boulder, or one of the
entrance-columns. If a boulder merely, I shall have to
pass on, repeating my experiment."
“But if these entrance-columns stand well within the
hillock you may go all round without lighting upon
them."
“ In that case I shall have to begin again, and strike
deeper.”
“ Even then you may fail. You are arguing on the
supposition that the mouth of the passage must be on a
level with the base of the hillock, whereas it may be
higher, six, nine, or twelve feet above level ground.
And,” pursued Beatrice,“ if you conduct your operations
in the manner you describe, it will be difficult to keep
your work secret. The disturbed state of the soil, and
the uprooting of the herbage, will tell a tale to the earl's
bailiffs."
“Humph! these are difficulties which call for a che-
root,” replied Idris. “You have no objection, Miss
Ravengar? Thank you," he continued, lighting it.
"Now to put on my thinking-cap.”
Reclining upon the grass he puffed thoughtfully at his
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The Viking's Skull
cheroot, and gazed at the green mound that seemed to
be quietly mocking his endeavours.
“ Ormfell appears determined to keep its secret," said
Beatrice. “We want Belzoni here."
“ Belzoni? I thank thee, Jew,' — or shall I say
Jewess ? —' for teaching me that word. Shall an Italian
find his way to the heart of the great stone pyramid,
while I, an Englishman, am to be defeated by a paltry
cone of earth, fifty feet only in diameter ? Never !” he
exclaimed, theatrically. “How,” he continued, knitting
his brows in perplexity,“ how were the Norsemen them-
selves enabled to remember where the point of ingress
lay? They must surely have left some mark to indicate
it.”
For the twentieth time that morning Idris murmured
the inscription on the runic ring.
" Within the lofty tomb of thy sire, Orm the Golden,
wilt thou find the treasure won by his high arm. The
noontide shadow of the oft-carried throne will be to thee
for a sign. How long am I to be baffled by this dark
oracle? What is meant by the 'oft-carried throne'?"
The light of understanding suddenly leaped into Bea-
trice's eyes, and she pointed excitedly to the piece of
basalt crowning the summit.
“Mr. Breakspear, are not the words oft-carried' very
applicable to that stone, if it has really been brought
over sea and land from the Crimea ? Is not that the
throne' alluded to ?”
The cheroot dropped from Idris' lips, and he sprang to
his feet with a cry of exultation.
“By heaven! Miss Ravengar, you are right. Oft-
carried throne?' Yes, that must be it! As the holy
baitulion of a tribe, marked with the image of their deity,
it would doubtless be the stone on which the new chief
would stand when invested with kingly rule. That
98


« The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne"
piece of basalt was a kind of Lia Fail, like the corona-
tion-stone at Westminster.”
“ Ormfell is becoming more interesting than ever,"
said Beatrice, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at having
solved a problem that had perplexed Idris so long. “We
have discovered the oft-carried throne, and the oft-carried
throne is to be to us for a sign. A sign of what?"
“ Indicative of the entrance, I presume, otherwise there
would be no reason for engraving the fact on the ring.”
“Do the words mean that the stone stands over the
entrance itself? If we remove it, shall we discover the
mouth of a shaft?”.
“ Scarcely, I think: for, if so, the stone would be a
sign at all hours of the twenty-four, whereas the language
of the ring restricts its significance to the noontide hour
only.”
“ It wants an hour yet to noon,” said Beatrice, referring
to her watch.
“Good! We will wait till then. I have formed my
opinion. Mark my words, Miss Ravengar, we shall find
that the entrance is on the northern side. The noontide
hour will show whether I am right.”
And Idris, resuming his fallen cheroot, relighted it, and
reclining once more upon the grassy bank, waited for the
time to pass, while Beatrice sat beside him in a state of
pleasing suspense.
“ Now if my grandfather were here," she remarked,
"he might be able to tell us whether or not Ormfell con-
tains the treasure, without taking the trouble to break into
the tumulus.”
“ Then your grandfather must have been a remarkably
clever fellow.”
“ He was. By simply walking barefoot over the
ground he was able to tell whether metals lay below, and
not only that, but the depth even at which they lay. He
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The Viking's Skull
has been known to point out and trace accurately the
course of water, veins of metal, coal-measures, and the
like."
“I have heard of similar feats performed by miners of
the Hartz Mountains,” said Idris, " but have always re-
garded such stories as apocryphal. Had your grand-
father any theory to account for his marvellous power?"
“ His idea was that the proximity of metals imparted a
peculiar sensation to the soles of his feet, the intensity of
the impression being a measure of their nearness to the
surface. His belief was that metals cast off subtle exhala-
tions capable of being detected by a highly magnetic or-
ganism, which his undoubtedly was.”
“ There may be something in that theory. There are
persons who cannot enter the Mint without fainting."
“ He always maintained,” Beatrice went on, “ that
this valley of Ravensdale was the centre of a rich coal-
field.”
“ Your grandfather's power of divining for metals has
not descended to you and Godfrey, I presume ?”.
“ I sometimes think it has — in a slight degree. We
still keep his walking-stick cut from the witch-hazel.
This stick would turn visibly in his hands at the prox-
imity of metals; it has sometimes turned in Godfrey's
hands, and more than once in mine.”
“ Strange! Well, if this stick is capable of being
affected by metals let Godfrey by all means bring it with
him to-night,” said Idris, more in jest than in earnest.
“ The treasures of the Viking, supposing them to be still
within the hillock, may lie concealed under the floor of
the chamber, and we shall be at a loss to know at what
point to dig for them.”
The minutes moved tardily on, and as the meridian
hour approached, Beatrice said: -
• Have you noticed how the shadow cast by the stone
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“ The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne"
creeps slowly along over the face of the ground? This
hillock could easily be turned into a giant sun-dial.”
“ You echo my thoughts, Miss Ravengar. And it
seems to me that this shadow will furnish us with the clue
we want."
“ You mean that the shadow of the stone will fall on
the very spot where the entrance is ? "
“ Not quite: for in that case the shadow would be an
uncertain guide, varying with the sun's altitude at the
different seasons : and, besides, you will notice that the
shadow is many yards from the foot of the tumulus. It
is not probable that the secret entrance lies so far off.
No: my idea is this. Connect the oft-carried throne and
its shadow with an ideal line, and near the point where
this line cuts the base of the hillock will be found the
mouth of the passage. It is the noontide hour now,”
continued Idris, rising. “We will put a little pile of
stones to mark the spot where the apex of the shadow
falls — so," he added, suiting the action to the word.
“ Now all we have to do is to walk from this point to the
foot of the hillock, keeping in a bee-line with that piece
of basalt on the summit, and, unless I err, we shall hit
upon the entrance.”
Speaking thus, Idris began his experiment. When he
had come to the foot of the hillock, Beatrice observed
with surprise that the thick, heavy walking-stick carried
by him was in reality the receptacle for a long and stout
sword. This weapon he pushed into the side of the hill-
ock at the spot touched by the imaginary line.
After a series of probings, begun on a level with the
ground and continued in an upward direction, Idris
paused with a gleam of excitement on his face. Chang-
ing the direction, he resumed his probing, moving hori-
zontally to the right and stopping again. Then he con-
tinued the movement, this time coming downward, so that
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The Viking's Skull
the course of his sword had described three sides of a rec-
tangle.
“ Miss Ravengar,” he cried, in a voice of emotion," I
have found the entrance ! As I live, I have found it !
Here, hidden within the soil, are two stone blocks a little
distance apart, with a third resting crosswise upon them,
the three forming a kind of doorway. We have only to
remove the earth overlying them, and we shall find a hol-
low passage beyond.”
Beatrice's cheek coloured with pleasure as Idris con-
tinued:-
“Miss Ravengar, you have proved yourself a valuable
auxiliary. But for your explanation I might still be
puzzling my mind as to the meaning of the oft-carried
throne.' I offer you a somewhat problematic reward.
Whatever spoil is found within shall be divided equally
between us.”
“ Merci ! But are you not promising too much ? Is
not treasure-trove the property of the Crown ?”.
“ Provided that the Crown hears of the discovery.”
“ Fie, Mr. Breakspear! you would corrupt my hon-
esty.”
“I can depart now with a hopeful heart for to-night's
work. I shall have but little difficulty in penetrating to
the interior of the hillock. We have no need to mark
the entrance. Nature has already done it for us.”
He pointed to a cluster of white flowers growing upon
the side of the hillock. Beatrice had no sooner set eyes
upon them than an expression of surprise stole over her
face.
“Do you know the name of this flower ?" she said.
“ It is the vernal mandrake.”
“What? The mandragora of the ancients ? — the
plant that played so potent a factor in classic witch-
craft?”
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“ The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne”
“The same.”
Idris gazed with considerable interest upon the pale
mysterious plant around which so many weird supersti-
tions have gathered.
" And a curious circumstance it is,” continued Beatrice,
who was somewhat of a botanist, “ that it should be
growing here."
“Why so ?"
" Because it is a plant requiring cultivation. It does
not grow wild, at least not in this country.”
" Then your inference is that it has been planted here
by human agency ?"
“Sown is perhaps a better word than planted. It
certainly did not spring up spontaneously from the
soil.”
“Hum! This raises a curious question. For what
purpose was it sown? Is some one carrying on botanic
experiments here? Or shall we say that my projected
visit to the interior of the tumulus has been forestalled,
and my unknown forerunner, desirous of renewing his
visit at an early date, has left these tokens here to mark
the point of entrance, probably having had the same
difficulty as ourselves in discovering it? What simpler
plan could he adopt than just to sprinkle here a few seeds
of the white-flowering mandrake?”
Beatrice had nothing to say either for or against this
last theory, and, after puzzling themselves in vain to ac-
count for the presence of the mandrake, they set off for
Ormsby.
On their way they passed a small workshop belonging
to the cemetery-mason. The man himself was standing
at the door, and Beatrice stopped to exchange a few
civilities with him.
"Well, Robin, how is the world using you?" she
asked pleasantly.
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The Viking's Skull
“ Rather badly of late. The people of Ormsby seem
to live longer than they used to do.”
“I am afraid my brother is partly responsible for
that,” said Beatrice demurely. “It is his business to
oppose yours, you see.” ,
“No one seems to want a tombstone nowadays," con-
tinued the man gloomily. “However, I had a little
work put in my way yesterday by Mademoiselle
Rivière.”
“ Mademoiselle Rivière !” echoed Beatrice in surprise.
“ What order has she given you ?"
“ You have perhaps heard that more than twenty
years ago an unknown vessel was wrecked in Ormsby
Race. Four bodies only were washed ashore, and these
were buried in a corner of St. Oswald's churchyard.
Mademoiselle Rivière has obtained permission of the
Rector to place a marble cross over their grave.”
“Did she say why she takes such an interest in these
drowned men ?” asked Beatrice.
"Well, as to that I was a little bit curious myself, and
so I could not help putting a question or two. Madem-
oiselle said she had good reason for believing that the
lost vessel was French: and being French herself she
felt a desire to honour their grave. If you will step in-
side, I will show you what she has chosen.”
Idris, who felt a strange interest in Mademoiselle
Rivière, required no second bidding, and with Beatrice
entered the workshop, where the mason exhibited with
manifest pride a cross of Sicilian marble, standing on a
base of the same material. This pedestal was wrought in
the shape of a rock, and decorated with seaweed and an
anchor.
“What is the epitaph to be?” asked Idris, after some
words complimentary to the mason's skill.
The man produced a paper upon which was written,
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“ The Shadow of the Oft-Carried Throne"
in the same delicate, flowing penmanship that had
adorned the margin of the Lombard historian, the fol-
lowing words :-
“ SACRED
TO THE MEMORY
OF
THE DROWNED.
OCTOBER 13TH, 1876.
• He that is without sin, let him first
cast the stone.'”
Idris laid down the paper, and, after a few more words
with the mason, the two went on their way again.
“ Mademoiselle Rivière must know something more
about those shipwrecked men than that they were
Frenchmen merely,” observed Idris. “If the verse cited
is to have any application at all, it must mean that the
drowned men were guilty of — I know not what, but
something upon which the world would not look leni-
ently. Hence, perhaps, the absence of their names from
the epitaph."
“You think she knows their names ? ”.
“Without doubt. Why should a lady erect a costly
memorial over the grave of men of whom she knows
nothing? If I may venture a conjecture I should say
that she must be related to one of them. He that is
without sin, let him first cast the stone.' I have often
thought that that verse might very well form a part of
my father's epitaph.”
105


CHAPTER VI
“ THE FIRES OF THE ASAS !”
PIDNIGHT was chiming from a distant church-
tower as Idris and Godfrey stood on the edge
l of the upland that overlooked the valley of
Ravensdale.
They had left Wave Crest at eleven o'clock, and fol-
lowing a circuitous route, and favoured by the late hour,
had succeeded in reaching their destination without at-
tracting notice.
Beatrice had begged hard to accompany them, but this
Godfrey would not permit. So she watched them from
the garden-gate till they were out of sight, and then re-
turned indoors to alarm herself by reading the adventures
of Belzoni in the Great Pyramid, finding some sort of
affinity between the expedition of Idris and that of the
enterprizing Paduan.
The night was lovely and cloudless, with a full moon
shining from a sky of darkest blue.
Shimmering white in the hallowed radiance arose the
lofty tomb of the long-buried Viking, and as the two
friends made their way towards it the character of the
undertaking began to oppress the mind of Godfrey with
various strange fancies. What the interior of the hillock
would reveal he could not tell; but he had forebodings
of something grim and ghostly. Though it was of his
own free will that he came, yet now, brought close to the
intended task, he shrank from it, and found himself yield-
ing to a spirit of fear.
He could not but admire the unconcern of his com-
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“ The Fires of the Asas !”
panion, who strode gallantly forward, humming the
chorus of a hunting-song.
“Confound yon bright moon!” muttered Idris. “If
any of the coast-guard should stroll this way, we are cer-
tain to be seen.”
Arrived at the northernmost point of the tumulus, he
flung down the sack that he had carried containing the
implements necessary for excavation, and turning his
eyes upon the side of the hillock began to look about for
the white-flowering mandrake that betokened the point
of ingress.
He glanced quickly from right to left, but, to his sur-
prise, the plant was nowhere to be seen.
“Here's a mystery! What has become of the man-
drake? — No matter : there's the pile of pebbles I set up
on the spot where the shadow of the stone fell. I have
but to repeat my former experiment.”
Making his way to the little heap Idris faced about, and
then began to walk towards the hillock, keeping in a di-
rect line with the stone upon its apex.
On reaching the base of the tumulus he paused and
remained stationary, with his back to Godfrey, and his
gaze riveted on the side of the mound. There was
something so peculiar in the rigidity of his attitude, and
in his long-continued silence, that Godfrey's heart quick-
ened with an unknown fear, a fear that deepened, when
Idris, with a scared face turned slowly round, and, as if
the power of speech had left him, beckoned with his
finger for the surgeon to come forward.
“ Look there!” he said in a hoarse voice, clutching
Godfrey with one hand, and pointing with the other.
“ Tell me whether I see aright. What's that?”
And there, protruding from the side of the hillock in
the place where the mandrake had grown, was — a human
hand!
107


The Viking's Skull
A human hand, rising from the earth, motionless and
rigid, the crooked fingers seeming to tell of the agony of
a death by suffocation.
Some one, since the morning, had been trying to force
a way through the soil at the entrance of the passage, and
had lost his life in the attempt.
Such was Idris' first thought. A closer inspection,
however, showed that the event had not happened that
day. The nails had fallen from the fingers, and there
was, besides, a decayed, vegetable look about the hand,
differing altogether from the aspect presented by the skin
of the newly-dead. How Idris came to overlook it dur-
ing his morning visit was a mystery, since the hand must
have been in its present position for several days, if not
for several weeks. Its sudden exposure was perhaps due
to the afternoon storm, which had washed away a portion
of the soil.
To endeavour to ascertain the identity of the victim
by pulling at the withered hand, and thus bringing the
decayed form to view, was an act that not only Idris
shrank from, but even Godfrey, the surgeon, familiar with
the disjecta membra of the dissecting room.
Then Idris, bending forward to examine the hand more
closely, gave vent to a peal of laughter.
“ Brave heroes we are to be frightened by a plant! It
is nothing but the root of the mandrake.”
Godfrey drew a breath of relief, as he assured himself
by a nearer view that what he had taken for a human
hand was indeed the withered root of the mandrake, so
apt to assume strange and unaccountable shapes.
Yet, to save his life, he durst not put forth his hand to
touch it.
If such were the terrors guarding the exterior of the
tomb, what might he not expect to find in the interior ?
“Now, Godfrey, our silly fright being over, to work!
108


“The Fires of the Asas !"
I will dig while you watch. Take a seat on this boulder
here, and if you should see anybody coming, give the
word and I will suspend operations for a while. There
cannot be more than five or six feet of earth to knock
away, and then the passage will be open to our view.
The work ought not to take long."
Godfrey did as desired, and Idris flung off ulster, coat,
and vest. Rolling his shirt-sleeves above the elbow, he
drew the tools from the sack and selected a spade.
“Now to disturb the repose of old Orm the Golden!”
he cried, excitement sparkling from his eyes. “Now to
evoke the fires of the Asas !”
The sickly, withered mandrake-root, with its resem-
blance to a human hand, fronted him, and as if in con-
tempt of his former fears, he drove the edge of the spade
clean through the stalk. The separated parts seemed to
quiver and writhe in a manner extremely suggestive of
animal-life.
A thrill of terror shot through his frame, and, spade
in hand, he paused, staring at the root; for, simultane-
ously with its dissection, there came a sound, bearing re-
semblance to a plaintive human cry.
It was not the creation of his fancy, since Godfrey too
had heard it.
“In the name of all that's holy what was that?” he
asked, starting up from the stone upon which he had been
sitting.
“ That is what I should like to know,” said Idris, try-
ing to look unconcerned. “It came — or seemed to
come — from this plant here. The poet speaks of: -
• Shrieks like mandrakes torn from the ground !'.
but I never thought to hear them
in my own per-
Son."
109


The Viking's Skull
He toyed idly with the spade, desirous, yet almost
afraid, of making a second stroke.
In all his life Godfrey had never been so much alarmed
as he was at that moment.
“ Idris, let us leave this business — at least, for to-
night.”
His words acted as a stimulus to the other's courage.
“ Leave it? Never! till I have forced my way to the
heart of this hillock, and wrested the secret from it. On
the very point of discovery must we turn back, frightened
by a sound, the cry, probably, of some night-bird? We
are not the first to break into a Norse barrow at mid-
night. Shall we be outdone in enterprise by others ?
No: though the dead Viking rise up, sword in hand, to
repel me, yet will I go on.”
And with this Idris liſted the spade, and attacked the
side of the hillock, savagely cutting the mandrake root to
fragments, half expecting to hear the weird cry again.
But the sound, whatever its origin, was not repeated.
Finding the earth to be hard conglomerate, and not
easily susceptible to impressions from the spade, Idris laid
that tool aside, and, fitting the wooden shaft of a pickaxe
into its iron head, proceeded to reduce the conglomerate
to a crumble, which he then tossed aside with the spade,
labouring alternately with the two implements.
No word escaped him : he was too much interested in
the work to waste his breath in words. His efforts soon
unearthed two large unhewn blocks of stone standing a
little distance apart.
Fired to fresh energy by this sight, a proof that he was
working in the right direction, he continued his excava-
tions between the two blocks. After the lapse of a few
minutes he paused, and thrust his arm up to the shoulder
through an aperture appearing in the conglomerate.
“ To triumphe !” he exclaimed. “Empty space behind
110


« The Fires of the Asas !”
this. A little more labour, and we shall be able to crawl
into the passage beyond.”
Declining Godfrey's repeated offers of assistance, Idris
resumed his work enthusiastically, dealing stroke after
stroke upon the wall of earth that barred his way. Down
came the black soil with a rush, as if glad to meet free
air after an imprisonment of centuries. Wider and wider
grew the aperture, revealing an open space beyond : and,
at last, flinging down his tools, Idris declared that the
way was now open to the interior.
“Where's the lantern, Godfrey ?"
The surgeon was already fumbling about in the sack.
With an exclamation of dismay he rose to his feet and
gave it a shake, but nothing came forth.
“By heaven! Godfrey, don't say that we have left the
lantern behind !”
“ That is just what we have done.”
“At least, the match-box is there.”
“No: that, too, is a minus article."
Idris breathed a malediction. As he himself had at-
tended to the putting up of their paraphernalia, the omis-
sion was his own, and no blame attached to Godfrey.
The neglect seemed irremediable. It was out of the
question to return to Ormsby for the lantern, and yet,
without a light, it would be hazardous to grope their way
through darkness to the interior of the hillock. To be
so near the point of discovery, and yet so far off, was
maddening.
“I shall not return without some attempt at explora-
tion,” cried Idris. “We'll have to grope about in the
dark and try what we can discover in that way.”
Godfrey was almost ready to drop at this weird sug-
gestion.
“Stay à moment!” continued Idris, stooping over his
vest, and feeling in the pockets, “surely I have some
III


The Viking's Skull
matches here. Yes," he added, with a cry of delight,
drawing forth a metallic box. “Here they are! How
many? Three, as I live! Three only! Humph! we
shall have to economize our slender resources. We must
feel our way along the passage. I'll walk a few steps
ahead of you, so that if any hurt should befall me, take
warning yourself, and help me if you can. We'll not
strike these vestas till we are fairly within the central
chamber. We may learn something from their glimmer.”
Idris, having resumed his coat and vest, was on the
point of leading the way, when he suddenly became im-
pressed with the idea that there might be some hidden
danger within the hillock, and for Beatrice's sake it was
not right that Godfrey should be drawn into it.
But the surgeon, though indeed reluctant to go forward,
was nevertheless unwilling to be considered a coward, and
demurred to the suggestion that he should remain at the
entrance till Idris had first paid a visit to the interior.
“Seriously speaking,” said Idris, “ I do not see what
danger there can be, but still there is the possibility of it,
and I ought to meet it alone. Beatrice would never for-
give me if harm should befall you. Stay here till I have
made a brief exploration."
While speaking he caught sight of the walking-stick
with which Godfrey's grandfather had been accustomed
to perform his feats of divination. It was curiously
shaped, carved so as to represent a serpent twining round
a wand, the head of the reptile being set with two green,
glittering stones in imitation of eyes.
“ Pass me your ancestral caduceus," he said. “It will
serve to guide my steps. I wish these eyes were lamps !”
Then, waving the surgeon back, he stepped within the
dark hole, which seemed, in Godfrey's imagination, to
gape like the mouth of a great dragon about to swallow
its victim.
II2


The Viking's Skull
angles to the side of the passage. Passing his hand over
its surface, an action accompanied on his part by a feel-
ing of disgust, the masonry being wet and slimy, he dis-
covered what seemed to be a rusty rod extending in a
horizontal line along the wall at the height of about six
feet from the ground. Puzzled at first to account for its
use he came to the conclusion that it had once served to
uphold the tapestry with which the interiors of these old
Norse tombs were sometimes decorated. The tapestry
itself was gone, crumbled to dust, perhaps, with the lapse
of time, but the metallic rod remaining would serve to
conduct him round the chamber.
He shot a glance through the passage just traversed
by him: the darkness swallowed up its perspective, ren-
dering it impossible for the eye to form any judgment as
to its length. The entrance seemed close by, a square
patch of white light, in which was framed a dark stoop-
ing figure, that of Godfrey, vainly endeavouring to keep
an eye on his venturesome friend.
Idris turned from the passage, and holding the rod
with his left hand, and grasping the stick in his right, he
advanced slowly and cautiously along the side of the
chamber-wall, over ground that had, perhaps, been un-
trodden for ten centuries.
After taking six paces he was brought to a halt by the
wall inclining again at right angles. He had evidently
reached one corner of the stone chamber.
Turning his face in this new direction, and still sub-
mitting to the guidance of the supposed tapestry-rod, he
continued his progress, exploring the way before him
with the stick.
He paused again as his left hand came in contact with
a small triangular shred of cloth hanging to the rod. It
was apparently a fragment of tapestry. There might be
other and larger portions farther on, which, in view of
114


“The Fires of the Asas !"
their antiquity, would be of considerable value. Pleased
with the idea that he would not come away from the
tomb altogether empty-handed he was about to move
forward again, when his attention was suddenly diverted
to the stick he was carrying.
Without the exercise of any volition on his part it
was slowly inclining itself downwards. There was no
mistaking the fact, and the knowledge came upon him
as a disagreeable surprise. It was as if the serpent-rod
had suddenly become instinct with life.
His first impulse was to cast it from him, but thinking
that its downward motion might be due to the relaxed
state of his muscles, he raised and extended the stick
horizontally: he kept it in that position, but it was evident
to his sense of feeling that the rod manifested a tendency
to assume an oblique direction, just as if a thread were
tied to its extremity, and some one below lightly pulling
it.
What was the cause of this ? Must he dismiss his
former scepticism, and believe in the powers of the di-
vining rod ? Had this staff of witch-hazel, electrified by
the nervous force of his own body, become transformed
for the moment into a sort of magnet, capable of being
attracted by metals? Was he standing on the site of the
Viking's buried treasure? Was the very treasure itself
lying upon the clay flooring at his feet? If he struck a
match would his eye be caught by the sparkle of silver
and gold? No: he would reserve the light, and make
what discoveries he could without it.
Relinquishing his hold of the metallic rod he dropped
upon his knees, and with his face bent low, put forth his
hands.
*
*
*
*
*
*
Hark! What was that ?
The silent watcher at the entrance started.
115


The Viking's Skull
A faint cry from the interior of the hillock as of one
calling for help, and then stillness.
For some time Godfrey had kept his ear close to the
flooring of the passage, a position which enabled him to
follow the footsteps of Idris. But now these footsteps
had ceased, their cessation being followed shortly after-
wards by the cry. .
Godfrey continued to listen, but though straining his
ear to the utmost he could not detect the faintest sound.
A suspiciously horrible stillness prevailed within.
“ Idris ! Idris !” he called out, sending the full volume
of his voice along the passage : and “ Idris ! Idris !” was
echoed from the roof in tones that seemed like a mockery
of his own. If the dead in the sepulchral chamber were
gibing at him the effect could not have been more weird.
Again he called aloud, and again there was no answer,
save the echoes of his own voice.
“ My God! what has happened ?” he cried.
There fell upon him a terror like that which has turned
men's hair grey in a single night. He did not doubt, he
could not doubt, that some disaster had happened: he
must hasten to the rescue : duty, humanity, friendship,
honour — all these blending together in a voice of thun-
der urged him forward. Every moment was precious;
and yet to venture into the dark chamber without a light
seemed a piece of folly, for what was there to prevent
him from meeting with the same fate as Idris ?
He rose to his feet and turned his eyes towards the
cliffs and sea-beach in the hope of seeing a coast-guard
whose lantern would at this juncture be of inestimable
service. But alas! no coast-guard was visible, and to go off
in search of one was out of the question, when a minute
might make all the difference between life and death.
No: he must venture in alone, and without a light,
and he nerved himself for the task. Casting one glance
hand turhia of seeing of ine
116


“The Fires of the Asas !”
at the sky, the sea, the land, as objects he might never
see again, he snatched up the pickaxe to serve as a
weapon of defence, against he knew not whom or what,
and plunged into the mouth of the excavation that
yawned black and grim before him.
His course through the passage was much quicker
than that of Idris had been. There could be no danger
here, seeing that Idris had traversed it in safety. There-
fore the surgeon groped his way swiftly along the wall
of the corridor until it suddenly turned off at right angles,
whence he concluded that he was at the entrance of the
sepulchral chamber.
“ Idris, where are you ?” he cried.
There was no vocal reply, but a faint splash greeted his
ears like the movement of a hand through water, a sound
which Godfrey interpreted as an answer.
For a terrible idea had seized him. The floor of the
chamber was of earth only, and not of masonry, he
thought: and the rain of centuries, percolating through
the roof, had converted this flooring into a quagmire in-
capable of supporting the lightest weight. Idris had
become immersed in it: had just sunk below the surface:
his voice was gone: he had just given his last gasp!
How was he to save him? One step forward, and he
himself might be in the abyss of mud.
To test his opinion he flung the pickaxe forward, taking
care to avoid the spot whence came the splash. As it
fell Godfrey drew a breath of relief. The clangour made
by the falling implement proved that the quagmire was
the creation of his fancy. Still, what had become of
Idris that he made no reply? He must be somewhere
within this chamber, seeing that there was no egress from
it except by the passage. O for a light, if only that of a
match! Its momentary gleam would suffice to dispel the
mystery.
117


The Viking's Skull
He listened for Idris' breathing, but failed to detect
any sound: Idris, if he were really here, was as still as
the dead.
There was no other course for Godfrey than to grope
about until he came upon the body of Idris, an unpleas-
ant task, seeing that it might bring him into contact with
the bones of Vikings!
He started forward at random. Five paces, and his
knee knocked against some obstruction. Putting out his
hand he ascertained that directly in front of him was
something formed of hewn stone.
With an instinctive feeling that this was a tomb, God-
frey gave it a wide range, and in so doing stumbled and
fell over another object.
It was a human body. In a moment Godfrey was
upon his knees, and passing his hand quickly over the
prostrate figure he discovered that it was Idris in a state
of coma.
Quickly he felt for the match-box which Idris had put
into his vest pocket, and on finding it, drew it forth.
Taking out one of the wax-lights he struck it on the side
of the box.
Never within Godfrey's experience had the striking of
a match been attended with a result so appalling, for he
immediately found himself in an atmosphere of many-
coloured flame. The hot breath of a fiery furnace
glowed around, dazzling his eyes, scorching his face.
In that inoment of bewilderment and terror the words
of the runic ring flashed through his mind, and found
expression in his gasping articulation :
“ The fires of the Asas !”
Simultaneously with the illumination a fierce detonation
like a powder-blast rent the air, and Godfrey, flung back-
wards as by a giant hand, tumbled senseless to the ground.
118


CHAPTER VII
« WITHIN THE LOFTY TOMB”
YODFREY opened his eyes to find himself lying
on the grassy slope of Ormfell, staring up at
the night-sky, with Idris kneeling beside him.
A cool sensation was playing around his neck, and, grad-
ually waking up to the reality of outward things, the
surgeon discovered that his vest and collar lay open to
the breeze, and that Idris was sprinkling his face with
cold water-drops obtained from a pool close by.
“Coming-to a little, I see,” Idris observed cheerfully.
“How do you feel?”
“Awfully queer and dizzy," replied Godfrey.
He lifted himself to a sitting posture, utterly unable to
account for his present dazed condition.
"You'll be all right in a few minutes. Take a pull at
this spirit-flask: that'll revive you. I owe my life to
you, old fellow.”
“ In what way?" asked Godfrey, his mind still too con-
fused to recall the recent accident.
"Gaseous vapour would have claimed its victim. Your
grandfather was quite right in asserting this to be a car-
boniferous soil. Some of the coal-gas has issued to the
surface. The atmosphere within the hillock was a mix-
ture of carbon dioxide and floating fire-damp. Foolishly
creeping about, with mouth held to the ground, I took
in such a whiff of the one as to be quite overpowered by
it before I had time to rise, while the other exploded as
soon as you struck the match.”
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The Viking's Skull
Godfrey, now quite alive to the past, gave an ejacula-
tion of annoyance.
“ I'm a pretty doctor not to have warned you against
noxious vapours! It's a marvel we are both alive. But
why was I not overpowered ?".
“ Probably because you were not holding your face to
the earth where the gas collects, though very likely you,
too, would have succumbed in a few moments. How-
ever, all's well that ends well. Your striking a light was
a fortunate thing, for it appears to have acted like an
electric discharge in instantly clearing the air. True, you
were stunned, but I recovered; whether instantly by the
explosion, or more slowly by the purifying atmosphere,
I cannot tell. All I know is I awoke, and realizing what
had happened, and feeling you beside me, I lost no time
in dragging you out into the open air. And here we
are, none the worse for our experience, I trust. No
doubt it was occurrences like this that caused the old
Norsemen to believe that Odin guarded the tombs of the
dead by darting forth flames."
“The fires of the Asas are real enough, after all," mut-
tered Godfrey, still feeling like one in a dream. “Hasn't
the sound of the explosion brought any one here?".
" It seems not,” said Idris, looking round. “So far we
are safe. Old Orm offers a stubborn resistance," he con-
tinued. "• He being dead, yet fighteth. But he is
doomed to be defeated, for I will not go until I have ex-
amined the interior of the hillock.”
“You are not thinking of venturing into that death-
trap again ?” said Godfrey, aghast.
“ There is no danger now: at least, not from gases.
The explosion dissolved them, and the outer air has had
time to penetrate within. Besides, forewarned is fore-
armed. We know our peril: if one of us should be over-
powered, the other must drag him out.”
120


“Within the Lofty Tomb”
“ How can you make an investigation without a light?"
“ We shall have light enough. Fortunately, you
snapped the lid of the box tightly before striking your
match - an action that effectually screened the remain-
ing two from the flame of the fire-damp."
“Two matches will not help us much.”
“ There you're wrong. We will take some of this
brushwood inside and light a bonfire: and the sooner we
make a beginning the better. It's two o'clock now. In.
another hour or so day will be đawning."
Inwardly groaning at the perversity of his friend, God-
frey lent a hand in collecting the materials necessary for
the fire: and, not without some trepidation, carried them
through the dark passage into the mortuary chamber,
the atmosphere of which, as his nostrils assured him, had
become considerably clarified since his previous visit.
Fearing that the two matches when kindled might ex-
pire before he could fire the twigs, which were damp with
the afternoon's rain, Idris drew forth a small book, a
pocket edition of Hamlet, and proceeded to detach leaf
after leaf, twisting them into spirals. These he handed
to Godfrey, enjoining him to keep a flame alive by kin-
dling one from another till the twigs should have fairly
caught.
“Now to strike the fateful match !" he said. “Pray
heaven the Asas do not give us another pyrotechnic dis-
play!"
He cautiously struck the match. Godfrey instantly
kindled one of his paper-spirals from the flame.
“ No fireworks this time, you see,” remarked Idris, as
all remained quiet. “This is what may be called making
light of Shakespeare,” he added, as, taking the kindled
papers one after another from Godfrey's hand, he applied
them to the leaves and twigs, endeavouring to force them
into a blaze.
I 21


The Viking's Skull
The pale, bluish glare that sprang up made the cham-
ber faintly visible. Idris, intent on his task of ignition
saw nothing but the brushwood before him, but Godfrey
could not refrain from casting a timid glance around,
even at the risk of extinguishing the lighted paper in his
hand.
There was, however, nothing very dreadful in the scene
before him. He found himself standing in a chamber
about twenty feet square, the sides of which were com-
posed of rough-hewn blocks of masonry, glistening with
moisture, and dotted with patches of fungous growth.
The roof was formed by a layer of tree-trunks, necessarily
of great size and strength in order to support the vast
weight above. The floor seemed to be of earth, its sur-
face glimmering here and there with tiny black pools,
formed by the constant dropping of moisture from the
roof.
But the treasures deposited of old by Hilda the Alruna
for her son, Magnus of Deira — where were they? Well
for Idris that he had not set his heart on finding them,
for the chamber was bare, save for one object in the cen-
tre. This was the sarcophagus-like structure against
which Godfrey had collided when looking for Idris' body.
By the flickering light he could see that this receptacle
was of oblong shape, the sides consisting of four upright
stone slabs let into the earth, with a fifth one resting upon
them like a lid.
Idris had now succeeded in his task, and the twigs and
branches blazing up cast over the chamber a ruddy glow
sufficiently bright for the taking of observations.
“ This is better than a lantern. I warrant the place
hasn't looked so cheerful for centuries,” remarked Idris, as
he stood by the blaze and took a survey of the chamber.
“ Cheerful at present, perhaps, but in ten minutes we
shall be smoked out.”
I 22



CYRUS
CONGO





“Within the Lofty Tomb”
“I think not. This fire will burn bright and clear
presently, and will give out little smoke.”
Taking up a lighted brand from the fire Idris moved
forward and began his investigations with the tomb by
making a scrutiny of its lid.
“No inscription here, runic or otherwise. — Humph!
shall we supply one, Hic JACET ORMUS. — Now to re-
move this slab! Let us see if there are bones beneath.”
- Too eager to wait for Godfrey's assistance he seized the
lid with one hand, and, exerting all his strength, swung it
off laterally.
A cry of surprise, rather than of alarm, broke from
him, as he caught sight of a full-sized human skeleton
lying within. A burning fragment from the torch he
carried dropped within the teeth of the skeleton, where,
still continuing to glow, it lit up the skull with weird
effect, the red flicker giving an apparent motion to the
grinning jaws and eyeless sockets.
“Are these the remains of your Viking ?” asked God-
frey.
“Can there be doubt about it? This is old Orm, or
what is left of him," replied Idris, holding the torch low
over the skeleton. -" Here reposes one who, I doubt
not, made a brave figure in his day. And now ? None
so poor to do him reverence. The people of Ormsby
do not know even his name, and yet he was the founder
of their town, its nomenclator, in fact. The old Greeks
would have raised a statue and an altar to him in their
market-place, and have worshipped him as their hero
eponymous. And here he lies neglected and forgotten!
Shade of the mighty! can it be
That this is all remains of thee?'
“Is this wasted bone the high arm’spoken of on the
runic ring? Where be now its feats of strength ? And
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The Viking's Skull
where is the wealth won by his ashen spear ? the riches
that conferred upon him the epithet of Golden ? the
treasure placed within the lofty tomb' by his wife,
Hilda, the Norse prophetess ? Vanished! Whither?
Removed by whom ? and when? Did Magnus of Deira
really receive the runic ring despatched to him by his
mother? Did he come here in ancient days to remove
his heritage, or has the treasure been taken by other,
perhaps modern, hands? If so, by whose ? By the
masked man of Quilaix's ? By Captain Rochefort's or
by my father's ? Have they left behind any trace of
their visit ?”
His eyes roving around the chamber were attracted by
a fabric lying at the foot of one of the walls.
“What have we here?” he said, stepping forward and
picking it up. “A piece of cloth! Will this give us a
clue to the men who were here last?"
For better inspection he carried the cloth to the light
of the fire. When unrolled the fabric proved to be ob-
long in shape, six feet by four, its edges very much
frayed, and its surface so defaced by clay that it was im-
possible at first to discover its texture, colour, or use.
“I see what it is,” he remarked at last. “Look at that
triangular shred of cloth hanging from the metallic rod :
its shape tallies with the triangular rent in this fabric.
This has been torn from that rail : it is a part of the
tapestry that once decked the walls of this chamber. I
am disappointed again ; I thought to find a modern ves-
ture, and am put off with ancient tapestry.”
He began to scrape the fabric with his penknife.
“I can detect some coloured threads," he went on.
“ It is figured arras : but it is impossible at present to
make out what the figures are. Here are some letters,
too. I can detect N. and T. We must keep this.
When cleaned it may prove to be an interesting 'find' -
124


“Within the Lofty Tomb”
of a more ancient date, unless my chronology be at fault,
than the famous Bayeux Tapestry. What puzzles me is,
why the man who carried off the rest of the tapestry
should leave this behind him.”
“ Probably because it is a torn remnant."
“But it would be a very simple matter to sew it to the
main piece again. Do you notice how the rail is bent
where the three cornered bit is ?”
Godfrey looked and saw that the rod was bent down-
wards.
“ What inference do you draw from that?” Idris
asked.
“ That somebody must have been tugging heavily at
the tapestry to cause such a curvature.”
“Exactly. But why should any one wrench so vio-
lently at the tapestry, tapestry that was evidently regarded
as valuable, otherwise it would not have been carried off?”
Godfrey shrugged his shoulders at the apparent irrel-
evancy of Idris' remarks.
“ Your question is not susceptible of an answer.”
“ True — at present. But an investigator should take
note of every circumstance, however trifling, although at
the time he may fail to discern its true significance.”
“But seeing that the tapestry may have been carried
off centuries ago, it is difficult to discover the present ap-
plication of your remark.”
“On the other hand it may have been carried off only
recently : it is these recent traces that I wish to find.
Somehow, this bent rod attracts me. Ah!"
Whilst speaking thus he suddenly recalled an incident
that had occurred during his previous exploration in the
dark.
“Godfrey, your divining rod. I am half-a-believer in
its powers. At any rate I am going to try an experi-
ment.”
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The Viking's Skull
Taking the hazel stick he walked to that part of the
wall where the shred of tapestry hung.
“ Either I am dreaming,” he said, “ or a singular experi-
ence befell me at this spot.”
Standing in the same position as before he extended
the stick horizontally, explaining to Godfrey the reason
for his act.
But Solomon's saying, “ The thing that hath been, it is
that which shall be," was not verified on the present oc-
casion. Though Idris waited patiently for several min-
utes the rod manifested none of the downward tendency
that it had previously shown.
Godfrey himself took the stick and tried the experi-
ment, but with no better result. He expressed his
opinion that Idris must have been the victim of an illu-
sion : but to this Idris would not assent.
“ The rod does not turn now, that's clear. But that it
did turn I am confident. It was no fancy of mine."
“Let us dig," said Godfrey, “and see whether there is
anything beneath the soil that could have caused it.”
With these words he took up the spade and began
digging. Idris followed his example, wielding the pick-
axe, but found, after a few strokes, that some hard sub-
stance prevented the point of the implement from
penetrating to a greater depth than three or four inches.
“This earth is mere superficial deposit, percolations
from the roof,” said Idris. “There is a stone flooring
beneath.”
In a few moments they had cleared away the terrene
deposit, discovering nothing however, except a block of
smooth masonry, at which Idris dealt a few strokes by
way of experiment.
“ Humph! seems solid enough. The dull sound given
forth is hardly suggestive of a cavity. What made the
rod curve, I wonder ?”
126


“Within the Lofty Tomb”
Finding no answer to this question, he turned reluc-
tantly away, and began to explore other parts of the
chamber. He made a careful examination of its flooring,
allowing no part of it to escape him. With the spade he
swept aside the black water from the tiny hollows, and
with the pickaxe he probed the ground at various points,
discovering everywhere stone pavement beneath the su-
perficial covering of earth.
The object that he was hoping to find — a match-box,
or a button bearing the maker's name; the dated sheet
of a newspaper; a scrap of handwriting: a handkerchief,
marked with the owner's initials : or some article of like
character — existed only in his fancy. A thorough
search on the part of the two friends failed to bring any-
thing to light, either on the surface of the floor, or em-
bedded within the clay.
There was nothing to indicate the date at which the
tumulus had been last entered: whether ten, twenty, or
a hundred years before. For all they could tell to the
contrary, many centuries might have passed since its
interior had been trodden by human footsteps.
Relinquishing at last his fruitless labours Idris seated
himself on the edge of the Viking's tomb with disap-
pointment written on his features.
“I have so long clung to the hope that this place
would afford a clue to the finding of my father, that I
cannot give up the notion even now, when its futility
seems most apparent. You may think me fanciful, God-
frey, but something seems to whisper that there are traces
of him here, if I did but know where to look for them.
And yet, I suppose, we have done all that it is possible
to do?”
He rose again from his seat and scrutinized the
four walls of the chamber, sounding them with the
pickaxe.
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The Viking's Skull
“ There does not appear to be any cell or passage be-
hind these,” he muttered.
He turned his eyes upwards, and took a survey of the
black tree trunks forming the roof of the chamber: and
finished his investigations by probing the dust of the
Viking's tomb with the end of the walking-stick, but
made no further discovery.
“So end my hopes of finding my father,” he muttered
sadly. “My labour has been expended on a vain quest.
Years of search throughout Europe: years of study over
runic letters, end in - a dead man's bones ! - How this
old fellow grins ! One would think he enjoys my dis-
comfiture. I shall take his skull back with me.”
“Why, in heaven's name?”
“A whim of mine, nothing more. I have taken a
fancy for the skull, and the skull I will have. So old
Orm,” he continued, stooping down and detaching the
grisly head-piece from the vertebral column,“ prepare to
face the light of day after a sleep of centuries in dark-
ness.”
“Put it back again,” said Godfrey. “What good can
it do you? You can't possibly put it to any use.”
“The skull of a brave Viking is a trophy well worth
preserving, a noble ornament for my sideboard. And if
you talk of use, there are several uses to which I can put
it. I may set it with silver, and convert it into a drink-
ing-cup, like that used by Byron. Or I may turn it into
a pretty lamp to write tragedy by, after the fashion of the
poet Young. Or, imitating the old Egyptians, I may use
it as a table-decoration to remind me of death, and of the
vanity of all things human. The skull will be a souvenir
of our expedition, a memento of an experience unique, at
least, in my life. — So hurrah!” he cried, holding the
trophy aloft, “ HURRAH FOR THE Viking's SKULL!”
128


“Within the Lofty Tomb”
Day was dawning when Idris and Godfrey reached
home, after concealing, so far as lay in their power, the
traces of their night's work. Beatrice, who had been
sitting up anxiously awaiting their return, gave a little
scream when she beheld their blackened faces.
“ Heavens! what has happened?" she cried.
Over the repast that she had kept in readiness for them
Idris gave an account of the expedition, finishing his
story by producing the relics he had brought away with
him, namely, the Viking's skull and the fragment of
tapestry.
“Let us have some warm water, Trixie,” said Godfrey.
“We will try to clean this tapestry.”
A bowl of warm water was soon procured, Godfrey
diluting it with a powder brought by him from his sur-
gery.
“ A chemical preparation of my own,” he explained,
“ warranted to take out stains without injuring the cloth.”
Under Beatrice's manipulation the relic gradually dis-
closed itself as a piece of brownish-coloured linen, divided
by a vertical line of black thread into two sections of un-
equal length. Each section consisted of a picture woven
in woollen threads on the linen background, and each was
fragmentary in character, the beginning of the one and
the end of the other being torn away.
The left section represented a battle-field: spears were
hurtling in air: two warriors were lying prostrate, and a
third, a yellow-haired hero, his bare arms flung aloft, was
in the act of falling backwards, his breast pierced by an
arrow. These figures, drawn to a scale of about half the
human size, were in a good state of preservation. The
colours of the garments had scarcely faded : the golden
filaments composing the shields still retained their bright-
ness : and the swords, woven from silver threads, glinted
in the rising sunlight, as Beatrice moved the fabric to and
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The Viking's Skull
fro. To this section was attached the subscription :-
“Hic Ormum AUREUM OCCIDUNT.”
“ What do these words mean?” Beatrice asked.
« « Here they kill Orm the Golden,'” Idris replied.
“ Orm the Golden," Godfrey repeated. “You are
right, then, Idris, in your theory as to that tumulus be-
ing the tomb of the warrior spoken of on the runic ring.
I confess that till this moment I have had my doubts on
the point, but this piece of tapestry is decisive.”
In the other section of the cloth the same warrior, still
pierced by the arrow, was represented as lying prone
upon the earth: two figures, those of a woman and of a
boy, were bending over him. That it was night-time was
shown by the torches they carried. The woman had evi-
dently come to bear off the body of the dead chief. The
words, “ HILDA INVENIT” — were clearly discernible; the
rest of the inscription was wanting.
“Hilda finds' - Orm, I suppose the next word would
be, if we had the inscription in full,” said Idris. “Hilda
- the lady of the runic ring, you will remember. This
other figure is perhaps intended for her son Magnus : if
so, it is clear that he was a lad at the time of his father's
death, which may account for his mother's act in hiding
the treasure in Ormfell. There it was to remain till her
son should be of age to defend his heritage. The roll of
- tapestry suspended round the tomb was evidently, when
entire, a complete record in needlework of the life of Orm
the Viking. It must haye formed an interesting relic of
Norse times. A pity we haven't the whole of it.”
“ And so this is Hilda the Alruna !” mused Beatrice,
contemplating the figure on the tapestry. “How cur-
iously we are linked with the past! To think that the
expedition in which you nearly lost your lives is the re-
sult of a sentence engraved on a Norse altar-ring a thou-
sand years ago by the lady portrayed on this piece of
130


“Within the Lofty Tomb”
needlework! She had dark hair, if this be her counter-
feit presentment.' And to think, too, that we possess the
very skull of the yellow-haired Viking pictured here! It
sounds too romantic to be true. Where are you going to
put your grisly trophy, Mr. Breakspear?”.
« The head of the staircase is the orthodox place.”
“ The orthodox place?” repeated Beatrice, puzzled by
the expression.
.“ Some ancient houses keep a skull as part of the fur-
nishings,” Idris explained. “ It is supposed to bring good
luck, and the head of the staircase is its usual place, any
removal of it being fraught with danger to the house.
Of course this is foolery, but — "
“But still we may as well be in the fashion,” smiled
Beatrice, “and so I'll put it where you say."
The Viking's skull was therefore taken by her to the
embrasure of the window that looked down the staircase,
after which act Beatrice went off for a brief spell of sleep,
this being the first time she had ever gone to bed at sun-
rising.
Godfrey, preparing to follow her example, lingered for
a moment, attracted by the appearance of the water in
which the tapestry had been cleansed.
“ How red this water is !” he murmured. “ To what
is the colour due ?”.
“ Probably to the reddish coloured clay with which the
cloth was stained,” replied Idris.
“ It may be so," said the physician, slowly and thought-
fully, “but if I remember rightly, the clay in that part
of the chamber where the tapestry lay was not red at all.
The appearance of this water is certainly curious. One
might almost take it for blood !”
131


CHAPTER VIII
LORELIE RIVIÈRE
\HE expedition to Ormfell had been a failure
from Idris' point of view. Deaf to the voice
of reason he had clung to the idea that the
Viking's tomb held a clue that would aid him in finding
his father. Having now received clear proof of the
fallacy of that hope Idris, after a few hours' sleep, wan-
dered forth by the seashore to consider what his next
step should be.
It was an afternoon of brilliant sunshine. The tide
was out, but without making any inquiries as to the time
of its return, he strolled leisurely onward, wrapped in
meditation.
Casually raising his eyes from the ribbed sea-sand he
caught sight of a structure, locally known as “ The Stairs
of David.” This was an arrangement of three ladders,
suspended one above another on the face of the cliff,
which at this point rose vertically to a height of more
than a hundred feet. Iron hooks kept these ladders in
position. The structure, a very frail one, had been put
up originally to enable crab-fishers to reach this part of
the beach with more expedition.
Still deep in thought Idris passed on, and had left the
ladder about a mile in his rear, when he suddenly paused
and looked in the direction of the murmuring sound -
the sound he had heard for some time, but to which he
had given no heed.
The tide was coming in, and coming in so quickly, that
unless he hastened back at once he ran the risk of being
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Lorelie Rivière
drowned : for steep cliffs rose above him, and the open
beach was at least five miles away.
Just on the point of setting off at a run he was checked
by the recollection of “ The Stairs of David.” It would
be easy to scale the cliff by means of this structure.
He moved onward at a leisurely pace, and then stopped
abruptly. What was that object rising and falling on the
surface of the water a few yards in rear of the advancing
line of foam ? Let “ The Stairs of David " be far off or
close by, he must satisfy his curiosity before mounting
them.
He ran to the edge of the breakers, and, with a thrill
of surprise, discovered that the undulating object was a
woman's hat.
How came it there? He had not, so far as he could
remember, encountered anybody in his walk along the
shore. He looked over the dancing waves, but neither
boat nor vessel was visible : he looked up and down the
beach: he looked along the craggy summit of the cliffs
that rose in frowning grandeur above him, but could see
neither man nor woman. He stood, a solitary figure, on
a shore that stretched away north and south for many
miles.
Regardless of the advancing tide he remained motion-
less, fascinated by the sight of the hat, his uneasiness
deepening each moment. There was something familiar
in the grey felt with its once graceful feather bedrenched
with the salt spray.
He advanced into the shallow water and lifted the hat
for a closer survey. It was rarely that Idris took note
of a woman's attire, but he could recall every detail of
the dress worn by Mademoiselle Rivière on the day he
saw her in the Ravengar Chantry, and he knew that this
hat was hers.
His heart, weighted by a terrible idea, sank within him
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The Viking's Skull
like lead. Half expecting to see a dead form come float-
ing past he glanced again over the surface of the rippling
tide.
He now recollected, what he had hitherto forgotten,
that there were dangerous quicksands along this part of
the coast. Must he believe that Mademoiselle Rivière
had become engulfed, and that the tide was now foaming
jubilantly over her head ?
Once more he looked along the shore, and, as he
looked, his pulses thrilled with a sudden and delicious
relief; for at the sandy base of a distant cliff he caught
sight of a figure lying prone.
Dropping the hat he hurried over the intervening
space, and in a moment more was kneeling beside the
form of Lorelie Rivière. Beneath her lay the third and
lowest of the three ladders that formed the so-called
“ Stairs of David.” She had been either ascending or
descending the frail structure, and it had given way.
The ladder, worm-eaten with age, had snapped into three
portions on touching the sands, and the shock of its fall
had deprived her of consciousness.
Her eyelids were closed. Silent and motionless she
lay, her breathing so faint as scarce to seem breathing at
all, her delicate fingers still clinging to a rung of the
fallen ladder.
“ Thank heaven, she is alive!” murmured Idris, a great
dread rolling from his heart.
He gently detached her fingers from the rung of the
ladder, and, tenderly raising her, rested her head upon
his knee, turning her face towards the breeze. As he
did so, the murmuring sound, that had never once ceased,
seemed to swell louder, and his heart almost leaped into
his mouth when he noticed how rapidly the tide was ad-
vancing.
That terrible tide!
134


Lorelie Rivière
Were it not for the rush of waters swirling forward he
might have thought that some good fairy was favouring
his heart's dearest wish. The loveliest maiden whom he
had ever seen was resting within his arms, dependent
upon him for safety. But what safety could he give?
Their position seemed hopeless. The last rung of the
middle ladder hung forty feet or more above his head.
The lowest ladder lay on the sands in three portions, and
he realized at a glance the impossibility of refixing them
in their original position.
“No boat in sight! Impossible to scale the cliffs !
Too far to swim with her to Ormsby! What is to be
our fate?” he muttered.
Idris had often looked death in the face, but never in
circumstances so hard as these. Was he to die holding
this fair maiden in his arms, helplessly witnessing her
'death-gasps ? And the voice of the sea, swelling ever
higher and higher, seemed to give an answering cry of
“ Yes, yes!”
The breeze blowing full upon her face had a reviving
effect upon her. Slowly she opened her eyes, and a look
of innocent wonder came over her face when she met
Idris' earnest gaze bent upon her.
“ You fell from the ladder, you remember," he said,
answering the question in her eyes. “ Are you hurt ?
Have you broken any bones ?”
“I- I think not,” was the reply.
“Shall I help you to stand ? ”
She assented. But no sooner was she raised to her
feet than throbs of pain began to shoot through her left
ankle, and she leaned for support against the cliff, resting
her right foot only upon the sand.
“My ankle pains me.' I don't think I can walk.”
While thus speaking she chanced to look upward at
the ladder hanging far above her head, and then, lower-
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The Viking's Skull
ing her eyes to the flowing sea, she suddenly took in the
full peril of their position.
“The tide! the tide!” she murmured, clasping her
hands. “We are lost.”
“We certainly mustn't remain here. And if you can-
not walk I must carry you."
Idris' cheerful and brisk air did not deceive her.
Glancing from left to right she saw the futility of his pro-
posal as well as he saw it himself.
The contour of the shore formed a semicircular bay
many miles in length, and its sands were lined by a wall
of lofty perpendicular cliffs without a single gap to break
their continuity. Idris and his companion were standing
somewhere near the centre of this curve. The tide, ex-
tending in a straight line across the bay, had now closed
in upon the extreme points of the arc-like sweep, and
was still advancing, covering the sand and reducing at
each moment the extent of their standing room. Before
Idris could have carried her half-a-mile the sea would be
breaking many feet deep upon the base of the cliffs.
“You cannot save me,” said Mademoiselle Rivière, a
sudden calmness coming over her. “It is impossible.
You must leave me and try to save yourself.”
The gentle maiden, whom a harsh word melts to tears,
will often face death with fortitude, the great crisis evok-
ing all the latent heroism of her nature. So it was now,
and Idris, looking into the depth of Mademoiselle
Rivière's steadfast eyes, caught a glimpse of how those
Christian women may have looked who faced martyrdom
in the pagan days of old. Strange that a maiden, seem-
ingly so good and brave, should have excited the aversion
of Beatrice !
“ If you die, I die with you,” said Idris. “But I have
no intention of letting either you or myself die. There
is a way of escape open to us.'
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Lorelie Rivière
For, with a sudden thrill of joy, he remembered that,
at a point a few hundred yards to the north of their pres-
ent position, he had passed a great pile of rocks, fallen
crags detached from the sides of the overhanging preci-
pice. The spot was invisible from where he now stood,
being hidden behind a projecting buttress of the cliff, but
he judged that the summit of this rocky mass was cer-
tainly above high-water mark. There he and Mademoi-
selle Rivière must remain till the ebb of the tide, unless
they should be so fortunate as to attract the notice of
some passing boat.
Making known his intention, Idris added, “ Pardon
me; this is no time for ceremony."
He lifted her in his arms, and she, with a sudden and
natural revulsion in favour of life, submitted to his will,
placing her arms around his neck to steady her person.
The humming sea, as if bent on securing its victims,
came foaming with threatening rapidity over the bare
stretch of sand, throwing forward long streamlets, that,
like eager creatures in a race, seemed striving with each
other to be first at the foot of the cliff.
Though Lorelie Rivière was but a light weight Idris'
progress was necessarily slow. At each step his foot
sank deeper into the rapidly-moistening sand, and ere
long the water itself was swirling round his ankles, and
flinging its sparkling spray against the base of the preci-
pice. And yet in all his life he had never experienced
the pure joy that filled him at that moment. The woman
whom he most loved was reclining within his arms, and
clasped so closely to him, that he could feel her breast
swelling against his own, and her hair touching his cheek.
There was a subtle charm in the situation : what wonder,
then, that he desired to prolong it, and that he moved at
a slower pace as he drew near the pile of fallen crags ?
The desired haven was gained at last, and Mademoiselle
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The Viking's Skull
Rivière, partly by her own efforts and partly with the
help of Idris, clambered up the face of the slippery and
weed-grown rocks, the top of which formed an irregular,
hummocky platform, a few yards in extent.
“Saved !” she murmured, sinking down and scarcely
able to repress a tendency to cry. “But will not the tide
cover this ledge?”
“No. See here!” replied Idris, plucking a weed be-
side her. “Samphire! It never grows below salt water.
We are quite safe.”
Mademoiselle Rivière clasped her hands : her lips
moved, and Idris knew that she was breathing a silent
prayer.
“ You have saved my life,” she said, looking up at him
with gratitude shining from her eyes. “How can I
thank you. he had seen Man.. though this
Though he had seen Mademoiselle Rivière but once,
and then for a moment only: though this was his first
time of conversing with her, Idris intuitively felt that she
was the one woman in the world for him: and that
though happiness might be possible apart from her, such
happiness would be but the shadow of that derivable
from her undivided love.
Fortune was certainly favouring him. He would have
given half his wealth to any one who could have brought
about such a situation as the present, and lo! the event
had happened naturally, of itself, and without any pre-
meditation on his part. It was wonderful! Many hours
might pass ere he and Mademoiselle Rivière could quit
the spot where they now were. He determined to make
good use of this golden opportunity. He would exert
all his powers to gain a place, if not in her affection, at
least in her friendship, so that her feeling on parting
from him should contain something of regret.
“ How can I thank you ?" she repeated.
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Lorelie Rivière
“ By not thanking me. How did the accident
happen?"
“ My hat was the cause of it all. I was standing on
the edge of the cliff when the wind carried it off to the
sands below. Not wishing to return home bare-headed,
I clambered down • The Stairs of David' after it. The
ladder gave way, and I fell. A sudden stop, and I re-
member no more.”
“ It was well the ground at the foot of the cliff was
soft sand,” said Idris.
“It was well, as you say,” replied Mademoiselle Rivière
with a shiver. «I shall never forget the sensation of
falling through the air.”
“Does your ankle still pain you?” Idris asked, ob-
serving that she shrank from placing her left foot on the
ground.
“ A little,” she smiled.
“ You are sure it is not dislocated — broken ?”
“ Ono; it is merely a sprain. How long shall we
have to remain here?” she added.
This was a question that Idris himself had been con-
sidering. It appeared that Mademoiselle Rivière, on
setting out for her walk, had not told any one of the di-
rection she had intended to take: Idris had been similarly
negligent. Hence it was very unlikely that men from
Ormsby would come cruising along the shore in boats to
search for them. To scale the precipice was out of the
question. To shout for aid would be of little avail, for
as the cliff above them was lofty, and the highroad ran
-a considerable distance from its edge, there was little
probability that their voices would be heard. Their po-
sition rendered it impossible to make any signals that
would be visible at Ormsby, that town being situated
just behind the cliff that formed one extremity of the bay.
“I fear," said Idris, after considering all these things,
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The Viking's Skull
" that our captivity is dependent upon the good graces
of the tide.”
“And the tide will be several hours in turning,” said
Mademoiselle Rivière. “Well, I suppose I must play
the philosopher, and accept the situation. It is certainly
better to be here than under the waves."
If her beauty charmed Idris, her manner, pleasant and
without affectation, charmed him still more.
So interested had he been in her companionship that
he had hitherto failed to notice that the face of the over-
hanging cliff was pierced by a deep cavern, the mouth
of which was on a level with the top of their rocky
platform.
“What is this?” he said, stepping forward to take a
closer view. “A cave, as I live. A coast-guard's place
for watching smugglers, I suppose.”
“That must be the Hermit's Cave,'” said Mademoiselle
Rivière, turning her eyes upon it, “so named from an
ancient recluse who is said to have made it his home. I
am told that the chair in which he sat is still to be seen,
cut out of the solid rock.”
“ Excellent! You must occupy that seat, mademoi-
selle. It will be more pleasant there than sitting out
here upon this slippery windy rock.”
She rose, glad of the proposed change, for the wind
was playing confusion with her hair. Observing her
wince, as her left foot touched the ground, Idris said,
with a smile:-
“ You had better let me carry you."
Lorelie coloured, neither assenting nor opposing.
Since Idris had carried her once it would be prudery to
resist now, and so, knowing that she must either accept
his aid or else crawl to the spot upon her hands and
knees, she entrusted herself to his arms, and in this way
gained the entrance of the cave, which was of consider-
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Lorelie Riviere
able extent, and strewn with logs, planks, and odd pieces
of timber.
“Where does all this wood come from?” she asked.
“Wreckage-timber, probably; doubtless placed here
by the coast-guard to be used as firing in cold weather.
See! here is the hermit's seat you spoke of,” said Idris,
indicating a piece of rock jutting from the wall of the
cave near its entrance. It had been hollowed out by art
into the rude resemblance of an armchair, and within
this recess Idris placed his companion.
“I hope you dined well before setting out,” he said,
“ for our grotto offers nothing in the shape of commis-
sariat.”
“ I am somewhat thirsty," replied Lorelie, as she turned
her eyes upon a tiny spring of water, which, issuing from
a fissure in the wall of the cave, flowed silently down into
a depression hollowed out in the floor, just beside the
hermit's seat; then, overflowing from the basin into a
groove of its own making, the water became lost in an
orifice a few feet distant.
“ Here is a remedy for thirst,” said Idris. "The daily
drink of our hermit. The waters of Siloah that go
softly,' was perhaps his name for it. The eremite's
crockeryware having perished, how do you propose to
drink?"
“ With Nature's cup,” smiled Lorelie, curving her
hands into the shape of a bowl.
Mindful of her ankle she slid cautiously upon her knees
and bent, a charming picture, over the pool.
“ How clear and still,” she murmured. “Its surface is
like a mirror."
“ Then do not gaze too long upon it, lest you meet the
fate of Narcissus.”
“Narcissus ?" she repeated, looking up at him with in-
quiring eyes.
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The Viking's Skull
“ He died from the reflection of his own loveliness.”
Idris regretted his words almost in the very moment
of their utterance, for he could tell by the sudden cloud-
ing of her face that she was averse to the language of
gallantry. Clearly she was not a woman to be won by
empty compliment, and he resolved to steer clear of such
a quicksand. He was glad to observe that when she had
resumed her seat the pleasant smile was again on her lip.
Attentive to every variation in her countenance he
began to discern two moods in Lorelie Rivière: the one
vivacious and sprightly, and this seemed to be her original
disposition: the other, pensive and sad, the result, so he
judged, of some secret sorrow.
He longed to know more of this fair lady, slighted by
Beatrice; the lady who had once lived at Nantes in the
very house that fronted the scene of the murder of
Duchesne, that murder for which his father had been
condemned: the lady who was erecting in St. Oswald's
Churchyard a marble cross inscribed with an epitaph that
seemed almost applicable to his father's case: the lady
whose playing upon the organ had wrought so weird an
effect upon his mind.
All these things contributed to invest Lorelie Rivière
with a charming air of mystery, but Idris recognized that
the time was not yet ripe to press for confidences.
Dragging a few logs forward he disposed them so as to
form a seat for himself near the entrance of the cavern,
remarking as he did so:-
“We must not forget to look out for passing boats.”
The afternoon sun was filling the air with a dusky
golden glow. The waves dancing and sparkling below
the mouth of the cave flashed emerald and sapphire hues
upon its roof, irradiating the place with an ever-changing
light.
To Idris the situation was a charming tableau, a living
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Lorelie Rivière
idyll, and one that was rendered all the more pleasant by
contrast with their recent perilous position. Madem-
oiselle Rivière trembled as she reflected on what might
have happened but for the chance passing of this stranger.
Strange that until this moment it had not occurred to her
to ask his name!
"You know my name," she said, “ but I have yet to
learn yours.”
“ My name is Breakspear,” he replied, withholding his
true patronymic; and feeling as he spoke a sense of
shame of having to deceive her even in so small a matter;
“ Idris Breakspear.”
“ Idris !” she said, with a sudden start, as if the name
had touched some chord in her memory. “Idris! It is
a somewhat uncommon name."
“We will say, then, that its rarity is a point in its
favour," smiled Idris, who had observed her start, and
• wondered at the cause.
“Have we not met before, Mr. Breakspear?”
“I saw you two days ago in the Ravengar Chantry,"
he replied. He did not say, as he might truthfully have
said, that during these two days he had been thinking of
little else but that brief meeting. “Miss Ravengar and
I,” he continued, “ had been listening to your recital on
the organ. I must congratulate you on your skill as a
musician, Mademoiselle Rivière. May I ask the name
of the last chant you played? Was it taken from some
oratorio, or was it your own improvisation?"
“ The last chant?" repeated Lorelie, with a pensive air.
“Let me think? What was it? Did it run like this ?”.
And in a sweet silvery tone she trilled off a bar which
Idris immediately recognized as a part of the refrain that
had been played by her.
“That is the · Ravengar Funeral March,'” explained
Lorelie. “ Its origin goes far back into the depths of the
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The Viking's Skull
dark ages, tradition affirming that it is the composition
of an ancient scald, and was first chanted at the burial
of the old Norse chieftain who founded the Ravengar
family. It has been the custom to play it at the funeral
of every Ravengar, though he would be a bold person
who should say that the tune has not undergone varia-
tions in its descent to our times. The unknown minstrel
with whom it originated was a genius, a mediæval Mozart.
Could you not fancy that you heard the tread of numer-
ous feet in procession, the clang of shield and spear, the
groans of warriors, the plaintive weeping of women ?”
" It certainly was a weird requiem; it moved me as no
other piece of music ever has.”
And then, absorbed in a new idea, Idris forgot for the
moment the presence of even Lorelie Rivière.
“ What are these Ravengars to me,” he thought, “ or
am I to them, that their Funeral Chant should produce
in me such clairvoyant sensations ?”.
This question was succeeded by another. How had
Mademoiselle Rivière become familiar with this requiem ?
As if in answer to his thoughts Lorelie remarked:-
“I heard Viscount Walden play it once in Venice: he
gave it as a specimen of the weird and uncanny in music.
It so took my fancy that I did not rest till I had obtained
a copy of it.”
It was somewhat disquieting to learn that she had met
Lord Walden abroad, and that she was on terms of suffi-
cient friendship to beg from him a copy of music. Had
this friendship changed into something deeper? Was he
to regard Lord Walden in the light of a rival? Had
Mademoiselle Rivière come to Ormsby in order to be
near the viscount? In saving her from being over-
whelmed by the tide Idris had doubtless gained a high
place in her favour, but then gratitude is not love, and
Ravenhall and a coronet were powerful attractions.
144


Lorelie Rivière
“Do you often play at St. Oswald's Church ?” he
asked, after an interval of silence.
“Yes. I find a charm in its • dim religious light.'”
“And the quietude of the place,” said Idris, “ is also
favourable to the study of mediæval historians — Paulus
Diaconus, for example.”
“Ah! Mr. Breakspear,” she said, “ so it was you who
carried off my book from the organ-loft. I guessed as
much when I went back, and found it gone. You must
not forget to return it, for I value it highly. Now, con-
fess, that you have wondered why I, a woman, should
take to poring over that old Lombard historian ?”
“ Curiosity is not confined to the sex with whom it is
supposed to have originated,” smiled Idris," and I am
willing to admit, mademoiselle, that I have been puzzled.
The book does not belong to the style of literature us-
ually patronized by ladies.”
“ Merci! I regard that last remark as a compliment.
Well, I will explain the mystery, if you will promise to
keep the matter a secret.” And upon Idris giving his
assurance, she continued: “I am trying to write a poet-
ical play, a tragedy relating to the times of the Italo-
Lombard kings, and as I do not wish to commit anach-
ronisms, it behoves me to study the historical authorities
in the original.”
“I understand," answered Idris, his opinion of Lorelie
rising higher than ever: besides being a musician and a
Latin scholar, she was also a poetess! “And what are
you going to call your play?”.
« « The Fatal Skull,'” she replied. “You look sur-
prised, Mr. Breakspear. Is there already a play of that
name?”
“I have never heard of it.”
“ Because one must not borrow another author's title,
is it not so?"
IO
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The Viking's Skull
“ The Fatal Skull !” Idris could not' but think it a
curious coincidence that Lorelie's drama should bear such
a title, when he himself at this time was much interested
in a skull, to wit, that of Orm the Viking.
“Why so weird a title, mademoiselle ? "
“ Because it is appropriate to the leading incident in the
piece: for the play turns on the famous historic banquet
at which the Lombard Queen Rosamond was forced by
her husband to drink from her father's skull. So now
you understand, Mr. Breakspear," she went on, “ that
wherever the words · Fatal Skull,' or the initials · F. S.,'
occur in the margin of my book, they mean that there is
something in the passage thus marked capable of being
worked into my drama.”
“And when do you intend to publish it?”.
“ Not yet: perhaps never. I write, not for fame, but
for my own pleasure.”
“Do not say that, mademoiselle. If one has noble
thoughts the world will be the better for hearing them.
I hope, therefore, to see the day when your work will be
published: nay, more, I hope to see it acted.”
" It is kind of you to say so," she murmured. The
light of pleasure in her eyes, and the colour mantling her
cheek, so enhanced her beauty that it was with difficulty
the impulsive Idris could repress the temptation of telling
her of his love. But, even as he watched, the look of
pleasure faded from her face, and there succeeded the
melancholy air that he had previously noticed, an air that
said almost as plainly as words, “I am forgetting myself:
it is not for me to be glad.”
Yet the smile returned to her lip when Idris ventured
upon a suggestion.
“I see neither boat nor vessel within hail,” he remarked,
glancing over the sea. “We have several hours yet be-
fore us. Now in the Christmas tales, you know, when
146


Lorelie Rivière
.
the stage-coach passengers are snowed up at the country-
inn, or the sea-voyagers wrecked on the lonely isle, they
always beguile the time by story-telling. It's the or-
thodox thing to do. Suppose we imitate them.”
“A good idea! and,” added Lorelie archly, “it be-
comes the mover of the proposition to take the initia-
tive.”
“Caught in the net I was preparing for another !”
smiled Idris. “I was hoping to hear you recite some
portions of your play. But that will come later. Well,
mademoiselle, what shall my story be?”.
“ You said a while ago that you have led a somewhat
adventurous life, and that you once took part in a battle.
I call for some of your adventures."
“You flatter my vanity. A man's self is an insidious
theme. The Apologia pro meâ vitâ is rarely to be trusted,
the author being naturally prone to magnify his virtues,
and minimize his faults. Always receive the autobiog-
raphy cum grano salis.”
“Very well,” replied Lorelie, with a smile irresistible in
its witchery. “Begin your story, and I will supply the
granum salis as you proceed.”
Vain was it for Idris to protest. She was not to be
deterred from her purpose of hearing something of his
personal history; and, accordingly, after due reflection,
he proceeded to relate some of his experiences in the
Græco-Turkish War of '97, in which he had taken a part,
in common with some other Englishmen of adventurous
spirit.
Idris was master of a certain natural eloquence, an elo-
quence very effective in the case of an imaginative maiden.
At any rate Lorelie seemed to take a deep interest in his
words. Never before had he seen so attentive a listener.
Her face, like water lit by the changing rays of the sun,
reflected all the varying expressions on his own counte-
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The Viking's Skull
nance, as he passed from grave to gay, from scene to
scene.
A significant incident occurred during the telling of
these reminiscences.
He was relating that on one occasion he had been en-
trusted by a Greek commander with the task of convey-
ing a secret dispatch to a village beyond the enemy's
lines. The ordinary route to this place ran through a
mountain-pass, which at that time was carefully guarded
by Bashi-Bazouks. Idris, therefore, determined to scale
the face of an almost perpendicular cliff, and passing, as
it were, above the heads of the watchers, come out in
their rear. When he was three-fourths of the way up the
cliff his heart almost leaped into his mouth as he caught a
glimpse of a Bashi-Bazouk, dagger in hand, waiting for
him at the top. The shades of twilight were falling : to
descend was impossible: to go upward was to meet cer-
tain death : yet upward he continued to pull himself,
little by little, hoping that by some good fortune he
might be able to outwit the armed watcher. In graphic
language he painted his sensations as none could, save
those only who have been in a position.
At this point Lorelie's interest became intense, even
painful. So vivid was her realization of the scene that
she seemed at that very moment to see Idris before her,
clinging feebly to the edge of the cliff in the dusky gloom,
with the savage enemy above him dealing the death-
stroke. She leaned forward in her seat with parted lips :
then, quite unconsciously, and all-forgetful of her sprained
ankle, she half rose with her arm extended as if to ward
off the coming blow.
"O, but you are here,” she murmured, realizing her
mistake. “How absurd of me!” and, with a heightened
colour, she sank back in confusion.
“ Yes, I am here,” replied Idris, his heart leaping with
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Lorelie Rivière
delight at this proof of her interest in his welfare.
“ Near the summit of the cliff was a narrow shelf of
rock: on this ledge I lay down and waited, with my re-
volver pointing to the night sky. I knew that my gen-
tleman would peep over again presently to mark my
progress. He did. What the kites left of him you'll
find at the foot of the cliff.”
If pleasure at the death of a fellow-mortal be an anti-
Christian feeling, it must be confessed that Lorelie
Rivière had little of the Christian in her at that moment.
Now that he had once entered upon his personal his-
tory, she would not let him quit it, betraying such interest
that Idris almost wondered whether she had a secret
motive in wishing to hear his biography.
The most romantic part of his career, however, namely,
that relating to the runic ring and the quest for his father,
he carefully reserved, giving instead an account of his
travels through Europe, and recalling many a curious
legend from “out-of-the-way” places.
Long ere Lorelie was sated with these reminiscences
the first stars of night glimmered in the blue air above:
and, that nothing might be wanting to complete a ro-
mantic situation, the moon, rising in all her glory from
the depth of ocean, silvered with its radiance the en-
trance of the cave. The light passed within bringing
into relief the statuesque pose of Lorelie's figure. It
gleamed on her wealth of raven hair, and hallowed her
face with new and mystic beauty, as, with her cheek pil-
lowed on her hands, she sat attentive to Idris, drinking
in his words as the fabled Oriental bird is said to drink
the moonbeams.
So lovely and interested a listener might well have
turned the head of the frostiest hermit. What wonder,
then, that the one thought in Idris' mind at this moment
was: “O that this might last forever!”
149


CHAPTER IX
IDRIS MEETS A RIVAL
BSERVING a shiver on the part of Lorelie, due
to the chilly air, Idris rose to put into effect a
plan that had suddenly occurred to him.
Charming as the situation was to himself, he had no wish
to prolong it at the expense of discomfort to his com-
panion
«« Ye gods, I grow a talker. I do wrong to sit here
inactive. The air is becoming cold. Since no boat has
hove in sight it is time we tried to attract one. Some of
this timber, piled upon the rocks at the entrance of our
cave, and set alight, will • contrive a double debt to pay'
- of giving warmth to yourself, and of serving as a
signal-fire to the coast-guard of Ormsby."
Collecting a supply of logs and planks, Idris proceeded
to form them into a little pyramid upon the boulders
outside the mouth of the cavern. He applied a lighted
match to the pile, and within a few minutes a glorious
bonfire was blazing upon the rock, challenging the pale
light of the moon, and flinging a ruddy glow over the
breast of the heaving waters around
“ Now, Mademoiselle Rivière, if you will sit in this
nook here, you will be both sheltered from the wind and
warmed by the fire."
Lorelie accepted the suggestion : and, as her ankle was
still painful, she permitted Idris to assist her to the
assigned spot, where she sat, pleased with the cheerful
warmth.
the suggest Idris sed w
150


The Viking's Skull
His active mind, eager to give an affirmative to this
question, immediately devised a theory. Captain Roche-
fort, on flying from Brittany with Eric Marville, would
be compelled by considerations of safety either to dis-
guise and rename the yacht in which the flight had been
effected, or, what was more probable, dispose of the
Nemesis in some way, and purchase another vessel.
That Captain Rochefort had so acted, naming his new
barque after the son of his escaped friend, became Idris'
firm conviction : for, lost to reason in his excitement, he
overlooked the possibility that other yacht-owners might
have a partiality for the same name.
The plank now burning before his eyes had come from
the figure-head of the yacht in which his father and
Captain Rochefort had cruised about, after disposing of
the Nemesis.
What more likely than that, on discovering the mean-
ing of the Norse runes (a copy of which had been made
by Rochefort while the altar-ring was in his possession),
the two friends, in a spirit of adventure, should steer their
yacht's course to Ormsby, the site of the supposed
treasure ? And here off this coast their vessel had
foundered.
This conclusion, if correct, would seem almost to
justify the idea that it was impossible to escape from the
malign influence of Odin's ring.
Desire for its possession had led Eric Marville into a
mischance that had doomed him to a prison-life: he had
escaped from the convict's cell, and had wrested the
secret from the runic ring, only to meet with a watery
grave in sight of the very treasure-hill that he had come
to explore!
But, stay! had Eric Marville and Captain Rochefort
perished in the fierce currents of Ormsby Race, or had
one, or both, been washed ashore alive? Was the
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The Viking's Skull
reason to beli for this catechi Before ans
“ The vessel carried some one dear to you?”
“ Really, Mr. Breakspear, you are very curious,” she
cried, with a flash of her bright eyes. “Before answering
I must know the motive for this catechism.”
“ I have reason to believe," answered Idris,“ that there
was on board one, Eric Marville by name.”
“And what," asked Lorelie - and at the chilling fall
in her voice Idris started—“what is Eric Marville to
you, that you should take an interest in his fate?"
For a moment Idris hesitated, loth to tell the woman
whom he loved that he was the son of a fugitive convict.
Then he resolved to be frank, believing that if she were
a true woman she would not despise him for a misfortune
not of his own causing.
"Eric Marville,” he answered humbly,“ is my father's
name.”
At these words Lorelie Rivière shrank back in the
Hermit's Seat, staring at Idris, her face white, her hand
lifted to her side.
“Your father?” she gasped. “You Eric Marville's
son — you?"
“ The same, mademoiselle.”
“No, no. It cannot be. You have said that your
name is Breakspear.”
“For obvious reasons I have thought proper to assume
my mother's maiden name.” .
“Eric Marville's son!” she repeated wildly. “Impos-
sible! I will not believe it." Her wildness suddenly
gave way to an air of disdain, and she exclaimed:
“ Why do you seek to impose upon me? Idris Marville
was burned to death at Paris seven years ago.”
“Not so," replied Idris, with a smile, as he proceeded
to give his reasons for permitting himself to be advertised
as dead.
As Lorelie became gradually convinced of his identity
154


Idris Meets a Rival
surface.. of all pers my life!
a look of dismay came over her face. She shrank from
him, and glanced down upon the sea, as if tempted to
plunge beneath its surface.
“ To think that you, you of all persons,” she murmured
in a tone of awe, “should have saved my life!"
“ Then by that fact, mademoiselle, I entreat you to tell
me whether my father perished in that shipwreck. You
doubtless know something of his sad history ?"
"I ought to know," she returned,“ seeing that my real
name is Lorelie Rochefort.”
“What do you say?” cried Idris in amazement..
“ You are the daughter of Captain Noel Rochefort ? "
She inclined her head in assent.
“ Then we shall be the best of friends, as our fathers
were before us.”
“ You speak without knowledge,” she replied, with a
curious dry laugh.
“ Did not Captain Rochefort prove his friendship by
aiding my father to escape ?"
“At my mother's urging: he would not otherwise
have moved in the matter.”
“ Why was Madame Rochefort so anxious to see my
father free?"
“ You must not ask me that,” replied Lorelie quickly,
and looking alarmed the moment afterwards, as if be-
trayed into a rash statement
This was certainly a strange answer, and Idris pondered
over it in the silence that followed. There seemed no
other explanation of her words than that there had
existed a guilty love-intrigue between Madame Roche-
fort and Eric Marville. Was it possible that Lorelie her-
self was the offspring of — With a shiver he put
the suspicion aside. No: he would not think that!
“ Is Captain Rochefort still living?”.
" It is extremely unlikely.”
155


The Viking's Skull
“He went down with the yacht Idris ?"
“ In all probability.”
“ He was not among the bodies washed ashore ?”.
“ They were bruised and swollen beyond recognition."
“ Was my father on board the yacht the night it
sank?"
“So far as I have been able to gather he was not.”
“ Not?” said Idris, in a tone of joy. “Then he may
still be living. May I ask, mademoiselle, how you have
learned this ?”
“From my father's last letter to my mother, with
whom he kept up a correspondence during his cruise.
The letter is dated · The yacht Idris. In Ormsby Roads,
October 13th, 1876. 7 P. M.,' and the postscript is some-
thing to this effect, • Marville is going ashore, leaving me
aboard. He will not return till the morrow. I am
despatching this letter to the post by the sailor who rows
Marville ashore. Those are the last words my mother
received. That same night, four hours after the letter
was written, the Idris went down.”
“And you cannot tell me whether my father is living
to-day?”
“I know nothing more of Eric Marville since the night
of the wreck.”
“ You have preserved all your father's letters ?”
“ Naturally.”
Idris here ventured on a very bold request.
“Would it be asking too much to let me see this corre-
spondence, or at least, some part of it?”
“Not if you were to give me a diamond for each word
it contained,” she said firmly.
“At least, mademoiselle," he continued more humbly,
"you will give me the purport of those passages that
relate to my father?”
“ That would be to compromise myself.”
156


Idris Meets a Rival
“Whatever secrets those letters contain shall be re-
spected by me." -
“Not so,” said Lorelie sadly. “Mr. Breakspear, Idris
Marville, or whatever name you will, I believe you to be
a man of honour - "
" Then why not trust me?"
“Because you would consider yourself justified in
breaking your pledge of secrecy. I dare not trust you.
No oath could be binding in such a case as this. You
would proclaim aloud to the world the contents of those
letters.”
In spite of her words, Idris, with justifiable curiosity,
continued to press her with questions relative to his fa-
ther's movements after the flight from Quilaix, but to all
his interrogations Lorelie remained coldly mute.
“And you will tell me nothing more than you have
told ?” he said at last.
His sorrowful tone seemed to touch her to the quick.
The icy expression faded from her face and gave way to
one of warmth and tenderness. Her eyes became
luminous with tears, but, as if desirous of resisting his
pleading, she averted her head and hid her face in her
hands.
“Do not question me further,” she entreated. “ Not
to answer is painful, but to answer would be more pain-
ful still. O, why did you reveal your true name? I
shall never be happy again. If I had but known you
twelve months ago, all would have been well, but now
now it is too late. In revealing what you wish, nay,
what you ought to know, I should be injuring the
interests of, not myself, for that would matter little, but
the interests of others. You do not understand — how
should you ? — but some day you will learn my mean-
ing, and then — and then ”her voice faltered, “how
the world will despise me! you more than all others.
157


The Viking's Skull
Mr. Breakspear, if you knew my real character you
would have left me lying on the sand to be overwhelmed
by the tide. I would that you had !”
Though Idris knew not what meaning to affix to this
speech, it did not abate in one degree his love for her:
nay, her very air of humiliation, plaintive and touching,
served only to enhance her attractiveness. When he re-
called the heroic look upon her face in the presence of
death, and the clasping of her hands in prayer upon her
deliverance, he could not bring himself to think ill of
her. Her mysterious self-accusations must be the result
of some delusion: or, if something did attach to her that
the world would call guilt, he did not doubt that justifica-
tion would be found for it.
“ Mademoiselle,” he replied, with a grave smile, “ you
seem to regard me in the light of an enemy, when my
chief desire is to occupy a high place in your friendship.”
He would have said “ heart” had he dared. “Since the
subject of the yacht is painful to you, I will not refer to
it again in your presence."
" Then my reticence will not make an enemy of
you?" asked Lorelie, raising her beautiful eyes with a
yearning in them that moved him strangely.
“ Certainly not, mademoiselle. Let me know that
you do not despise me on account of my father's guilt,
or supposed guilt, and I am content.”
“ Despise you? Oh, no! How can you say that?
Mr. Breakspear,” she continued, with a faltering voice,
“ if — if there be one circumstance more than another
that enlists my sympathies in your behalf, it is — the
the event of which you speak.”
The pitying look in her eyes caused Idris' blood to
course like liquid fire through his veins. Had she been
the guiltiest woman living that glance would have
palliated all and have made him her slave forever.
158


Idris Meets a Rival
There is no knowing what he might have said or done
at this moment had he not been checked by a sudden
exclamation from her. Looking in the direction in-
dicated by her he saw a boat rowed by seven of the
Ormsby fishermen coming over the waves towards them
in gallant style.
“Our imprisonment is drawing to an end,” said Idris,
adding to himself, “ the more's the pity.”
The sight of the approaching boat seemed to put an
end to Lorelie's emotion. She began to regain some-
thing of her former sweet self.
By her own unaided efforts she rose to her feet, and
leaning against the rock, waved her handkerchief as an
encouragement to the rowers. A cheer broke from the
men as soon as they recognized her; for, by reason of
her liberality to the poor of Ormsby, Mademoiselle
Rivière had become, at least among the lower orders of
the town, a favourite second only to Beatrice Ravengar
herself.
Ere long the boat's side grated against the rock, and
Lorelie, assisted by Idris on the one hand, and by a
gallant fisherman on the other, was lifted down from
point to point, and finally lodged in the bow of the rock-
ing boat, Idris taking his seat beside her.
The still-flaming timbers of the fire having been ex-
tinguished by the easy process of tossing them into the
sea, the men pushed off, and the Hermit's Cave rapidly
receded from view.
In answer to the questioning of her rescuers Lorelie
gave an account of the circumstances which had led to
the enforced captivity of herself and Idris, adding:-
“We owe you something more substantial than thanks
for responding so quickly to our fire-signal."
“Lord bless you!” responded one of the crew gallantly,
“ to rescue such a bonny bird we would row fifty miles.”
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The Viking's Skull
They created quite a sensation as they drew near the
beach of Ormsby, where a miscellaneous crowd was as-
sembled; for the news had been spread abroad by
Lorelie's frightened maid that her mistress had been
missing since the morning, and, accordingly, it had been
conjectured that the strange light visible at the foot of
the distant cliff might have some connection with her
disappearance. And when it was seen that the ap-
proaching boat contained the missing lady there arose an
outburst of cheering and a waving of hats, that drew the
colour to her hitherto pale cheek.
Among the first to meet the boat at the water's edge
was Godfrey; and on learning that Lorelie had hurt her
foot, nothing less would satisfy him than an immediate
inspection of her ankle.
“ The case may be more serious than you think it,”
said he.
So Lorelie, escorted by Idris and Godfrey, repaired,
under smiling protest, to the parlour of a cottage fronting
the beach, where, after due examination, the surgeon pro-
nounced the injury to be nothing more serious than a
sprain.
“ Still, you must not set your foot to the ground just
yet,” he added. “We will procure a carriage to take you
home.”
Scarcely had he said this when the rattle of wheels was
heard outside. A vehicle of some sort had drawn up in
front of the cottage. A minute afterwards the parlour
door opened giving entrance to Viscount Walden.
His acknowledgment of the surgeon was limited to,
“ Ah! Godfrey :” of Idris he took no notice at all.
Walking up to Lorelie he smiled in a manner which
showed that they were no strangers to each other, and
Godfrey, recalling the viscount's utterances in the crypt
of Ravenhall, “ I hope Lorelie will be satisfied,” looked
160


Idris Meets a Rival
on at their meeting with considerable interest, wonder-
ing whether there really were some guilty secret between
them.
“Mademoiselle Rivière, I am delighted to meet you in
England,” said Ivar. “ Passing along the road outside
and observing the crowd in front of this cottage I stopped
my carriage to ascertain the cause. Imagine my surprise
on learning that you were within. Welcome to Ormsby!
You find our climate a little trying, I expect, after the
sunny air and the blue skies of the Riviera ? You have
sprained your ankle, I understand, and find a difficulty in
walking. If you desire a carriage to convey you home,
mine is at your service.”
Ivar's proposal to carry off Lorelie in his own carriage
roused all Idris' jealousy, of which he had the ordinary
mortal's share. It was not very agreeable to hear Lorelie
assenting, and to observe that she smiled upon Ivar as
pleasantly as she had smiled upon himself.
With a motion of her hand she directed the viscount's
attention to Idris.
“Lord Walden, Mr. —
“ Breakspear,” interposed Idris quickly, fearing lest
she should inadvertently pronounce the name of Mar-
ville.
Lorelie gave him a sympathetic glance, which assured
him that his secret was quite safe in her keeping.
“Lord Walden,” she continued, “ Mr. Breakspear, a
gentleman to whom I owe my life.”
In some surprise Ivar turned to survey the saviour of
Mademoiselle Rivière, and beheld a man of about thirty
years, with fine dark eyes and an athletic figure — a man
evidently of good birth; his countenance expressive of a
spirit that showed if he should set his mind upon accom-
plishing an object, say of winning a woman's love, he
would succeed, or make it go extremely ill with those who
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The Viking's Skull
endeavoured to thwart him: and, noting all this, Ivar,
who was of a mean nature, took secret umbrage.
Idris was about to offer his hand, but observing that the
viscount was stiffly bowing with his hands behind him,
he thought he could not do better than imitate the other's
example.
For a moment the two men eyed each other, both ap-
parently animated by a spirit of defiance, the cause of
which was patent enough to Godfrey in the person of the
charming woman sitting between them.
Idris, mindful of the fact that he was the son of an
escaped convict, while Ivar was the descendant of a line
of belted earls, felt bitterly the contrast between their re-
spective positions.
“How this fellow would sneer, if he knew the truth!”
was his thought.
“Lord save us !” the woman, who owned the cottage,
whispered to Godfrey. “How like they are! The same
proud face upon each !”
The surgeon glanced from one to the other, and was
compelled to admit that there certainly was a resemblance
in features between the two men, a resemblance which
would have been the stronger, had not Idris been dark,
and Ivar fair.
While Lorelie gave a brief account of her rescue, Ivar
listened with impatience, evidently of opinion that For-
tune, while permitting Idris to save Mademoiselle Rivière,
might at least have had the good sense to drown him
afterwards.
“ At the next Parish Council,” said Lorelie to Godfrey,
“you must call attention to the Stairs of David.'”
“ The ladder ought certainly to be seen to,” said Idris,
“ but for my part, mademoiselle," he added, bowing to
Lorelie, “ I shall never regret the instability of that struc-
ture."
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Idris Meets a Rival
Ivar, who had refrained from speech both during
Lorelie's story and at its close, now offered his arm to
help her to the carriage. A shade of vexation passed
over her face at the viscount's obvious indifference to
Idris' services on her behalf.
“My ankle is still weak,” she said, turning to Idris.
“ Mr. Breakspear, may I ask for your help, too ?”
Idris responded with a cheerfulness that became the
more cheerful as he noticed Ivar's scowl.
Thus escorted Lorelie passed into the moonlit air with-
out, and reached the brougham. Idris held the door
while she stepped in. The viscount followed, shutting
the door with a loud slam, that said as plainly as words,
“ No more shall enter here."
Lorelie looked more vexed than ever at this discourtesy
towards Godfrey and Idris : but as the carriage was not
hers it was out of her power to offer them a seat.
However, as if desirous of sweetening the parting,
she extended her little hand through the carriage-
window, accompanying her action with a gracious
smile.
“Good-night, Mr. Breakspear,” she murmured, softly.
“ I shall never forget the debt I owe you."
“ Drive on,” cried Ivar, brusquely, to the coachman.
“ The Cedars, North Road.”
The horses dashed off, and as the brougham turned
the corner of the road, Idris caught a glimpse of Lorelie,
bending forward at the carriage-window, with her face
turned in his direction.
He lifted his hat, and the next moment she was lost to
view.
“Idris,” said Godfrey,“ you love that young lady."
“ And you must have a heart of stone not to love her,
too.”
“Humph! it would be rather awkward if all men were
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The Viking's Skull
to desire the same woman. Isn't one rival enough for
you ?"
Truth to tell, Idris had been much disquieted by the
readiness with which Lorelie had surrendered herself to
the will of Viscount Walden. It seemed almost as if
some secret understanding existed between them. God-
frey, though he refrained from saying so, had no doubt
whatever on the point.
“ All things being equal,” he continued, “ I believe the
lady would favour you: but, you see, a prospective cor-
onet is a very powerful attraction, and I fear the coronet
will gain the day.”
Idris repudiated this forecast, vigorously anathematiz-
ing the name of Viscount Walden, after which his
thoughts turned to a theme, almost equal in interest to
his love for Lorelie, namely, his father's fate.
" He was not on the yacht when it sank, so Mademoi-
selle Rivière declares: then what became of him? I did
right to come to Ormsby, it seems, since it was in this
neighbourhood that he was last heard of. But, alas ! that
was twenty-two years ago. Is he living to-day, and
shall I ever find him ?"
ing. Chts turned
namely, his han it sank,
164


CHAPTER X
A LITTLE PIECE OF STEEL
THE clock was striking the hour of ten at night
as Beatrice Ravengar rose to put away the em-
broidery with which she had been occupied.
Save for the companionship of her faithful St. Bernard
she was alone. Godfrey was out visiting his patients.
Idris had been absent since noon, and Beatrice won-
dered what had become of him, little thinking that he
was passing his time in a moonlit cave, tête-à-tête with
Mademoiselle Rivière. The page-boy, who was accus-
tomed to sleep at his own home, had taken his departure :
and as for the housemaid, well, every one knows that
when housemaids promise to be home punctually by
nine P. M., they mean any time up to eleven, and Beatrice's
little domestic was no exception to this rule.
Methodical in all her ways Beatrice was in the habit
of mapping out beforehand a certain amount of work to
be done during the day. Her self-allotted tasks being
now completed she was ready for bed, but could not
think of retiring before the return of the absentees.
With a little yawn she wondered what she should do
to fill up the gap of time, and seeing a book lying upon
the table, one that Idris had been reading earlier in the
day, she took it up and found it to be a novel.
Beatrice as a rule avoided fiction, but on the present
occasion she felt herself unequal to anything but the
lightest kind of literary confectionery, and, accordingly,
settling herself comfortably in her armchair, she began
to read the novel, which bore the title of “ The Fair Ori-
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The Viking's Skull
entalist.” It was of the nightmare order, and dealt with
the doings of an Eastern lady, gifted with occult powers.
After the first chapter Beatrice glanced down to make
sure that the faithful Leo was lying at her feet: when
reading a story of the supernatural at night it is good to
have a companion with us, though that companion be
but a dog.
Having finished the second chapter she threw a glance
at the windows, and was glad to observe that the blinds
were drawn, since at night-time panes of glass are some-
times apt to reflect the gaslight in such a way as to create
the impression that there are eyes on the outside watch-
ing us.
At the end of the third chapter Beatrice had become
positively alarmed at the clairvoyance and occult powers
ascribed to the Oriental lady: and yet, so fascinated was
she by the story that, despite her growing fears, she
found it impossible to lay down the book.
Hark! what was that ?
A sound, coming apparently from the upper storey,
echoed through the lonely house. With a beating heart
Beatrice ceased reading, and listened. The sound was
repeated, and she smiled at her fears. The latticed win-
dow at the head of the staircase was open, and flapping
idly on its hinges. That was all !
This thought, however, was quickly followed by another
that revived her uneasiness. Since the casement had
been ajar all the evening why had it not flapped before ?
“ The wind must be rising,” thought Beatrice : and
with this reasonable explanation she resumed her read-
ing.
O, that window !
It persisted in flapping to and fro at intervals, the ir-
regularity of which was the most annoying part of the
matter.
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A Little Piece of Steel
Sometimes the sound was so faint as to be scarcely
audible: then, after a lapse of silence so long as to prom-
ise that the torment had altogether ceased, the casement
would give a rattle louder than ever, and more startling
by contrast with the previous stillness. A little more
force on the part of the wind would result in the shatter-
ing of those diamond panes.
“I must go up and shut it!”
Sensible resolve! But it was not carried out. The
incident, trifling though it was, combined with the effect
of the novel, had reduced her to a state of nervous-
ness so great that she durst not ascend the staircase to
close the window. Despising herself for her cowardice
she remained in her armchair, neglecting the only ef-
fectual way of ending the annoyance.
She glanced again at the dog, and derived some as-
surance from his quiet air. Though wideawake he did
not display any signs of alarm.
“One advantage brute creatures have over the human,"
thought she. “They never frighten themselves with
ghostly fears."
She again fixed her eyes upon the book, endeavouring
to ignore the real terror by a forced attention to an
imaginary one, a literary homæopathy that was scarcely
likely to be successful.
One of the powers possessed by the Fair Orientalist
was that of enduing inanimate objects with her own
magnetism by virtue of which they became gifted for the
time being with sentience and motion.
The fancy now seized Beatrice, so deeply had she
fallen under the spell of the weird romance, that the rest-
less casement above was moved by similar means, and
that its flapping was designed to call her attention to -
she knew not what. A strange idea! But it grew upon
her, and increased till it filled her mind to the exclusion
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The Viking's Skull
of everything else. The book, neglected, slid from her
knees, and she sat listening to the swinging of the case-
ment. And as it is possible to tell the mood of a musi-
cian by the notes he plays, so Beatrice fancied she could
detect a meaning in each variation of sound.
First, there was a sharp slam intended primarily to
arrest attention, like the ting-ting of the telegraph oper-
ator: next, a low plaintive swing beseeching her to
ascend the stairs and come to the rescue, followed by a
remonstratory flap censuring her for delaying. Then
ensued a slow solemn sound suggestive of the gravity of
the situation: finally, there came a loud rattle that
echoed through the house as if threatening penalties for
her negligence.
The geologist will read history in a cliff: Beatrice
read a whole tragedy in the varying tones of that case-
ment.
And now, a mysterious influence, emanating from the
latticed window, seemed to steal silently down the stair-
case like a ghost, and entering the apartment where she
sat and enwrapping her with an unseen pall of horror,
whispered a thought that swept all the warmth from her
body and left her icy-cold.
The Viking's skull !
At the head of the staircase, on the ledge of the em-
brasured window, was the grim memorial, taken at mid-
night from the sepulchral mound. Beatrice's mind
became impressed with the belief that the casement was
flapping in sympathy with the skull, was its mouthpiece,
so to speak - nay more, that the dread relic itself was
moaning to be taken back to its ancient resting-place.
Her quickening fancy drew a picture of the skull, whis-
pering, nodding, grinning, its hollow orbs illumined with
blue, phosphorescent light.
Gazing fearfully at the door she saw that it was open.
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A Little Piece of Steel
She must close it ere the horrid object should come
gliding down the staircase into the room.
Summoning up her small amount of remaining courage
Beatrice rose, and with timid, staccato steps, approached
the door, attended by Leo. Mute as a statue she stood
in the attitude of listening, her fingers on the door-
handle.
Was it the voice of the breeze sighing through the
half-opened casement, or was it the skull whispering and
chuckling with ghostly glee? She had but to step for-
ward two paces to be within the corridor, and by looking
up the staircase would see the skull at its head.
But this was more than she durst do. To her dismay
Leo had walked out of the room, and refused to return.
She could not shut the door upon the dog : in her present
state of mind his presence was an absolute necessity, and
yet, to venture out into the passage to bring him back,
and by so doing come within sight of the skull, was a
feat beyond her courage.
The corridor-lamp had not been lighted. The glory
of the full moon shone on the staircase window at such
an angle that the outline of the casement was projected
upon the floor of the passage directly within view of the
door at which she was standing. She could not avoid
seeing the oblong patch of spectral white. But that
shadow in the centre like a human head, black and still
as if nailed to the flooring! It was the silhouette of the
skull!
Trembling, she averted her eyes from the shadow, and
fortunately at that moment Leo, having decided that the
room was more comfortable than the corridor, reentered
the apartment, and Beatrice instantly closed the door
and turned the key, feeling more at ease now that an
inch of oak interposed between herself and the object at
the stair head.
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The Viking's Skull
But now came another terror!
Leo had taken his place on the hearth-rug where he
remained quiet for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, he
began to grow restive. Giving a low growl he started to
his feet, and after looking about on all sides began to
walk round the room, sniffing suspiciously at the floor, as
if he expected danger from the cellar below rather than
from the staircase above.
His investigations concluded, the poor brute sat down
on his haunches, and lifting up his head gave utterance
to one long and plaintive howl. And if ever dog ut-
tered prophecy Leo uttered it at that moment, and the
tenor of his prediction was that some dire peril was at
hand.
Beatrice, who had followed the animal from one part
of the room to another, repeating “ Leo, Leo, what's the
matter?” as if he were capable of speech, knelt by his
side and found him quivering in every limb, his hair
bristling as if with fear.
Hark!
A gust of wind, more forcible than any that had pre-
ceded it, slammed the staircase window with a loud bang,
shivering its diamond panes: and — more alarming still !
- this accident was accompanied by a sound like the fall
of some light object.
Beatrice doubted not for a moment that the skull had
dropped from the ledge and was now coming down the
staircase.
Nor did she err. A second bump told her that the
thing had rolled over one stair. A third fall ensued, and
then a fourth. These sounds did not follow instantane-
ously one upon another, but there was between each a
distinct pause, suggestive of the idea that the skull was
endowed with a volition and a motion of its own: as if, in
fact, it were choosing its way, and descending at leisurę.
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A Little Piece of Steel
Awaiting the issue Beatrice sat, the very picture of
terror, her hands clasped, her dilated eyes riveted on the
door of the apartment. It seemed many minutes since
the skull had begun its descent, though, perhaps, fifteen
seconds had scarcely elapsed. Finally, the lowest stair
was reached, and the skull, pitching forward, rolled up to
the door of the apartment, as if seeking admittance.
At its dread knock the walls and floor of the room
seemed to tremble. The lights in the gasalier went out,
leaving the chamber in semi-darkness. The dying em-
bers of the fire, flickering strangely and unsteadily, caused
weird shapes to spring up from floor to ceiling.
At the same time a vibratory motion was communi-
cated to Beatrice's person. She found herself oscillating
to and fro, unable to check herself. A mysterious power
grasped her ankles with unseen fingers and strove to ele-
vate her in air.
Fully believing that her last hour had come Beatrice
gave one long pealing cry, in which the terrified yelp of
the dog mingled. She was shot violently forward : a
noise like the rattle produced by a thousand falling plates
rang in her ears, and tumbling headlong to the carpet
she lost all consciousness.
When Beatrice next opened her eyes she found her-
self lying on the sofa with three persons standing beside
her: Godfrey was sprinkling her face and throat with
cold water : the housemaid was applying a bottle of
strong salts to her nostrils : and Idris was holding a
candle, the feeble light of which he strove to steady by
shielding it with his hand. The windows and door were
wide open, and the cool night air was blowing through
the room, laden with a faint odour of escaped gas.
Beatrice gave a feeble smile of recognition, and then
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The Viking's Skull
gazed vacantly around the apartment, unable at first to
recall what had preceded the present state of affairs.
The room presented a scene of confusion. All the
pictures hung awry: the ornaments of the mantel had
fallen, and lay, some shattered to pieces, within the fire-
place: fragments of one of the gasalier globes starred
the carpet: the doors of the bookcase were open, and
many of the volumes had been projected from their
shelves to the floor. On the table was the Viking's
skull, the cause, in some mysterious way, of all this dis-
order; at least, such was Beatrice's opinion.
“I have been horribly frightened !” she said, as soon
as she had recovered the use of speech.
“And well you might be!” replied Idris. “Godfrey
and I had just reached the door, when the house shook
to its foundations, and out went all the lights. By
heaven! I thought the place was coming down. We
have had an earthquake shock.”
But the imaginative mind of Beatrice, still under the
spell of “ The Fair Orientalist," was not prepared to ac-
cept this rational explanation.
“ Earthquakes don't happen in England,” she declared.
“ Slight shocks occasionally occur here,” said Idris,
“and the present one is a case in point. Why," he
added, observing Beatrice's dissentient shake of her head,
“ what else could it have been?”
“I cannot say,” she answered, shivering, and glancing
at the Viking's skull. “But this much I know, that long
before the house shook and the gas went out, I was
frightened by strange sounds coming from the head of
the staircase where the skull was, and so — and so "
And here Beatrice paused, not knowing how to
express to others that which was not very clear to
herself.
“ And so you began to think that the skull was talking
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A Little Piece of Steel
and threatening you with mystic oracles? Fie, Trixie,"
said her brother, reprovingly. “I did not think you
could be so foolish.”
But perceiving that it would be useless at this juncture
to try to reason her out of her belief, such process being
best reserved for the sober light of morning, Godfrey
turned to give some orders to the housemaid.
“Ha!” exclaimed Idris, picking up the novel from the
floor, “so you have been reading this? Then I don't
wonder that you have been frightened. “The Fair Ori-
entalist' is not a book to be read at night in a lonely
house."
“I will not deny that the book frightened me, but what
was it that frightened Leo? He cannot read ghost-
stories, and yet he howled piteously.”
“ Probably with that prevision instinctive in the brute
race he discerned the coming of this catastrophe.”
Beatrice, having now recovered herself, proposed a tour
of the house with a view of ascertaining how much
damage had been done.
The walls did not exhibit any cracks or fissures, and
apparently were as sound as before, but on the floor of
every room proofs of the recent earth-tremor were evident
in the shape of fallen articles.
Breakage was especially triumphant in the kitchen.
“Ah me!” sighed Beatrice, sorrowfully. “Good-bye
to my new tea-service! And my pretty majolica bread-
plate gone, too! Nothing will convince me that this is
not the work of the Viking. When he was alive I have
no doubt that, being a heathen, he took a pleasure in
slaying good Christian folk: and now that he is dead he
shows his malignity by destroying their crockery-ware.
A noble Viking, one would think, should be above such
meanness.”
On returning to the sitting-room Idris, for the enlight-
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The Viking's Skull
enment of Beatrice, began to relate his adventure with
Mademoiselle Rivière; and, as Beatrice listened, she be-
came strangely disquieted by the incident. Why should
this be ?
But when Idris, in the course of his story, dwelt on the
beauty of Lorelie, and above all on the heroic light of
her eyes when she bade him leave her to save himself,
Beatrice readily discerned by the warmth of his tone how
matters stood with him, and realizing this, her agitation
increased. Surprised, frightened, trembling, she found
herself borne along on the wild wave of her emotion to
the certain knowledge that her feelings towards Idris
were not those of friendship simply, but of love!
And perceiving how deeply enthralled he was by the
witchery of Lorelie Rivière her mind became tortured
with exquisite pain.
Fearing that Idris and Godfrey might observe her
emotion and divine its cause, she seized a favourable mo-
ment to steal from the apartment, without so little as a
“Good-night,” lest her voice should betray her.
And on attaining her dainty bedroom she flung her-
self upon the bed and gave way to emotion, despising
herself as foolish, and yet unable to check her tears.
“If he but knew her true character !” she murmured:
“ If he but knew! But it is not for me to tell him. He
will — he must learn it in time. And then — and then
- perhaps — it may be — that —
But Beatrice put this hope from her as too delightful
ever to be realized.
“ Now to examine my noble Viking,” said Idris, taking
up the skull from the table. “Let us see whether he has
suffered any injury in his roll down-stairs.—Hul-lo!”
Shaking the skull as he spoke, his attention was ar-
rested by a faint rattle within it, a sound that he had not
heard in his previous handlings of the relic.
And on attest her voice chent, without surable mo-
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A Little Piece of Steel
“ Listen, Godfrey !” he cried in a curious tone of voice,
and shaking the skull again. “What is this inside ?”
He stopped the motion to examine the skull more
carefully. Strange that till this moment he had not
noticed that the occipital bone was pierced by a tiny
hole of circular shape!
“Do you see this, Godfrey ?” he said, pointing out the
orifice. “This could have been caused only by a sharp-
pointed instrument. The thing rattling within must be
a fragment of some weapon.”
He gave the skull another shake, when, from the ver-
tebral orifice there dropped a piece of rusty steel about
two inches in length, slender, rounded, and tapering to a
point.
“No one could live with a thing like this in his head,”
said Idris. “So it is clear that we have here a fragment
of the identical weapon that gave old Orm his coup-de-
grâce."
A tiny piece of steel publicly exposed, say in a shop-
window, will attract little, if any notice: but let it be
known that the said steel is the instrument with which a
murder has been wrought, and a whole city will come
trooping forth to view: and fancy prices will be offered
for it by connoisseurs of the gruesome.
Deep, therefore, was the interest with which the two
friends viewed their latest discovery.
“Then this cannot be the skull of Orm the Viking,”
remarked Godfrey, after a thoughtful pause, “ if the
tapestry we brought away from the tomb is to be re-
ceived as an authority, since that represents him as slain
by an arrow piercing his breast."
This contradiction between the evidence presented by
the skull and that presented by the tapestry, perplexed
Idris in no small degree. Having conceived the some-
what pleasing notion that he was the possessor of the
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The Viking's Skull
skull of Orm the Golden, he was loth to relinquish his
belief, and prepared to argue the point.
“ Artists, whether in needlework or in oils, are not
always to be accepted as historic authorities. I have no
doubt suppressio veri was practised as much in the Viking
age as in our own. If Orm died with a wound in the
occiput, what does that seem to show? That he must
have turned his back on his foes in defiance of the canons
of Norse bravery. Do you think that the weavers of the
tapestry would let posterity know that Orm had turned
coward? No! therefore they make him die with an
arrow in his breast, facing the foe, bold to the last. The
tumulus in Ravensdale is certainly Orm's tomb : the
name Ormfell and the tapestry prove it, and hence the
bones it contains must be those of Orm.”
“Hum! I'm not convinced,” replied Godfrey. “ You
believe this steel to be the fragment of a battle-weapon:
of what kind of weapon? It is too slender to have
formed part of a sword or a dagger: too finely-pointed
to have been the barb of a lance or an arrow.”
“ It may be a spike from that sort of mace which the
Vikings in their playful way were wont to call their
• Morning Star. This is perhaps a stellar ray."
“ Rather fragile for the spike of a mace, isn't it?”
“ True. I confess I am as much puzzled as yourself
to name the weapon of which this once formed part.”
For a long time Idris continued to puzzle over the
question, polishing the steel fragment till it gleamed with
a silvery-azure light. He suggested its connection with
all kinds of impossible weapons, but could come to no
satisfactory conclusion. Then, vexed by Godfrey's
scepticism, he said :-
“Well, old wiseacre, if this be not Orm's skull, tell me
whose it is ? "
“Impossible to say — at present. My opinion is that
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A Little Piece of Steel
it is not an ancient skull at all, but a modern one. The
future will perhaps show whether I am right. As
there's a Divinity that shapes ’ human affairs, it may be
that the earthquake of to-night has been sent for a pur-
pose. It has had the effect of loosening the fragment
of steel hitherto immovably fixed in the cavity of the
skull. You will, perhaps, consider me fanciful, Idris, but
I have a presentiment that we are on the threshold of a
startling discovery to which this piece of steel forms a
clue.”
1
177
2


CHAPTER XI
THE LEGEND OF THE RUNIC RING
N the morning after his adventure on the sea-
shore Idris went out with the intention of call-
ing upon Mademoiselle Rivière: and that he
might not lack reasonable pretext for his visit, he took
with him the book which she had asked him to return.
Apart altogether from the charm of her beauty Lorelie
interested him, both as being the daughter of Captain
Rochefort, and likewise as the depositary of some
strange secret relating to his father's history. Though
earnestly pressed by Idris she had firmly declined to give
any account of Eric Marville from the time of his escape
to the sinking of the yacht in Ormsby Race. It was
difficult to assign a motive for her refusal, but Idris did
not doubt that in course of time he would be able to
overcome her reticence: and therefore, if only on this
account, Lorelie Rivière was a person whose friendship
it behoved him to cultivate.
The way to her villa, The Cedars, took him past Saint
Oswald's Church, and moved by a sudden impulse, he
turned aside to enter the edifice, which in more than one
sense was hallowed ground to him, inasmuch as it was
here that he had first met with Lorelie.
Surely Eros was directing his steps ! For, scarcely
had he passed within the porch of the Ravengar Chantry
when his ear caught the soft rustle of silk, and
Mademoiselle Rivière herself was standing before him.
She had entered by another door, and the basket of
flowers hanging from her arm seemed to indicate that
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The Legend of the Runic Ring
her object in visiting the church was to deck its altar.
Dressed in a graceful costume of black and silver that
harmonized exquisitely with her delicate complexion she
looked more beautiful and witching than ever in Idris'
eyes, as with a bright smile she extended her hand.
“ And your sprained ankle ?” he asked, when their
first greetings were over.
“ Is not my presence here a satisfactory answer to that
question ? ” she smiled.
“May I ask for a flower in exchange, mademoiselle ?"
said Idris, as he returned the book to her.
“ Here is variety to choose from. Let me learn your
favourite."
She held out the basket for Idris to make his choice.
“ You are taking nothing but forget-me-nots,” she
cried.
“I am in a parabolical mood, you see. The name of
this flower expresses what my lips would say.”
“ And thereby you accuse me of ingratitude.”
“ How so?"
“ By suggesting the possibility of my forgetting one
who has saved my life,” replied Lorelie, the colour steal-
ing over her cheek. She raised her eyes to his with an
expression in them that thrilled him, and continued,
“ Shall I tell you the dream I had last night? I thought
I was still lying on those sands where I fell, unable to
move. The rising tide came on and rippled around me,
striking a chill through my clothing. At last the water
was so high that it flowed over my face, filling my
mouth and nostrils. I fought with it, but it ascended
higher and ever higher above me, till I was deep down
below the surface.
“ And the curious part of it all was that I still lived.
I lay there as in a trance, motionless, staring upwards. I
could see the air-bubbles of my breath ascending to the
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The Viking's Skull
surface. The moon with tremulous motion shone
through the glassy water, looking - oh! ever so far
away. The sea-weed drifted around and clung to my
cheek and hair. Curious sea-monsters came and looked
at me, then went away again: shell-fish crawled over me,
and all night long the restless water flowed over my face
and plashed in and out of my mouth. Its ſaint murmur
rings in my ears still. In the morning I awoke and
found it a dream. Then I said to myself, . This is what
would have happened if — if no one had been near to aid
me.'"
“ It is past now,” replied Idris, observing her shiver.
“ Don't think any more about it.”
“The peril is past, but the memory of it remains.
Ah, that dream! If it should occur again to-night I
shall begin to be like Richard III, and tremble at the
thought of sleep. Shall I put those flowers in your coat,
Mr. Breakspear? You seem to find it a difficulty.”
Idris readily accepted her proffered aid.
“Forget-me-not,” she murmured, fastening the nosegay
to his button-hole ; and Idris wondered whether the
words were addressed to him, or whether she was simply
repeating the name of the flower : the latter it seemed by
her next remark. “Why should our French myosotis be
called in English, · Forget-me-not'? Can you tell me
the origin of the name ?”
Idris could, and did: relating the somewhat apocryphal
story of the youth, who, in wading to the opposite bank
of a river with a view of procuring some flowers for his
sweetheart, was swept off by the current and drowned,
but not before he had had time to fling the flowers at her
feet with the parting cry of “Forget-me-not!"
“ The moral of which is," added Idris, “ learn to
swim.”
“ You are spoiling a pretty story by your cynicism,"
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The Legend of the Runic Ring
said Lorelie." His love was all the greater if he could
not swim.”
She turned to arrange her flowers upon the altar of the
Ravengar Chantry. Idris was watching her when his
eye was caught by a shadow outlined on the stone pave-
ment. The sun was shining through the window above
the altar, and casting at his feet glowing splashes of va-
rious hues. For a few seconds he continued to stare,
doubtful whether he saw aright, and then, slowly raising
his gaze, he followed the slanting shaft of coloured light
upward from the pavement till his eyes rested upon the
stained window.
The central pane was blazoned with the armorial device
of the Ravengars. The shield, supported on each side by
a raven, in canting allusion to the family name, was
charged in the centre with a silver circlet, a thin purple
line forming the perimeter.
The runic ring!
Yes: there was its facsimile gleaming from the col-
oured glass, and seeming in the morning sunlight to
sparkle with a new and mysterious significance. That
this argent circle was intended to represent the Norse
altar-ring Idris had not the shadow of a doubt: and for a
moment he felt resentment both against Beatrice and
Godfrey : for, familiar as they must be with this coat of
arms - Beatrice herself, as a Ravengar, being entitled to
assume it — they had made no allusion to it when he was
telling them the story of the runic ring. It was singular,
too, that he himself should have failed to notice this
blazon in his previous visit to this chantry.
What was the reason for its figuring in the Ravengar
shield?
Curious stories are often latent within armorial devices,
as students of heraldry can testify. Was it possible that
this ring had been adopted by the Ravengars of a past
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The Legend of the Runic Ring
cordingly, equipping his dragon-keels, and gathering his
warcarls around him, he sailed off over the seas.
On arriving within sight of the Northumbrian coast he
had recourse to the gods for fixing the precise point of
his disembarkation: he let fly two ravens consecrated to
Odin, and following in their wake landed where they had
alighted.
He quickly put to the rout those Northumbrians who
attempted to oppose him, and proceeded to confirm his
victory by building a fortress on the site of the existing
Ravenhall. Sallying forth from this place he would
plunder the neighbouring monasteries, or, putting out to
sea, attack the merchant vessels that passed his shores,
thus becoming possessed in course of time, of a vast
quantity of treasure in the shape of gold and silver, church-
plate, coinage, jewels, and the like.
In his old age he met with the end deemed worthy of
a warrior, being slain in battle whilst contending against
a neighbouring chieftain. At his burial a Norse scald
composed that wild barbaric requiem, which Idris had
heard Lorelie playing on the organ - a requiem that had
accompanied the funeral of every Ravengar since: though
doubtless with considerable variations from the original
strain.
Draco left one son only, Magnus by name. He was
but a child at the time of his father's death, and the
widowed mother, Hilda, fearing that an attempt might be
made to deprive him of his patrimonial treasure, secretly
buried it, purposing to give it to her son when he should
be of age to defend his rights.
For a time all went well. The warriors who had fol-
lowed the standard of Draco rallied around his son, and
looked forward to the day when he should emulate or
surpass the deeds of his father. But eventually murmur-
ings arose. The boy was too much under his mother's
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The Viking's Skull
influence, they thought: the hand that should have been
wielding the spear was more often found holding the pen.
She was accused of teaching him dark and curious arts.
It was a long time, however, before the Vikings ven-
tured to express their displeasure openly, for they feared
Hilda. She was an Alruna, that is, an all-runic or all-
wise woman, who had power to cast pernicious spells
upon those who offended her.
At last, one day, provoked to the extreme by some act
of imprudence on her part, they came to Magnus and
telling him that they were going to banish his mother,
they gave him the choice of being their chieftain or of
accompanying her into exile. Magnus elected to stand
with his father's warriors, and, as head of the clan, in full
and solemn doom-ring, he pronounced upon his mother
sentence of perpetual banishment.
Cut to the heart by this unfilial act Hilda vowed
that she would never reveal to him the hiding-place
of the treasure: and so, being banished, she returned to
her native Norseland, taking with her the silver altar-ring.
With the lapse of time, however, she began to relent
towards her absent son. She yearned to see him again,
but was now too old to undertake the fatigues attending
the voyage. She resolved to break her oath of silence
and to tell him where the treasure lay concealed. To
secure herself from treachery on the part of her mes-
senger, who might have appropriated the wealth himself
if entrusted with the secret of its hiding-place, she had
recourse to the following expedient. She engraved upon
the altar-ring a sentence indicative of the exact site of
the treasure, making use of runic letters, arranged in such
a way that none but Magnus could understand them: for
cryptic writing had been one of the many arts she had
taught him. This done, she despatched the ring by the
hand of a herald.
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The Legend of the Runic Ring
But Magnus was now dead. His son and successor
was Ulric, who, because his lance bore a small pennon
decorated with the figure of a raven, was called Ravengar
or Raven Spear, a name that became hereditary.
Hilda's messenger entered the hall at the hour when
Ulric sat feasting with his warriors. In accordance with
the Norse rites of hospitality the herald was given a seat
at the board. No question was asked of him, and he
resolved to defer his message till the meal should be over.
This delay proved fatal to him, for, during the course of
the feast, he accidentally drew forth the altar-ring. In a
moment the ancient greybeards — old companions of
Draco — recognized the sacred relic of Odin, and sternly
commanded the stranger to explain how he became
possessed of their former chieftain's ring: it had formed
a part of the missing treasure: he must, therefore, know
where the remainder was.
With a stammering tongue the herald stated that he
was a messenger from the Lady Hilda, and pointing to
the inscription upon the ring, said that it indicated the
hiding-place of the treasure.
Ulric, unskilled in the art of letters, passed the ring on
to the sagamen and scalds, who shook their heads over it.
Magnus, the only one capable of reading the riddle, was
no more. The herald himself was unable to decipher the
message that his mistress had caused to be engraved. To
the assembled Vikings his words seemed an idle tale: his
ignorance was imputed to knavery: swords gleamed in
the air: the oaken rafters rang with excited cries.
At one end of the hall on a daïs there stood, as was
usual in those days, rude images of the gods. To this
spot the herald was dragged and told that unless he
revealed the hiding-place of the treasure he should be
sacrificed there and then to Odin and Thor.
Vain was his plea of ignorance: vain his appeal for
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The Viking's Skull
mercy: he was slain by the dagger of Ulric, himself the
priest as well as the chief of the clan : the altar-ring was
dipped in the blood of the victim, and the red drops were
sprinkled on all present. With his dying breath the
herald called upon heaven to be his avenger, invoking a
curse upon the head of him who should discover the
treasure, and praying that the finder might meet with a
death as violent as his own.
Afterwards, when Ulric came to clean the ring, he
found he could not remove the stain of blood, and the
sagamen who examined it declared that the mark would
never be effaced till one of the Raven-race should die as an
atonement for the death of the herald, whose sacred char-
acter had been impiously set at nought.
Ulric retained the ring as the symbol of his authority :
at his death it passed to his son, and so from generation
to generation it continued in the Ravengar family as a
venerated heirloom. In the days of Charles II the first
Earl of Ormsby, Lancelot Ravengar, adopted the ring as
an armorial device, taking as his supporters two ravens,
in allusion to the birds that were said to have directed the
course of Draco's galley.
Such was the story of the runic ring, a story to which
Idris listened with the deepest interest. It was clear to
him that his Viking Orm and Lorelie's Draco were
identical, the Norse form of the name having doubtless
been changed into its Latin equivalent by the original
monkish chronicler.
“ And is the ring still in the possession of the Raven-
gars ?” he asked, when Lorelie had come to the end of
her story.
“No: about fifty years ago it was stolen.”
"Under what circumstances ?”.
“ The affair was a mystery. The ring was kept with
other heirlooms in the jewel-room at Ravenhall. Ac-
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The Viking's Skull
it, and that in the very moment of discovery he will for-
feit his life as an atonement for the death of the herald.
But this,” added Lorelie with a smile, “ is, of course,
mere poetic fancy."
“ There is one omission in your story. You did not
state where this sea-king, Draco, was buried.”
“ The legend does not say. You are forgetting that it
is a legend, invented, perhaps, by some imaginative
king-at-arms in order to decorate the vanity of the first
Earl of Ormsby with a long pedigree and a romantic
origin.”
But Idris had received proofs that the story was true
in the main. For example, there had actually existed an
altar-ring such as described — for he had seen and handled
it himself — a ring engraved with a sentence which not
only spoke of a buried treasure, but also bore the names
of the very persons, Orm, Hilda, and Magnus, who had
figured so prominently in the story. The fragment of
tapestry brought from the interior of the ancient tumulus
supplied additional evidence as to the historic existence
of the Golden Viking and the widowed Hilda.
“ This Draco,” continued Idris, “ if he received the
sepulchral honours due to a Norse chief, would be buried
beneath an immense mound of earth. If we are to look
for his tomb in this neighbourhood we shall perhaps find
it in a tumulus on the seashore about four miles from
here."
“ I know the eminence you refer to," replied Lorelie.
“ It is called Ormfell, that is, Orm's Hill; and therefore
it cannot be Draco's tomb, otherwise it would be called
Draconfell, or something similar."
Idris did not stop to show the fallacy of this mode of
reasoning, but continued :-
“ Has this hillock never been opened by the Earls of
Ormsby to see what it contains ?"
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The Legend of the Runic Ring
“ Not that I am aware of.”
It was strange, Idris thought, that while the tumulus
had retained the true Norse name of the Viking, his de-
scendants, the Ravengars, should have remembered him
only by his Latinized name of Draco. This explained
why Ormfell had never suggested itself to them as the
tomb of their ancestor. In forgetting that he was like-
wise called Orm, they had unwittingly deprived them-
selves of an indication as to the place of the buried
treasure.
Idris' musings were brought to an end by Lorelie's ris-
ing to take her departure, which caused him to murmur
something about the sadness of parting.
“But if there were no parting there would never be the
sweetness of meeting,” was her reply.
Was this no more than a pretty saying on her part;
or did she really look forward with pleasure to their next
meeting?
Emboldened by her words he raised her hand to his
lips before she was aware of his intention.
“ Mr. Breakspear, you must not do that,” she said in a
trembling voice, and hastily withdrawing her hand from
his. Her face was pale : a strange look came into her
eyes, and she turned and hurried away. Idris, trembling
lest he should have given offence, watched her till she
was out of sight, and then went slowly back to Wave
Crest.
Verily he was a fortunate fellow! Fresh from a charm-
ing tête-à-tête with one fair lady he was now to have the
like with a second : for, on passing through the garden-
gate, he saw Beatrice Ravengar reading in a low chair
beneath the apple-trees — Beatrice, the sea-king's daugh-
ter, the descendant of that very Viking whose bones re-
posed in Ormfell!
Her heart beat more quickly as Idris approached. He,
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The Viking's Skull
little divining the cause of the colour that played so en-
chantingly over her cheek, thought Godfrey's sister a
very pretty maiden indeed. True, she lacked the dark
starry beauty of Lorelie — Idris' tastes ran in favour of
brunettes — yet there was a subtle witchery in Beatrice's
soft grey eyes and winsome expression ; in her sunny
hair : and in her graceful figure, set off as it then was, by
a dainty dress of soft muslin.
“ My name, being Breakspear,” said he, with mock
sternness, as he took a seat beside her, “you will not be
surprised to learn that I have a lance to break with
you."
“And what have I done that is amiss ?” asked Beatrice,
outwardly smiling, but inwardly uneasy: for some secret
feeling told her that he had just left the presence of
Mademoiselle Rivière, and she feared lest that lady should
have said something to prejudice her in the eyes of Idris.
A fair return, for had not she herself let fall in Idris' pres-
ence words unfriendly to Lorelie?
“ You have committed the sin of omission in not tell-
ing me that the armorial shield of the Ravengars is dec-
orated with a silver ring.”
“I am aware that a ring figures in their coat of arms,”
said Beatrice, with wide, wondering eyes, “ but where is
my fault in not telling you of it? Surely,” she added,
with a sudden intuition as to his meaning, “surely you do
not mean to say that there is some connection between
your runic ring and the Ravengar device?”.
Idris' reply was to repeat the story he had just
heard.
“ This is all new to me,” said Beatrice, when he had
finished, " but then I never was a Ravengar. I am the
daughter of my mother, and have taken little, if any, in-
terest in the genealogy and family traditions of my an-
cestors, the belted earls.”
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The Viking's Skull
“ Poets do not speak with the precision of grammarians.
I suppose he should have said hairpin."
“ Did they use hairpins in those days, then ?”.
“Without a doubt,” replied Idris, being a little hazy
on the point, nevertheless.
“Gudrun must have worn a very large hairpin, if she
could liken a dagger to it.”
"I suppose it was not very unlike the stiletto con-
trivances worn by ladies of the present day," answered
Idris.
"'Tis the bodkin that I wear
When at night I bind my hair.'"
repeated Beatrice. “At night? Did she wear it in her
hair while sleeping?”.
“I never knew the lady,” laughed Idris, “so I am un-
able to answer. Why shouldn't she?”
“Because during sleep she might turn her head upon
the point and receive an unpleasant stab.”
“ You speak from experience ?”
“ An experience as recent only as last night.”
“We must leave Gudrun's bodkin suspended in mid-
air while you tell me how this happened.'
“ There is really nothing to tell. When I went to bed
I forgot to remove the stiletto from my hair. Somehow,
I was unable to sleep last night.”
“ You were thinking of the skull, perhaps ?”.
“Yes, it must have been that,” replied Beatrice, col-
ouring at this prevarication, for had she spoken truly,
she must have told him that he was the cause of her un.
rest.
“And so," she continued, “ while I was tossing from
side to side, the stiletto must have got loose, and in turn-
ing my head on the pillow I received a stab from the
point of it. Nothing to speak of, a mere scalp wound.”
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The Legend of the Runic Ring
“ It was well the point was not forced into your brain.
I have heard of fatal accidents resulting from the use of
these stiletto-pins. You discarded it at once?”
“Of course."
“Forever?"
“O, no. Only till the morning,” replied Beatrice de-
murely.
“What? You have not let it serve as a warning? O,
Miss Ravengar, Miss Ravengar! what is this I see shim-
mering in your hair at the present moment?".
“A proof of feminine vanity, for it is of no real use,
being merely an ornament.”
“May I inspect the savage weapon that might have
ended your existence, and may yet, since you decline to
learn wisdom from experience ? ”
Beatrice drew forth the hairpin. It was shaped like a
dagger, the steel being slender, rounded, and tapering to
a point: the hilt of gold set with brilliants.
As soon as Idris saw it he stared at it as if mesmerized,
the tapering point of the slender steel was so strangely
suggestive of the metal fragment that had fallen from the
Viking's skull. He took it from his pocket and held it
out to her.
“ Miss Ravengar, what should you say this is ?”
“ That?” replied Beatrice. " That is a part of a hair-
pin. See !”
She laid it upon her open palm beside her own stiletto.
The terminal of the latter corresponded exactly in form
and colour with the broken fragment: at least, the differ-
ence, if difference there were, was imperceptible by the
naked eye.
" It certainly looks like a hairpin.”
“ Looks like it, do you say?" said Beatrice, with a
sort of reproach in her tone. “ It is,” she asseverated
firmly.
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The Viking's Skull
“What reason have you for this opinion other than
mere resemblance?” asked Idris, a little surprised by her
air of certitude.
“I do not reason upon it. I know it is a hairpin," she
replied, with a peculiar emphasis upon the “ know.”
There was a strangeness in her manner, an entire re-
versal of her former self: her face seemed hallowed by a
light like the inspired expression of a sibyl. The ex-
pression was momentary only, dying as soon as born,
but it left Idris curiously impressed.
“ Hilda the Alruna may have looked like that, when
delivering her oracles," he thought.
“Why do you value this piece of steel ?” asked
Beatrice, as she restored it to him.
"This little piece of steel, Miss Ravengar, is nothing
less than the instrument that gave your ancestor Orm his
coup-de-grâce. It dropped out of the skull last night.
For the future my motto must be, · When in doubt, con-
sult Miss Ravengar. By your wit I was enabled to dis-
cover the secret entrance to Ormfell; and now, when
wondering of what this steel fragment once formed part,
you come to my aid again by reading a poem concern-
ing a Norse lady, whose intended action towards her
husband seems almost to have a direct bearing upon the
Viking's skull. Our Norse forefathers, you will remem-
ber, were accustomed to regard their maidens as prophet-
esses, whose opinions, when solemnly invoked, were to
be received as oracles. I will imitate their example, and
accept your dictum that this is a fragment of a lady's
hairpin.”
Godfrey, who had joined the pair a few minutes pre-
viously, and had stood a silent listener of the conversa-
tion, now intervened with a remark.
“Well, then, you must admit,” said he, “ that this
opinion clashes with the story told by the tapestry, which
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The Legend of the Runic Ring
"If yoverification coming tot is not
tapestry avers that Orm died with a cloth-yard shaft
sticking in him.”
“ The two ideas are not irreconcilable," argued Idris.
“ My belief is that we have here,” holding up the piece
of steel, “a silent testimony to a domestic tragedy of a
thousand years ago. Old Orm the Viking was carried
from the battle-field wounded by an arrow. His wife
Hilda was perhaps enamoured of some other warrior:
and so, while affecting to nurse her husband, she may
have hastened his end by secretly driving her strong hair-
pin into his head, a feat she could perform with compara-
tive safety to herself, there being no coroner's inquest in
those days. His death would be attributed to the arrow-
wound, and therefore is so represented on the tapestry.”
“ If your inference be right,” said Beatrice, “it is a
strange verification of the old saying, · Murder will out.'
Fancy the crime coming to light after the lapse of a
thousand years! Though it is not very kind of you,
Mr. Breakspear,” she added, with a mock pout, “ to at-
tempt to prove that my ancestress Hilda was a murder-
ess. You will be saying next that a taste for assassination
is one of our family traits, and that the homicidal microbe
runs in my blood.”
" The lapse of ten centuries will have effectually elimi-
nated it.”
“ Merci !” she returned, dropping him a mock curtsey.
“ Yes : it is consoling to reflect that this little piece of
family scandal is removed from us by the space of a full
millennium.”
“ But Idris is altogether wrong in his theory," re-
marked Godfrey decisively. “ This piece of steel is not
ancient at all.”
“Ay, ay, destroyer of my romance !” returned Idris.
“ Can you give me satisfactory proof that it is not
ancient ?"
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The Viking's Skull
“ I think so: if you will let me do what I like with it."
Idris shook his head.
“ I value this fragment,” he explained, “ believing in
its antiquity. You would not willingly destroy the bullet
that killed Nelson, nor will I consent to destroy the
weapon that slew my Viking.”
“But if I could clearly demonstrate to you that it is a
modern piece of steel — what then?"
“ In that case it would lose its chief value in my eyes,
and it would prove, among other things, that the skull is
not Orm's: for if this steel be modern, so likewise must
be the skull. But how are you going to prove its
modernity? Are not iron and steel alike in all ages ? Is
the steel that was wrought on the anvil of the Norse
armourer different from the steel forged to-day in the
foundries of Sheffield ?”
“Yes, in some respects. I want to conduct a chemical
experiment with this relic, an experiment which will
necessitate its destruction. Still, if I succeed in demon-
strating its modernity you will not object?”.
“Far from it. But are you likely to demonstrate
it?"
“Well, of course, I am open to failure. My opinion
rests upon a certain assumption, which assumption, if cor-
rect, will conclusively show that this steel was forged
within modern times. Nous verrons."
196


CHAPTER XII
IDRIS DECLARES HIS LOVE
TOW long should a man have known a woman
before venturing upon a proposal of love ?
1 Such was the question now occupying the
mind of Idris.
He had seen Mademoiselle Rivière three times only:
he had not spent above seven hours in her presence: yet
had they been seven hundred instead of seven he knew
that his feeling for her would be no stronger at the end
of that time than at the beginning. The moon might
have its period of crescent and wane: not so his love: its
circle was full and complete from the first moment of his
setting eyes upon her.
She was now the sole object of his thoughts. All
other matters: the quest for his father, the problem of
the Viking's skull, were relegated to the dim and distant
future; what were they compared with the winning of
Lorelie?
He found himself continually dwelling upon her man-
ner towards him at the moment of their last parting. He
was uncertain whether she was startled only, or vexed, by
his act of gallantry; whether he must draw hope or de-
spair from that event; and he knew not which was the
wiser course — to declare his love at once, or to defer the
proposal till he had gained a greater hold upon her affec-
tions. A too premature avowal might be disastrous: on
the other hand to be dilatory might lead to his being
forestalled by Viscount Walden.
This latter argument prevailed with him, and he re-
Waldey might be dion her
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Idris Declares His Love
and interesting as on this present occasion. How sweet
and silvery her laugh! How pretty the curve of her lips,
and how glowing their colour! Supposing he were to
stoop suddenly and kiss them? Would not such an act
be tantamount to a love-avowal, and thus relieve him
from the difficulty of an oral confession?
Lorelie, observant at last of Idris' quiet manner, rallied
him on his want of spirits.
“You seem very grave to-day, Mr. Breakspear?”
“ Do I, mademoiselle? I am thinking."
“ May I share your thoughts ?”.
“ You may share my life if you will.”
“ Mr. Breakspear, what are you saying?” exclaimed
Lorelie, quickly, breathlessly.
“ That I love you. Is that a fault? Nay, rather, it
would be å fault not to love you."
Lorelie drew a deep shuddering breath. Their eyes
met: a strange wistful tenderness in hers. Such a look
Idris had never before received from woman : he knew
what it meant, and grew giddy at the thought that he had
the power to evoke it.
Then, in a moment, all was changed !
A priestess, starting in agony from the Delphic tripod,
could not have exhibited a wilder mien than did Lorelie
at that moment as she rose to her feet, her hands pressed
to her bosom as if to repress the emotion struggling
there: in her eyes an expression of horror, the startled
guilty look of one who, tempted to listen to wrong, is
suddenly recalled to a sense of duty.
Idris had wanted to say more, to speak of the depth of
his love, but that look chilled all the warmth of his feel-
ings, and checked the words that were rising to his lips.
“Mr. Breakspear,” she began, with a strange “ catch "
in her voice, “ you saved my life from the sea, and it may
be that gratitude has led me to — to — how shall I ex-
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The Viking's Skull
press myself? — to be too warm in my friendship. I
have not guarded myself sufficiently. If there has been
anything in my manner or words calculated to impress
you with the belief that your addresses would be accept-
able to me, I beg - I entreat — of you to forgive me.
Such utterance — such action — on my part has been un-
intentional. I cannot listen to you.”
With many women a “No” may sometimes mean
“ Yes,” but this was not the case with Lorelie Rivière.
Idris felt that her decision was final, irrevocable. And
yet what was the meaning of that first look of rapture
that had come into her eyes ?
“ You do well to refuse me, mademoiselle: to refuse
in truth any suitor, for who indeed is worthy of you,
but -
“ Mr. Breakspear, for pity's sake be silent. See !"
She drew something from her dress-pocket, turned
aside for a moment, and then held out the third finger of
her left hand. And at the sight Idris, strong man though
he was, staggered as a man may stagger on hearing his
death sentence.
“Great heaven! You are not married ?" he said
hoarsely.
“ Ten months ago. Secretly. At Nice."
“ To - to - ?"
But he knew the name before she pronounced it.
“To Lord Walden — yes.”
The earth that afternoon was roofed with a sky of
deep delicious azure: the soft breeze rippled the leaves
of the woodland, and at each breath the air became alive
with the white blossoms of the trees. Nothing could be
sweeter or fairer than this summer day, but its charm
was not for Idris. With the knowledge that Lorelie could
never be his, there passed away a glory from the earth.
Mechanically he turned his eyes towards Ravenhall.
200


Idris Declares His Love
Lorelie followed the direction of his glance. Through a
vista in the trees they could see the castellated pile, set
with mullioned casements, and fronted with ivied terraces
ascended by stately flights of stone steps. She knew-
and bitter was the knowledge — that Idris was thinking
that there was the prize for which she had sold herself.
He wronged her, however, by this thought.
When Lorelie, eighteen months before, had listened to
the vows of Viscount Walden she had honestly believed
herself to be in love with him. Idris' avowal had shown
her the hollowness of that belief. Vivid as fire on a dark
night there suddenly flashed upon her trembling mind
the overwhelming revelation that her feeling for her hus-
band was as nothing compared with her feeling for Idris.
If all the happiness she had previously known had been
suddenly sublimated and concentrated into one single
intense sensation of a moment's duration it would not
have equalled the rapture evoked by Idris' avowal. But
in a moment the feeling had gone, giving place to the
dull lethargy of despair. Though realizing but too
plainly that she had married the wrong man, the knowl-
edge of the fact did not diminish the loyalty due to her
husband. Faithful she would ever remain, but it was not
her fault if the love that she could henceforth give him
would be scarcely deserving of the name.
She would have died rather than have given utterance
to this confession, but Idris had read the secret in her
eyes: she knew that he had read it, and the knowledge
added to her confusion and made her unable to meet his
glance.
There was a long silence between them. What was
there to talk about? Their mutual love? That was of
necessity a forbidden subject; and to talk of anything
less than this seemed a mockery of the deep feelings
within them.
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The Viking's Skull
the spriis own, and Selle Rivière,
came walking home all by herself, reaching here at two
in the morning. But what has this to do with Madem-
oiselle Rivière — I beg her pardon, Lady Walden?".
“On my way home,” replied Beatrice, “ I had to pass
her villa, and whom should I see walking up the garden-
path towards the house but Ivar himself! He had not
noticed me, and I did not make myself known to him :
in truth I was so much amazed that I could do nothing
but stand silent under the shadow of the trees, watching,
or, if you will, playing the spy. I saw him open the
door of the villa with a key of his own, and go in. Not
knowing that he was married to Mademoiselle Rivière,
what conclusion could I come to but that — that
And here Beatrice paused, leaving her hearers to guess
the nature of her conclusion.
“And you thought that of Mademoiselle Rivière ?”.
said Idris : and Beatrice felt keenly the reproach in his
tone.
“I have never whispered my suspicion to any one -
not even to you, Godfrey.”
“ The sequel shows the advantage of holding one's
tongue,” replied her brother. “ It has saved you from
having to make a humiliating apology to the new vis-
countess. Well, seeing that she is now your cousin, you
cannot do better than acknowledge the relationship by
making a call upon her.”
But Beatrice shrank from this ordeal.
“I have always shown her by my manner that I dis-
like her. She must think me an odious creature.”
“On the contrary,” replied Idris, “whenever your
name has been mentioned she has spoken well of you,
and has expressed herself as desirous of your friend-
ship.”
Beatrice was finally persuaded into promising that she
would pay the new viscountess a visit on the morrow:
204


Idris Declares His Love
after which, Godfrey, turning to Idris, addressed himself
to a new theme.
“I spent this morning," he said, “ in my laboratory
over that piece of steel taken from your so-called Vik.
ing's skull, and I have discovered it to be of modern
fabrication."
“Ah! and how do you prove it?" said Idris, prepar-
ing to argue the point.
“ Chemical analysis shows that the steel contains two
per cent. of platinum."
“What of that?” said Idris bluntly.
“ Much. Platinum is a metal of modern discovery,
first hit on in the year — well, I forget the exact date,
some time about the beginning of the eighteenth century.
Therefore, any steel that is combined with platinum must
have been forged within the past two hundred years, and
consequently cannot be a relic of Norse days.”
“ For what purpose is platinum mixed with the
steel ?"
“To impart additional hardness."
“I must accept your dictum as final. Of course the
conclusion is that if the steel be modern, the skull must
be modern, too. I must give up my belief, Miss Raven-
gar, that I possess the skull of your Viking ancestor.
But then,” he went on, “ Orm was buried within that.
hillock: the pictured tapestry and the name Ormfell
prove it. What, then, has become of his remains ?”
“ Crumbled to dust, perhaps, with the lapse of time,”
suggested Beatrice.
“ The existence of the tapestry confutes you. Solid
bone would not crumble, if a woollen fabric will endure."
" True," replied Beatrice, with a puzzled look. “I am
forgetting the tapestry. Here's a mystery, indeed !
What has become of the Viking's bones ?”
“If the skeleton within the tumulus be that of a
205


The Viking's Skull
modern person,” said Idris, “how on earth came it
there? Who buried him, and - "
“We do not yet know that it is a “him,'” interjected
Godfrey. “ The skeleton may be the remains of a
woman.”
“I speak provisionally. Who buried him, or her, and
why should such a strange grave be chosen ?".
“ Because,” replied the surgeon, gravely, “ because, my
dear Idris, cannot you see that the present occupant of
Ormfell did not die a natural death? The piece of steel
lodged in the brain proves that. He was murdered,
murdered with a stiletto hairpin : and he, or they, that
did the deed, knowing, as we know, that Ormfell contains
a grave-chamber, disposed of the victim's body by plac-
ing it within the hillock, no doubt thinking that the
remains, if ever discovered, would be taken for those of
some ancient warrior, an error into which we ourselves
would have fallen had not that tapestry remained, I
might say, providentially remained, to tell us otherwise."
For a few moments both Beatrice and Idris sat dumb-
founded at this startling theory.
“By heaven! I believe you are right,” cried Idris.
“ And yet this murder-theory of yours is open to objec-
tion. There is the difficulty of conveying a dead body
to Ormfell. Consider the risk of detection that the
murderer would run."
“ The murder may have taken place within Ormfell
itself,” suggested Beatrice.
“ That is my view,” replied Godfrey, “for there are
signs which seem to point to that conclusion.”
“What signs are they?" asked Idris.
“ You will perhaps think my first reason fanciful,” re-
plied Godfrey. “You have continually maintained,” he
went on, addressing Idris,“ that the divining rod took a
downward bend at a certain point in the mortuary cham-
206


Idris Declares His Love
ber. What formed the attractive force ? «The voice
of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground !'
Shall we say that that was the true cause? For
human blood has been shed there. Have you forgotten
how the tapestry taken from that very spot reddened the
water in which it was placed ? Now let us suppose that
some one standing at that point was suddenly struck
down from behind : his natural action in falling would
be to clutch at the nearest thing he could lay hold of.”
“Which in his case would be the tapestry," interjected
Idris.
" Just so: and that is my way of accounting for the
tearing of that fabric, and the downward curvature of the
rod to which it was attached. The tapestry at the same
time became saturated with the blood of the victim."
"Your opinion seems reasonable,” remarked Idris,
“except as regards the divining rod; I can't believe that
dried blood could produce such an effect. But the
difficulty remains — what has become of the Viking's
bones ? "
And to this question Godfrey could give no satisfactory
answer.
“ When do you think this murder took place ?” Idris
asked. “In our own days, or long before them ?”
“I see no way at present of fixing the date,” Godfrey
replied.
" It may have been twenty, fifty, or a hundred years
ago, or even more,” ventured Idris.
“ Any period since the era of the discovery of
platinum," answered Godfrey.
“ Is there no way in these scientific times of ascertain-
ing the age of that skull ? ” asked Beatrice.
Godfrey shook his head.
“ The most skilled anatomist would be puzzled to de-
termine the age of a given skull,” he replied.
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The Viking's Skull
Idris paced uneasily to and fro, assigning the skull in
turn to each of those who, to his knowledge, had been
in any way connected with the runic ring — his father,
Lorelie's father, the unknown assassin of Duchesne, and
lastly the masked man of Quilaix.
“Whoever the victim was,” said Beatrice, slowly and
thoughtfully, “he must have been murdered by a
woman."
“ A woman!” ejaculated Idris. He could not tell
why at that moment a cold feeling should come over
him.
“ A woman!” repeated Beatrice, solemnly: "for I
still adhere to my belief that the piece of steel was a
fragment of a stiletto hairpin, and who but a woman
would think of using such an instrument ?"
-208


The Viking's Skull
have extended to a stranger, though all the time she was
inwardly tormented lest Idris should think her unduly
cold. None but herself knew how her heart was pulsat-
ing beneath her calm exterior. She was not to be
blamed, she argued, for the feeling that had sprung up
self-originated within her breast. Action and tongue
may be controlled : thought never. So long, then, as
she controlled her words and action, what more was re-
quired of her? What more? A secret voice seemed
to say, “ Never to see Idris again!”
They sat on the veranda conversing on various topics,
and as Beatrice listened to the charming words and the
sweet laugh of the viscountess, and contemplated her
brilliant beauty, she no longer wondered that Idris should
have fallen in love with her.
During the course of the conversation some details of
Lorelie's history became revealed.
She was now twenty-three years of age, and had been
born at Nantes in the same year in which her father,
Captain Rochefort, had aided Eric Marville to escape
from the Breton prison. Her father she had never
known, nor had he ever been seen again by Madame
Rochefort after his flight in the yacht Nemesis.
When Lorelie was sixteen years of age her mother
died, leaving to her an income sufficient with economy
for her maintenance. Henceforward she had led a soli-
tary independent life, content with her books and music.
In her twenty-first year she met Lord Walden at
Monaco.
They were married privately, and while the earl sup-
posed his son to be carrying on the course of study
requisite for the diplomatic profession, that son was in
reality quietly celebrating his honeymoon on the Riviera.
After a few months of wedded life Lorelie suddenly
conceived the purpose of visiting Ormsby, though her
210


At Lorelie's Villa
As she recalled the occasion of its disclosure a faint
colour tinged her cheek; and Ivar, though not usually a
quick-witted person, immediately suspected the cause.
“Necessitated by that fellow's making love to you, I
presume ?” he said, eyeing her keenly.
“ Ivar,” she answered quietly, evading his question,
“ so long as men think me free - "
“ Free! that's a good word.”
“ So long as I am supposed to be unmarried,” she con-
tinued, correcting her expression,“ so long shall I be
liable to receive attentions from other men. You can
easily remedy this by making our marriage known.”
“O, harping on that string again,” said Ivar impa-
tiently. “ It's out of the question — at present. The
governor would never forgive me for marrying a woman
of no family, especially," he added, with something like
a sneer, “ especially a woman who admits that there is a
shadow on her name.”
There was a flash of resentment in the eyes that were
turned suddenly upon him.
“ You can bear me witness it was before our marriage
and not after that I confessed to having a secret.”
“ You would not tell me its nature.”
“No: nor ever shall,” replied Lorelie, with a hardening
of her features. “You were willing to take me as I was,
and to ask no questions as to my past. You promised
never to refer to my secret. But — how often have you
reproached me with it ?”
Ivar smoked on in moody silence. It was true he had
given no thought to her secret in his first glow of passion.
A slave to sensuality he had married Lorelie for her
beauty, not knowing who or whence she was, ignorant
even that her true name was Rochefort. Now that her
beauty was beginning to pall upon him, a fact he took
little pains to disguise, this secret that darkened her past
213


The Viking's Skull
began to trouble him. What answer was he to give to
the editors of “ Debrett” and “ Burke," when interrogated
as to his wife's family?
“ Ivar,” Lorelie continued earnestly, “your visits here
are beginning to be noticed. My character is becoming
exposed to suspicions. You will let the world know that
I am your wife, will you not?”.
No true man could have resisted the appealing glance
of her eyes, the pleading tone of her soft voice; but Ivar,
being no true man, was proof against both.
“ Impossible, at present,” he frowned. “ I have raised
you from comparative poverty to affluence; I have sur-
rounded you with luxury, and, by heaven! you little
know at what cost, and at what risk to myself! I have
made you my wife: be content with that. You will be a
countess some day; think of your future triumph over
those who slight you now. If people talk, you must put
up with it, or go away from Ormsby. It was against my
wish that you came here. But your vanity is such that
you must feast your eyes daily upon your future heritage
of Ravenhall."
“ It was neither the desire to see the Ravengar lands,
nor the wish even to be near you, that drew me to
Ormsby, but a very different motive."
“In the devil's name, what motive ? " said Ivar, elevat-
ing his eyebrows in surprise.
" It is a part of the secret of my life. But, being here,
here I remain. And, Ivar, I must be acknowledged," she
added firmly.
“Of course: you are burning to exhibit yourself as
Viscountess Walden ; to shine in ancestral diamonds; to
reign at Ravenhall; to be queen of the county-side; to
be courted and admired at fêtes and balls.”
“No, Ivar, no; I care nothing for these things, but
much for the name of wife. To think that I must plead
214


At Lorelie's Villa
“I heard the story from— from my father,” replied
Ivar slowly, as if reluctant to make the admission.
At this Lorelie gave a very palpable start. A curious
light came into her eyes. She seemed as if struck by
some new and surprising idea.
“ And how came he to learn it?”
“ He was in Brittany at the time of the trial, and could
not avoid hearing all about it. The crime created, as
newspapers say, a great sensation. For weeks the people
of Nantes talked of little else.”
“ Your father's ten years' absence from Ravenhall was
spent in Brittany, then ?".
“A portion of the time," replied Ivar, evidently un-
easy under his wife's catechism.
"And so this murder-trial,” observed Lorelie, with a
thoughtful air,“ this trial which took place so far back as
twenty-seven years ago — that is before you and I were
born — has formed a topic of conversation between your-
self and your father. What necessity led him to talk of
the matter to you?”
But Ivar waived this question by asking one.
“What has brought that fellow to Ormsby ?” he said,
nodding his head in the direction of Idris.
“He is trying to discover his father; for he believes,
rightly or wrongly, that Eric Marville is still alive. He
has traced him to this neighbourhood,” she added, her
eyes attentive to every variation in Ivar's counten-
ance.
“ And here he may end his quest,” said the viscount,
“ for Eric Marville was shipwrecked off this coast and
drowned many years ago. At least, that is my father's
statement,” he added in some confusion, and looking like
a man who has been unwittingly betrayed into a rash
statement.
“ What was the name of the vessel in which Eric Mar-
217


The Viking's Skull
ville went down ?” asked Lorelie, speaking as if she had
never before heard of it.
“ The — The Idris,” returned the viscount, giving the
name with obvious reluctance.
There was on Lorelie's face a smile that somehow
made Ivar feel as if he had walked into a net prepared
for him.
“ And how long ago is it since this vessel was
wrecked ?”
“ Twenty-two years ago."
“ Twenty-two years ago," murmured Lorelie, with the
air of one making a mental calculation, “ will take us
back to 1876."
“ October the thirteenth, 1876, if you wish for the ex-
act date."
“ And was it not on this same night of October the
thirteenth, 1876, that your father the earl walked into
Ravenhall after a mysterious absence of ten years ?”
“What of that?”
“O nothing! Mere coincidence, of course. And
so," continued Lorelie, with a retrospective air, “ and so
the foundering of the yacht Idris is another of the little
matters about which your father has conversed with you.
Strange that a peer of the realm should take such inter-
est in the fate of an escaped felon!” She paused, as if
expecting Ivar to make some reply, but he did not speak.
“ Well,” she went on, “I will make the confession that
I, too, take an interest - a strong interest - in this Eric
Marville ; nay, I will go so far as to say that to discover
what ultimately became of him is one of the objects
that has led me to Ormsby. And in pursuance of this
object I have had the good fortune to obtain from its
present editor a copy of The Ormsby Weekly Times, dated
October 20th, 1876, in which paper there is given an ac-
count both of the foundering of the yacht and also of
218


At Lorelie's Villa
the inquest upon the bodies that were washed ashore.
Now, as the coroner was unable to ascertain either the
name of the vessel, or the names of any of the men
aboard, is it not a little curious that the earl should know
that the yacht was called Idris, and that it carried on
board one Eric Marville ? How comes your father to
know more than could be elicited in the coroner's
court ?”
“Egad, you'd better ask him," returned Ivar sullenly.
“ Well, I must controvert your father on one point.
Eric Marville was not drowned. I have proof that he
was on shore at the time the yacht sank.”
The viscount was obviously startled by this statement.
“Oh! then what became of him?”
“ Have I not said that I am trying to find out ?"
“ You've got a difficult task before you. No one has
heard of him since the night of the wreck.”
“No one has heard of him by the name Marville, of
course. He would not be likely to adhere to a name
that would suggest reminiscences of the felon from Valà-
genet. He perhaps resumed his old family name.”
“ His old family name," repeated Ivar. “What is
your reason for supposing that Marville was not his true
name?”
“ Because it does not appear among the list of names
in the peerage.”
“ The peerage ?”
“Do you not know that Marville claimed to be a peer
of the realm ?”
The viscount smiled, but it was obvious that he was ill
at ease.
“Felon in Brittany; peer in Britain. A likely story
that! Odd that the detectives and journalists did not
discover the fact at the time of his trial.”
" It is odd, as you say, Ivar. He certainly kept his
219


At Lorelie's Villa
“Why so ?”
“ It's one thing to claim a peerage, but quite another
thing to prove one's claim. Why fill the fellow with
false hopes ? Be guided by me, and refrain from telling
him of his father's pretensions.”
“Very well, Ivar,” responded Lorelie, quietly, “ I will
be guided by you. As your wife it is my duty to do
nothing to the detriment of your future interests."
For a moment the two stared curiously at each other.
“My interests ?" muttered the viscount. “I don't un-
derstand you.”
“I think you do," she said gravely. “But,” she added,
rising to her feet, “ I am neglecting my visitors,” and so
saying she moved off in the direction of Idris and Bea-
trice, who were slowly pacing to and fro on one side of
the lawn.
“Not even the coronet to console me now !” she mur-
mured darkly. “A fitting punishment this for my long
and guilty silence! Justice, justice, now thy scourge is
coming upon me!”
Ivar did not follow his wife, but sat motionless for some
moments, staring after her in blank dismay, and com-
pletely confounded by the startling hints that she had
let fall.
“ Idris Marville not dead,” he muttered, removing with
his handkerchief the cold moisture that glistened on his
forehead. “That fellow he! Living here at Ormsby —
in the same house with Beatrice! And Lorelie suspects !
Suspects ? She knows. By God! supposing she tells
him! But, bah! she will not — she dare not — declare
it; she stands to lose too much.” He recalled her words
to the effect that she would do nothing detrimental to his
interests. The meaning of this assurance was obvious,
and Ivar breathed more freely. “She'll keep the secret
for her own sake. She'll not be so mad as to cut her own
221


The Viking's Skull
throat. In marrying her I've stopped her mouth. But
if she had known as much a year ago as she knows to-
day -- !”
The smile had returned to Lorelie's lips by the time
she reached Idris and Beatrice, and at her invitation they
repaired to the drawing-room. Lord Walden, with a
black feeling of hatred in his heart against both his wife
and Idris, slowly followed without speaking, and flung
himself on a distant ottoman as if desiring no compan-
ionship but his own.
Idris, thus ignored by the viscount, could but ignore
him in turn. He had never beheld a more sullen and a
more ungracious clown than Lorelie's husband, and he
much regretted that he had not followed his first impulse
to depart.
The drawing-room was a handsome apartment, con-
taining many evidences of taste and wealth. Lorelie
took a pride in pointing out her treasures.
“My father," she remarked, observing Beatrice's eyes
set upon a portrait in oils representing a handsome man
in the uniform of a French military officer.
Idris viewed with interest the likeness of the man who
for about the space of a minute had flashed across his
childhood's days.
“A man who will ever command my respect,” he mur-
mured, “since in rescuing my father from prison he was
forced by that act to become an exile from his native
land.”
An expression of pain passed over Lorelie's face.
“ Mr. Breakspear, you do not know what you are
saying."
“Forgive me. I promised never to allude to that
event, and I am breaking my word. I apologize."
And he wondered, as he had often wondered, why ref-
erence to this matter should trouble her. She had no
222


At Lorelie's Villa
cause to be ashamed of her father's deed. Captain Roche-
fort's act in favour of a friend whom he believed to be
innocent was, from Idris' point of view, a gallant and
romantic enterprise, and in the judgment of most per-
sons would deserve condonation, if not approval.
After the portrait of Captain Rochefort, what most
interested Beatrice was an antique vase standing upon the
carved mantel. It was of gold, set with precious stones,
and the interior was concealed from view by a tight-
fitting lid.
“What a pretty vase!” she said, and with Lorelie's
sanction she lifted it from the mantel. As she did so a
cold tremor passed over her. She placed the urn upon
the table, and in a moment the feeling was gone.
She took up the vase again, and the unpleasant sensa-
tion returned. Was this due to something exhaled from
the interior of the urn? She drew a deep breath through
her nostrils, but failed to detect any odour.
Puzzled and annoyed, Beatrice became morbidly curi-
ous to learn its contents.
“The lid fits very tightly,” she said, addressing Lorelie.
“ How do you remove it?”
" It is secured by a hidden spring,” replied the vis-
countess. “If you can discover the secret, you will be
doing me a favour, for I have never been able to open it
myself.”
“ Then you do not know what treasure it may contain,"
smiled Beatrice. « Attar of roses, spices from Arabia,
pearls from the Orient, may lurk within.” She shook
the urn, and a faint sound accompanied the movement.
“ Listen! there is certainly something inside.”
"I am full of curiosity myself to know what it is," said
Lorelie, “I have spent hours in trying to discover the
spring.”
“ Then it is useless for me to try.”
223


The Viking's Skull
But though Beatrice spoke thus, she nevertheless made
the attempt, toying with the vase and pressing various
figures sculptured upon the sides. All to no purpose.
The jewels sparkled like wicked eyes, seeming to mock
her endeavours. The sound caused by the shaking of
the urn was like the collision of paper pellets, shavings of
wood, or of some other substance equally light. And
all the time while handling the vase Beatrice was con-
scious of a strange feeling of repulsion. What caused it
she could not tell: the fact was certain: the reason
inexplicable.
“ Is this vase an heirloom?" she asked, desirous of
learning whence Lorelie had obtained it, and yet not
liking to appear too curious.
The viscountess hesitated a moment, evidently adverse
to replying, and then stooped over Beatrice and kissed
her.
“Will you think me discourteous, Beatrice, if — if I do
not tell you how I came by it ? ”.
While speaking she glanced aside at Ivar who, from
his position on the couch, was watching the scene with
so perturbed an air that Idris was led to believe there
was some strange secret connected with this vase — a
secret known to both husband and wife. Great as was
his love for Lorelie, Idris was compelled to admit that
she was very mysterious in some of her ways.
Then a strange thing happened.
Idris, keenly attentive to all that was passing, observed
a curious expression stealing over Beatrice's face. Once
before he had seen this expression, namely, at the time
when she gave her opinion on the piece of steel taken
from the Viking's skull. The pupils of her eyes were
contracted, and set with a bright fixity of gaze upon the
jewelled urn. The rigidity of her figure indicated a
cataleptic state.
224


At Lorelie's Villa
Her lips parted, and in a voice strangely unlike her
own, she said:-
“ The ashes of the dead!”
At this Lorelie gave a faint cry and drew away the
vase, glancing again at Ivar. Then, with her hands she
closed the eyes of Beatrice, and shook her gently. Bea-
trice opened her eyes again, and looked around with the
surprised air of one aroused suddenly from sleep.
“Do you know what you have been saying ?” Lorelie
asked.
“ No- what?”
“That this is a funereal urn.”
“ Have I been self-hypnotized again ?”
“ Again ?" repeated Lorelie. “Do you often fall into
this state ?”
“Occasionally — when gazing too long at some bright
object : and then the object seems to whisper its history
to me, or rather, as Godfrey more sensibly remarks, my
mind begins to weave all kinds of fancies around it.”
“ Why, you must be a clairvoyante," said Lorelie,
studying the other intently. “. The ashes of the dead ?'
Yes, this may be a crematory vase. What do you say,
Ivar?” she added, turning to the viscount.
“Of course Beatrice knows,” was his reply, “ for is she
not a daughter of the gods, a descendant of a Norse
prophetess ? But, Beatrice, I think that the blood of
Hilda the Alruna must have become so diluted during
the course of ten centuries that your claim to the hered-
itary gift of intuition is a little laughable.”
"I am not aware of having made any such claim,"
replied Beatrice, quietly.
“ And such claim, if made, would be justified,” re-
torted Idris, roused by Lord Walden's sneering air, “ for
Miss Ravengar has given me previous proof of possessing
remarkable intuitive powers."
15
225


The Viking's Skull
“ Let us say no more on the matter,” said Lorelie,
gently.
She restored the urn to its place on the mantelpiece,
and, desirous of removing the somewhat unpleasant im-
pression created by the incident, immediately started a
conversation on other topics.
The talk turned presently upon literature, and Idris,
remembering that Lorelie was an author, said:-
“Lady Walden, will you not give us a reading from
your play?”
“O, yes, do!” cried Beatrice, impulsively.
Lorelie hesitated. The drama written by her had been
a work of time and patience: it was as near perfection as
she would ever be able to bring it: she had poured her nob-
lest feelings into the work. But she knew that what
seems good to the author often seems bad to the critic:
that the thoughts, supposed to be original, prove to be
merely echoes of what others have said before in far bet-
ter language: that the line that separates eloquence from
bombast is easily passable on the wrong side.
These were the motives disposing Lorelie to keep her
tragedy to herself. The person who should have been
the first to give encouragement on this occasion was
mute; for Ivar maintained an air of indifference.
“ Deserves kicking," was Idris' secret comment, as he
became conscious of a suggestion of humiliation in Lore-
lie's manner, due to her husband's want of appreciation.
“ And,” he added to himself, “ I should very much like to
do the kicking.”
Moved at last by the solicitations of her two visitors
Lorelie produced the manuscript of her play and pre-
pared to read some portions of it.
“ This drama of mine, The Fatal Skull,'” she began,
“ derives its name from the central incident in it - an in-
cident of early Italian history. Alboin, King of the Lom-
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At Lorelie's Villa
bards, had become enamoured of Rosamond, the beauti-
ful daughter of Cunimund, King of the Gepids. Both
father and daughter, however, rejected the suit, for Lom-
bards and Gepids had long been at feud. Embassies hav-
ing failed, Alboin resolved to attain his object by force,
and, accordingly, entered the territories of Cunimund
with an army. In the battle that followed, the Gepid
king was slain, his forces put to the rout, and his daughter
Rosamond became the prize and the reluctant bride of the
conqueror Alboin.”
“How dreadful,” murmured Beatrice,“ to be compelled
to marry the man who had slain her father!”
“ The sequel is more dreadful,” returned Lorelie.
“ The death of Cunimund was not sufficient to satiate the
hatred of Alboin ; the skull of the fallen king, fashioned
into a drinking cup, became the most treasured ornament
of his sideboard.
“ Feasting one day with his companions-in-arms, Al-
boin called for the skull of Cunimund. The cup of vic-
tory'— to quote the words of Gibbon —' was accepted
with horrid applause by the circle of the Lombard chiefs.
“ Fill it again with wine,” exclaimed the inhuman con-
queror, “ fill it to the brim; carry this goblet to the queen,
and request in my name that she would rejoice with her
father.” In an agony of grief and rage, Rosamond had
strength to utter, “ Let the will of my lord be obeyed,"
and, touching it with her lips, pronounced a silent impre-
cation that the insult should be washed away in the blood
of Alboin.'”
“ And did she kill her husband?” asked Beatrice.
“Yes, with the help of his armour-bearer Helmichis.”
Having thus set forth the argument, Lorelie, unfolding
her manuscript, began to read certain scenes from her
play. The reading of them was a revelation both to Idris
and Beatrice: there was a masculine vigour in the lines :
227


The Viking's Skull
««• Die !'” she exclaimed, in an exultant tone, and
quoting the words of her play. “This Rosamond
sends.'”
There was a weird roll of her glittering eyes as she
flung out her left hand tightly clenched: a swiftness and
ferocity in the downward stroke of the stiletto in her
right, so suggestive of real murder that Idris glanced at her
feet, almost expecting to see a human figure lying there.
Beatrice gave a cry of genuine terror. Ivar looked on
with evident admiration.
For a few seconds Lorelie maintained a rigid bending
pose, her eyes dilated with terror, staring at the hearth
as if she beheld something there. Then, with a motion
startling in its suddenness, she recovered her erect atti-
tude, and reeled backward with her lifted hand clenched
upon her brow. The stiletto dropped from her limp
fingers, and the peculiar ringing sound produced by its
contact with the tiled hearth was fresh in Idris' ears for
many days afterwards.
"• A-a-ah!'” she cried in a long-drawn thrilling sibi-
lant whisper, which, nevertheless, penetrated to every
corner of the apartment, and again quoting from her
play. “Ah! He moves! His eyes open! That look
of reproach! I dare not,'” she went on, gasping for
breath, “I dare not strike again! Helmichis, do thou
strike for me.'"
With averted face she staggered back and dropped
upon a couch, apparently exhausted by real or simulated
emotion.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried Ivar, clapping his hands.
“ The divine Sarah couldn't do it better. By heaven!
we ought to have this play staged, with you in the rôle
of Rosamond. You'd be the talk of London.”
As for Idris, the diablerie of Lorelie's manner had
given him a sensation very much akin to horror.
230


CHAPTER XIV
TOLD BY THE VASE
EXT morning Idris strove to put aside the fear
that had found expression in his dreams, but the
dark idea would persist in forcing itself upon
him. He grew angry with himself. Heavens! was he
not master of his own mind that he could not throw off
this suspicion of the woman whom he loved ? Strange
and mysterious Lorelie might be, but that she was a taker
of human life he found it impossible to believe.
Doubtless it was true that a murder had taken place
within Ormfell, but that the crime had been wrought by
a stiletto hairpin was merely a conjecture on the part of
Beatrice, who had no valid reason to offer in support of
her theory: yet, imbued with this fancy she was persist-
ent in maintaining that a woman must have been the
author of the deed.
Assuming it, however, to be a fact that the piece of
steel was a fragment of a hairpin, and the person who
used it as an instrument of death a woman, it did not fol-
low because Lorelie had drawn a stiletto pin from her
hair in order to illustrate an assassination-scene in her
play, that he must identify her with the guilty woman.
There was not only no evidence to connect Lorelie
with the crime, but much to prove the contrary. For
instance, it requires a very long period of time before a
human body will become reduced to the state of a
skeleton such as that which Idris and Godfrey had found
in the interior of the ancient tumulus.
But Lorelie's coming to Ormsby had taken place less
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Told by the Vase
denly, checked by some motive for which he could not
account, he determined to remain an unseen watcher.
Lorelie rose and placed Beatrice's hands upon the
vase, where they rested, passive and limp. This move-
ment was accompanied by a shiver on the part of the
medium. If the soul be capable of abstraction from the
body, Idris might have believed that Beatrice's soul had
left her at that moment to animate the vase, for the urn
seemed to become instinct with motion, and to sparkle
with a new light.
“Speak, Beatrice," said Lorelie in a solemn tone.
“ Speak from the depth of this vase: listen to the voice
of its quivering atoms: recall from it the scenes and
sounds of the past. Tell me, what do you feel — hear
- see?”
A hollow voice arose, a voice that sounded like a
mockery of Beatrice's tones: and although her lips
moved, the words seemed to emanate, not from her, but
from the urn.
“ It is dark ... very dark ... nothing can
be seen .. No sun ... no stars . . .
no light . . . All is cold ... and damp...
and still ... There is no air... or wind
... no life . or motion . . . It is like
the grave ... Above, beneath, on all sides, the
earth presses . . . Always the earth around ...
nothing but earth... For ages and ages, deep
down in the ground.”
She repeated this last sentence several times.
“ For ages and ages, deep down in the ground.”
“What next ?” asked Lorelie.
“ A sound . . . faint . . . far-off . . .
Now it comes nearer ... it is as of a spade dig-
ging . . . it is coming down ... down
... down .. The earth above loosens ...
:: Above, is the e
omes nearer coming down
posens . . .
235


The Viking's Skull
disappears ... The blowing of fresh air...
the gleam of daylight ... Now the blue sky looks
down ... Lifted up by strong hands to the glorious
sunshine above ... It is the edge of a pit . . .
Small pieces of gold mixed with earth lie about . . .
It is spring-time ... The air is full of the sound
of falling waters ... There are green hills around,
dark here and there with pines and firs... Above
them snow shining in the sun ... There are men
about ... digging ... men with deep blue
eyes and flaxen hair ... They wear close-fitting
tunics ... Their legs are bare, crossed by thongs
of leather, ... They talk a strange language
... Now they stop digging ... laugh ...
and drink mead from ox-horns.”
Idris started, beginning to detect a glimmer of meaning
in these utterances, hitherto as dark as a Delphic oracle.
" It is hot ... very hot ... There is a
fire... flames playing in golden and ruddy hues
on the rafters above ... Many pieces of metal are
stacked upon the shelves around ... Shields,
spears, swords, all newly-wrought, are lying about ...
The clangour of the anvil arises ... The red sparks
fly around ... Men are moving to and fro, all
busy ... One is pouring molten metal into a clay
mould ... It is liquid, glowing gold ... He
is casting a vase . . . a funereal urn ... this !"
Idris had heard something of the marvels of clairvoy-
ance, but clairvoyance like this fairly took his breath
away. It was clear that Beatrice was giving the whole
history of the vase, from the time when the metal com-
posing it first issued from the earth in the shape of ore in
the old Norse fatherland!
“ It is a long, low, wooden hall. The lady is beauti-
ful, with dark eyes and raven hair. There are some
236


Told by the Vase
maidens around. They are at needlework. They have
one long piece of cloth on their knees, and are sewing
different coloured threads into it. The lady directs
them. Now she moves towards the bed. There is some
one lying on it, hidden by a bearskin. At the head is
the golden vase. The lady lifts the coverlet. Beneath,
there reposes a dead man, with yellow hair and beard.
He lies upon his shield, his spear and sword beside him.
The lady falls across the body weeping.”
This scene was clear enough to Idris' comprehension.
The dark-haired lady was the ancestress of Beatrice her-
self, Hilda the Alruna, mourning the death of her hus-
band, Orm the Viking : and the maidens were the captive
nuns who had wrought the figured tapestry that had
decorated the interior of Ormfell.
“ The maidens tremble as the stern-faced warriors
enter the hall to carry away the body of their chief. He
is borne aloft to the place of sepulture upon his brazen
shield. The lady follows, clasping the urn to her
bosom."
Beatrice paused for a moment, and then began another
picture.
“ The green hill-tomb rises high in sunny air, and
close by murmurs the voice of the restless sea. The
dead warrior is laid upon an altar of wood. Many per-
sons stand around. A fair-haired boy touches the pile
with a flaming torch. As he does so, a shout goes up to
the sky."
Though Beatrice's utterances were not marked by any
rhythmic measure, she nevertheless began to intone them
to an air, which Idris immediately recognized as the
Ravengar Funeral March, the requiem that had made so
strange an impression upon him when played by Lorelie
upon the organ of St. Oswald's Church.
“ See the gleam of lifted lance and shield! Hark to
apression un', the requiem thognized as the
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The Viking's Skull
the wailing of the women, as they beat their breasts and
rend their tresses for the death of their great chief! List
to the warriors, as they clash their brazen bucklers with
clanging sword-strokes ! Now rises the wild barbaric
song of the long-haired scald, hymning to his harp the
heroic deeds of the dead, and chanting the dirge that
shall never be forgotten by the Raven-race. Upward
mount the flames of the pyre. See how the maddened
raven, tied to the fagot with silken thread, flaps his
wings and screams with terror, pecking at the bond that
holds him. The volumed smoke hides him from view :
the fire severs the thread: now he soars heavenward,
bearing the soul of the warrior to Valhalla. The fire
burns long, glowing in the breath of the breeze. Now
it fades : glimmers : and dies out. The lady draws near
with the urn : within it are reverently placed the ashes
of the dead."
Beatrice ceased her intonation, and continued in a
quieter tone.
“ It is a square place, built of stone. Men are moving
about. Some carry torches. Others are decking the
walls with tapestry, hanging it from a metal rod. There
is a stone receptacle in the centre. The dark-haired
lady places the urn within this, and retires. The lights
vanish. All is silence and darkness — silence and dark-
ness."
It was clear that Beatrice had been describing the in-
cidents attending the death and burial of Orm. Her
account had cleared up one mystery. The contents of
the urn were nothing less than the ashes of the old
Viking, the ancestral dust from which Beatrice herself
had sprung! This completely answered the question as
to what had become of his remains, and furnished addi-
tional proof that the skeleton in the sarcophagus was not
that of Orm.
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Told by the Vase
But here a disquieting thought presented itself. Who
had removed this urn from the tomb in Ormfell, and in
what way had Lorelie become possessed of it? He dis-
missed the question for the moment in order to listen to
Beatrice who was speaking again.
“ Footsteps round about. Light shines through the
interstices of the tomb. Some one is speaking. It is
the dark-haired lady. There is a man with her. They
take off the lid of the tomb and put in all kinds of bright
things — coins and rings : gold and silver ingots : cups,
lamps, precious stones, and the like. They sparkle in the
light. The tomb is full. They lay the rest on the floor.
Now they steal away. The light goes with them. Silence
and darkness again."
Thus far Beatrice's monologue had dealt with a period
of history distant by a thousand years, and had told Idris
little that he did not already know. Would she continue
the story of the urn through the succeeding centuries ?
Would she reach modern times, and speak of those who
had removed the treasure? would she describe the murder
that had taken place, and tell how the urn came to be in
Lorelie's possession ?
Spellbound he waited for the sequel. If any one
had told him that the Viking's treasure was lying upon
the roadway outside to be his own for the mere trouble
of walking thither, he would not have stirred from his
position.
Beatrice had been silent for some time, when Lorelie,
speaking in the same tone of authority that she had used
throughout, said :-
What comes next?”.
“ The dropping of moisture from the roof.”
“What next?”
“Silence and darkness.”
Idris began to think that he was doomed to disappoint-
239


Told by the Vase
heard. Idris did not fail to notice the change. It was
an agreeable change, but ominous for his hopes. She
seemed to be emerging from her trance: emerging, too,
at a very significant point of the story.
He noticed, too, that Lorelie's interest had kept pace
with his own: there was on her face a look of painful
anxiety that had been entirely absent in the earlier stages
of the experiment.
“A second man has entered the place. There is a
silence. They seem to be standing still, looking at each
other. Now they walk to and fro speaking.”
“ What do they say?"
“ Their voices are hushed! Ha! A sound like the
tearing of cloth. The dull thud as of a body falling to
the earth. A gasp, and all is still. The footsteps move
about again. It seems as if only one man is there. He
comes slowly forward and approaches the tomb. He
places the light upon the floor. He is going to lift the
lid. It is heavy. He can scarcely move it. He pushes
it aside with his hands. Ah!” she exclaimed in a tone
of disgust,“ ah ! his fingers are wet with blood. Some
drops fall into the tomb. Oh !” she gasped in the voice
of one who suddenly realizes an awful truth. “ Oh!
he is a murderer! He has killed the other. He
peers into the tomb. The lamp on the floor lights
up his face. I can see the sparkle of his eyes. Oh! it
is -
In sheer horror Beatrice paused as if recognizing the
visionary face.
“ What! You know him," cried Lorelie, wildly :
and to Idris' mind there was as much horror in her
voice as in that of Beatrice. “You know him? Who
is it?”
Instead of replying Beatrice tried to lift her hands as
though their removal from the vase would dissolve the
241


The Viking's Skull
terrible vision. Lorelie came swiftly forward and stayed
her action with an imperative gesture.
Much as Idris felt the necessity for intervention, he
refrained, for he was as eager for the name as Lorelie
herself.
“You recognize him ? ” cried Lorelie. “Who is it?
His name? Who has more right to know it than I ?
Speak! God of heaven, I'll wrest the name from you,
though you were dying — No! stop ! silence !" she
suddenly exclaimed. “Do not say the name.”
Eager to learn the secret Idris had been incautiously
pressing against the silken portière, and even in the
midst of her agitation, Lorelie had seen the movement of
the curtain.
There was a moment's silence, and then she cried :-
“Who is there ?"
“ A friend,” replied Idris : and seeing that he was dis-
covered he lifted the curtain and entered the recess. “Let
us have the name, and then — "
“It was honourable of you to play the spy!” said
Lorelie, coldly: and Idris could not help feeling that he
deserved the reproach.
“Miss Ravengar,” he said, stepping up to Beatrice and
taking both her hands in his own: “tell me whose face
you see peering into the tomb.”
“A face peering into the tomb? 1- I don't under-
stand.”
Beatrice's voice had assumed its sweet natural ring.
From her low seat she looked up at Idris with the light
of gladness in her eyes at seeing him, a colour on her
cheek at finding her hands clasped in his.
For a moment he eyed her keenly, thinking that in or-
der to shield the guilty person she was going to deny the
recognition. Then the truth flashed upon him. She had
emerged from her hypnotic trance. On detecting his
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The Viking's Skull
Whoever gave you the urn was either the assassin, or
obtained it through the agency of the assassin.”
Idris paused again, and Lorelie herself uttered the
question that was in his mind.
“And, therefore, you would learn the name of the
giver ?”
Idris bowed.
“ Mr. Breakspear, you ask too much."
“ You desire to shield a murderer?”
“ That is nothing new - with me. I have been doing
that for many years."
No look could be more mournful than that accompany-
ing her words.
“ You will not give me the name that was trembling
upon the lips of Miss Ravengar ?".
“I did not hear it,” replied Lorelie, evasively.
“But you have formed a suspicion ?"
“My suspicions might compromise the innocent, even
as I myself have been compromised,” she added, with a
reproachful glance at Beatrice.
“ Forgive me," murmured Beatrice, with drooping
eyes.
“Are we not all liable to error?” said Lorelie, kissing
her tenderly. “I commend your frankness in coming to
state your suspicions, painful though it was for me to lis-
ten. No; though fallen from what I might be, I have
not yet stooped to murder.” And then, turning to Idris,
she said :-
“If I refuse your request I do so in order that I may
not rashly accuse the innocent. When I have verified
my suspicions, you shall know the truth : for, if I am not
mistaken, no one will have more right to the knowledge
than yourself. And then,” she added, with a melancholy
smile, “ then it may be that you will find your desire for
justice evaporating.”
244


The Viking's Skull
to Lorelie with the injunction that it was not to be read
till after its writer had been laid in the grave.
“Dearest Lorelie,” it ran," it may be that the disclosure
contained in this letter will cause you to view the memory
of your mother with feelings of shame, if not of con-
tempt: but leave the judgment of my conduct, or, if you
should so term it, my sin, to that higher tribunal before
which I now stand, and be not too quick to condemn,
since no woman can rightly judge me unless she herself
has stood in a similar position to mine.
“You will surmise by these words that I have some
strange confession to make, and such in truth is the case.
“ You, my daughter, in common with the rest of the
world, have hitherto regarded Eric Marville as a mur-
derer, and your father, Noel Rochefort, as a man of stain-
less honour. Learn now the truth that these opinions
must be reversed: it was your father, and not Eric Mar-
ville, that murdered Henri Duchesne. And for twenty
years I have kept this guilty secret locked within my
breast, shielding my husband's reputation to the injury
of another's.
“ Let me tell the tale, and that in as few words as pos-
sible, for it is a melancholy reminiscence; why should I
linger over it?
“I married your father in 1869.
“During the first year of our wedded life we lived at
Nantes, your father's regiment having been stationed there.
“Our circle of friends included, besides others, the
Englishman, Eric Marville; and the Gascon, Henri
Duchesne. The latter, some years before, had been a
suitor for my hand; and to my uneasiness I discovered
that though he himself was now married, he had not
abandoned his passion for me. I remained deaf to his
advances. Thereupon his love turned to hatred, and,
desirous of evoking my husband's suspicion and jealousy,
246


A Packet of Old Letters
he had the baseness to boast among his friends that he
had found in me an easy conquest. Though full of secret
fury your father hesitated to send a challenge, since
Duchesne was deadly with pistol and sword: to face him
in duel was to face certain death.
“ Your father was a Corsican and took a Corsican's
way of avenging himself.
“One memorable summer night I was sitting alone in
the upper room of our house, which overlooked the
Place Graslin, awaiting the return of your father from the
Armorique Club. The hour was late. All was quiet in
the square below. I opened the window and looked out
upon the moonlit night. A footstep upon the pavement
attracted my attention, and stepping forwards I looked
downwards over the rail of the veranda. Henri Duchesne
was standing below: he looked up, saw me, and kissed
his hand. At that moment, from the shadow of the
doorway, there leaped a man whose fingers immediately
twined themselves around Duchesne's throat. Though
taken by surprise he instantly recovered himself, and
drew forth a dagger, the recent gift, as I afterwards
learned, of Eric Marville.
“I tried to call for help, but found myself dumb with
horror. Mutely I leaned against the rail of the veranda
watching the silent and savage death-grapple taking place
beneath my very feet. The dagger changed hands: a
swift stroke, and Duchesne lay stretched upon the
pavement.
“The whole affair did not last more than a minute. I
recoiled from the veranda, cold and trembling. Though
I had not seen his face I knew only too well who it was
that had wrought the deed.
“I staggered to a sofa and fainted.
“When I awoke, your father was sitting beside me.
" It was a dream,' I murmured.
247


The Viking's Skull
« « It was no dream, Thérèse, but reality, nor do I
regret the deed. He sought your dishonour. He de
served to die. It was an act of justice.'
"Let us fly from Nantes before you are discovered,'
I said.
“ Unwise! Stationed here with my regiment, and
living close to the scene of the deed, I dare not fly.
Suspicion would fall upon me at once.
“ Next day we heard that Eric Marville had been
arrested for the murder. Have no fear on his account,'
said your father to me. He did not commit the deed:
how, then, can they prove that he did?' The trial drew
nigh, and to my dismay I learned that I, as being present
in the house at the time of the murder, was cited to give
evidence. Your father, anticipating every kind of ques-
tion that could be put, instructed me what to say, and
for many days continued drilling me in the answers I was
to give. When the time came for me to take my place
in court I stood up and swore an oath — heaven forgive
the falsehood !- that I was asleep at the time of the
murder, and heard nothing whatever of the scuffie.
“ The trial ended : the prisoner was found guilty, and
condemned to the guillotine. Never shall I forget
Madame Marville's cry of agony when the sentence was
pronounced. How often in the dead of night have I
started from sleep with that cry ringing in my ears!
“ From the tribunal I returned home heart-broken by
the black wickedness of which I had been guilty. If
Marville died, what was I but his murderess ?
"• Noel,' I said, that same night, you will not let the
innocent suffer ??
«« What would you have me do?' was his reply.
• Walk to the guillotine instead of him? Upon my
word, you are an affectionate wife!'
“I shuddered, for he spoke truth. I could prove the
248


A Packet of Old Letters
innocence of Eric Marville only at the price of Noel's
death.
“ Was it for the wife to bring her husband to the
guillotine?
" How I preserved my reason at this time I do not
know. It came somewhat as a relief to learn that Mar-
ville's sentence was changed to imprisonment for life.
: «• If you may not prove his innocence,' I said, there
is one thing you can do for him. Aid him to escape
from prison to some far-off land, where he may live in
happiness with his wife and child.'
"• Ah! I might do that,' your father replied. The no-
tion seemed to appeal to his spirit of daring and adven-
ture. That's a devilish good idea of yours, Thérèse.
There would be a dash of excitement in it! Only, he
added, gloomily, stopping in his walk, it will mean the
utter ruin of my career. It is whispered that the Minis-
try intend to appoint me to the next Colonial Governor-
ship. I should like to see the fellow free, but his rescue
must be left to others. It cannot be done by me. I
should have to escape with him, and become exiled from
France forever. No! no ! it's impossible.
“ But I would not let the idea sleep. I gave him no
rest, continually urging him to the work of rescue, even
threatening to reveal the truth in connection with the
murder, till at last, wearied by my importunities, he ma-
tured a plan for Marville's rescue. The result you know.
After an imprisonment of five years Eric Marville
escaped from Valagenêt Prison, and was hurried on board
the yacht Nemesis that was waiting for him in Quilaix
Bay. Your father went with him ; as a law-breaker he
could not remain in France. I would have accompanied
their fight, but the hour of your birth was drawing near.
It had been arranged, therefore, that I should join them
at a later date. Alas ! I never set eyes upon your father
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The Viking's Skull
again. He corresponded with me at irregular intervals,
but after a lapse of eighteen months his letters ceased.
The yacht in which he was cruising from place to place
foundered off the English coast, and I have no reason to
believe that he escaped a watery grave.
“ If thus certain of his death, why, you may ask, did I
not immmediately make known the truth concerning the
murder ?
“ Fear for myself, love for you, were the motives
prompting me to concealment.
“I was an accessory after the fact, a perjurer likewise,
and therefore amenable to the law. You were a babe of
eighteen months, pretty and charming, the light of my
life. To proclaim the truth meant imprisonment for me,
separation from you; and withal, disgrace upon our com-
mon name. I could not bear the thought of this, and,
therefore, deaf to the voice of justice, I continued to keep
the truth hidden.
“But now, assured by the physician that I have not
many days to live, I dare not die without making you
the confidante of my guilty secret.
“ This letter, signed with my name, together with your
father's correspondence, which is contained in my private
desk, will afford sufficient evidence of the innocence of
Eric Marville.
" To you, then, my daughter, I leave the duty of clear-
ing the memory of an injured man, hoping that you will
be brave enough to face the consequent ignominy which
must forever rest upon our name.
“THÉRÈSE ROCHEFORT."
Lorelie laid down the letter with a sigh.
“ But I was not brave enough,” she murmured.
Her father, Noel Rochefort, was credited with having
destroyed a brilliant future by his chivalrous enterprise
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A Packet of Old Letters
of rescuing from prison a friend whom he deemed to be
innocent : and, as the daughter of such, Lorelie, wher-
ever she went, found herself an object of interest and
sympathy, almost a heroine. Must she now proclaim
that her father, the supposed hero, was in reality a mur-
derer, and one, too, so base that in order to save his own
neck he would have seen an innocent man, and his friend,
go to the guillotine?
She was sixteen years of age at the time of her
mother's death, and lovely in face and figure; her friends
flattered her vanity by averring that with her beauty and
accomplishments she might win the love of a nobleman,
or even of a prince! But what nobleman or prince
would marry the daughter of a felon? Therefore, she
resolved to let the truth be hidden. If Eric Marville
were still living he was free; let him rejoice in that fact :
if dead, her attestation of his innocence would do him no
good. True, she knew that Marville had left a son, who
must often have felt shame at the stigma resting on his
name. But this son would now be twenty-three years of
age; he had grown up, she cynically argued, accustomed
to the feeling, whereas in her case the knowledge had
come upon her with a sudden and overwhelming shock.
She pictured the pitying looks of her friends, the gibes
of the malicious (for her beauty had made for her many
enemies), and she shrank from facing the new situation.
No: let the unknown Idris Marville bear the disgrace
that of right belonged to her. And when, a month or
two later, she learned from the newspapers that this same
Idris Marville had perished in a fire at Paris, she felt a
sense of relief.
But retribution was to follow !
The day came when her life was in such danger that
she must have perished but for the providential help of a
certain stranger; and when that stranger proved to be
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The Viking's Skull
none other than the Idris Marville whom she was wrong-
ing by her guilty silence, her feeling of remorse was so
great that she was almost tempted to leap from the rock
into the sea. To withhold the truth was pain, yet to de-
clare it would be to earn Idris' contempt. Every kindly
word, every pleasant look on his part, had gone to her
heart like so many thrusts of steel.
The irony of fate! She had married Viscount Walden
in the expectation of succeeding to a coronet, and now
the belief was gradually forming in her mind that Idris
was the rightful heir of Ravenhall : Beatrice Ravengar,
and not herself, was destined to be the Countess of
Ormsby.
O, if at the age of sixteen, and following the dictates of
justice, she had tried to find Idris Marville, and finding,
had given him her mother's written confession, how dif-
ferent her life might have been! Idris would perhaps
have been attracted by her then as he had been seven
years later. But now? She was united to a husband
whom she felt to be worthless : a husband who had
ceased to care for her: a husband whose title of right be-
longed to Idris.
“ I am justly punished," she murmured, bitterly.
The remaining contents of the packet drawn by
Lorelie from the escritoire consisted of the correspond-
ence mentioned by Madame Rochefort in her inculpatory
letter.
Arranging these missives according to the order of
time in which they were written Lorelie took up the first,
which dealt with the events that followed upon the flight
from Quilaix.
“ The Pelayo Hotel, Pajares.
25th April, 1875.
“ The newspapers will already have told you how ad-
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A Packet of Old Letters
mirably the rescue was planned and carried out, so I need
not dwell upon that point.
“ There was, however, one awkward hitch in the ar-
rangement — the death of Mrs. Marville : but I am not to
blame for that. Had Eric listened to me it would not
have happened; my intention was to proceed direct to
the yacht: he would turn aside to take his wife with him:
now he has no wife.
“ Eric Marville is free, and I hope you are satisfied.
“ The superscription of this letter will show you that we
are no longer on board the Nemesis.
«• What is Pajares ?' you may ask. A mere hamlet
on the northern slope of the Asturian Sierras, so high
up as to be almost in the clouds : and the building
dignified with the name of hotel is but a miserable log
posada.
“How we come to be here is soon told.
“To fly from Quilaix to the open sea was an easy
task: the difficulty was to attain dry land again in safety;
for, as our romantic escapade would form the chief topic
in all the newspapers, it was pretty certain that at every
port a watch would be kept for our yacht. We feared
putting into harbour. But land we must — somewhere.
We could not cruise forever on the open main. How to
land without detection was the problem.
“ Chance decided our course of action. We lay be-
calmed in a wild rocky bay off the Asturian coast. An-
choring a mile from land we swept the shore with the
glass: there was neither village nor human dwelling visi-
ble, not a living creature in sight. It was the very spot
for our purpose; and, as if to favour us still more, a mist
came on. Marville proposed that we should go ashore in
the boat, and get rid of the tell-tale yacht by scuttling it
there and then. I was compelled to agree to this plan,
for I could devise none better. It went to my heart to
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The Viking's Skull
watch the beautiful Nemesis sinking out of sight forever,
but it would have gone to my heart still more to be cap-
tured by a French cruiser, and provided with a cell at
Valagenết.
“Fortunately, the sea was as smooth as glass and the
wind still as we rowed off, otherwise enveloped in a fog
on an ironbound coast we might have fared ill. We ran
the boat ashore in safety, destroyed it immediately after-
wards, and paid off our crew, who were as glad as our-
selves to be quit of the yacht, for they, too, as fellow-
conspirators in the rescue-plot, were amenable to justice.
“We dispersed: and since the crew went eastward,
Marville and I turned our faces westward, and walking
all night as chance directed, found ourselves at early dawn
at Gijon, where we rested. We assumed the character of
pedestrian tourists. From Gijon we moved on to Oviedo,
and thence to the mountain-hamlet of Pajares, where I
write this.
“I have found Marville far from being a pleasant com-
panion: the death of his wife has gloomed his spirits, and
has poisoned the pleasure he might otherwise derive from
his newly-acquired freedom.
“His talk, on the few occasions when he does talk,
turns mainly upon that accident, and upon the look of
horror which his boy gave him. He will never want to
see me again,' he mutters moodily.
“I was not sorry when he proposed that we should
part. He saw that his gloom was an ill-match for my
cheerful nature. With his love of mountaineering he re-
solved to cross the sierras, and to penetrate into Leon.
He set off without a guide. From the door of the posada
I watched him ascending the mountain-path, his solitary
black form outlined against the white snow. He
dwindled to a speck, and that was the last I saw of him.
Shall we ever see each other again ? He forgot to make
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A Packet of Old Letters
arrangements for a future meeting, and I didn't remind
him of the point.
“ He has done me irreparable injury. For him I have
wrecked a brilliant military career, lost a Colonial Gover-
norship, and made myself an exile forever from la belle
France. Why should I confess the deed to him ?
Haven't I made the fellow sufficient atonement ?".
Lorelie took up another letter, which was dated more
than a twelvemonth after the first.
the past to have raincelemy
“ Hôtel d'Angleterre,
Salerno,
Toth May, 1876.
“ I verily believe that the continual mention of an
absent evil has the power of causing that evil to appear.
In every one of your letters you have alluded, despite my
forbiddance, to Eric Marville and his innocence. Your
persistency in this respect seems to have raised him up
again from the things of the past — a past I was begin-
ning to forget.
• You can guess what is coming.
“ I have met with Eric Marville. More than a year
has passed since I parted from him in the village inn of
Pajares, hoping never more to set eyes upon him: and
now his disturbing presence is with me again. • Dis-
turbing ?' you say. Yes. You know the aphorism,
• We hate those whom we have injured;' and I suppose
I have injured him : you so often say it in your letters
that I have come at last to believe it.
“What folly led me to Campania ? I might have
foreseen our meeting ; for, prior to the rescue, did not I
transfer his banking account under an assumed name to
Messrs. Stradella, of Naples ?
“ But to our meeting.
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The Viking's Skull
“ Yesterday I made an excursion to Paestum, and,
fortunately, had the place to myself. Not one tourist
was there. Solitary and charmed I wandered for a
whole day among the magnificent ruins of the past.
“ Amid the stillness of a lovely twilight I sat down at
the base of a marble column belonging to the Temple of
Neptune. The whole circle of the sky, from the wine-
dark sea before me to the peaks of the cypress-clad
mountains behind, was flushed with the deep violet hues
to be seen only in this southern clime.
"I smoked a cigar and drank in the pure air of peace.
It was a time disposing one to turn poet, monk, or some-
body equally moral. I had almost forgotten that night
at Nantes.
“ Suddenly my eye caught sight of a shadow. I
looked up; and there was Eric Marville watching me
with an expression that made me feel uneasy, I could not
tell why.
“On seeing that I had noticed him he came forward.
He did not offer his hand, but smiled mysteriously,
almost exultantly, so it seemed to me, and took a seat
opposite me on a fallen pillar.
“ At first we talked commonplaces. Presently he re-
marked :
“I am going yachting among the fiords of Norway.
You must accompany me.'
“ His manner implied that he was master and I serv-
ant! Why should he desire me for his compagnon de
voyage, seeing that, as matters are at present, we are so
unlike each other, he gloomy, I gay?
«• There is a fine yacht for sale at Naples. The price
is moderate. I propose that we divide it between us.
“Do you believe, Thérèse, that man is a free agent,
with full control over his own actions ? Of course you
answer · Yes'; your father-confessor has preached the
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A Packet of Old Letters
doctrine a hundred times. I answer No'! How,
otherwise, can I account for my conduct? I hate the
fellow; I do not wish to go yachting ; I have a presenti-
ment that ill will come of it. Nevertheless, I have given
him my promise. Explain that, if you can.”
“ The Hôtel Crocelle, Naples,
2d June, 1876.
“ The transfer of the yacht is complete. It is as pretty
a vessel as one could desire. Over it my first open va-
riance with Marville arose. I say open,' because, se-
cretly, we have been in a state of hostility to each other
since the day of our meeting at Paestum.
“ Marville was desirous of changing the name of our
new-bought yacht. I suggested Lorelie, after the little
daughter whom I trust one day to see; he wished it to
be called Idris, after his child. The spin of a coin de-
cided the point in his favour. The crew are all English,
and have given proof of it. When Marville ordered the
new name to be painted, they begged him not to rechris-
ten the vessel, declaring that to do so would bring ill-
luck. Marville treated their opinion with contempt. He
rolled up his shirt-sleeves, slung a plank over the side,
and set to work himself, painting the name Idris as if to
the manner born. Two of the crew deserted in conse-
quence. Strange that English sailors, so bold in fight,
should be so superstitious!”
“ The Yacht Idris, Gibraltar,
7th July, 1876.
“ Marville is a wretched companion. Twelve months
of freedom ought to have made him as bright and gay as
in the old days, instead of which he is the same melan-
choly being who left me at Pajares, with only one topic
of conversation — his unjust conviction.
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The Viking's Skull
“ You ask me whether I shall ever tell him that it was
I who slew Duchesne ? You might as well ask me
whether I want my throat cut at once? That little
affair at Nantes was the beginning of a train of circum-
stances that ended in the death of his wife. He would
hold me primarily responsible for this last unlucky acci-
dent. Tell him the true story! I would as soon tell the
Minister of Justice, who would at least see that I had a
fair trial, whereas Marville, in his present state of gloom,
is incapable of listening to reason. Yesterday, while
toying with his knife at dinner, he muttered, I would
that the assassin of Duchesne were before me now !'
You can guess how I felt at those words. I am in a
trying situation. Every day I have to listen to a new
theory accounting for the cause of the murder, with re-
marks as to how an intelligent detective ought to set to
work. It is not enough for me to smoke in silence; he
wants to hear theories from me on the matter, and be-
comes angry because I have none to give. I wish to
God he would talk of something else besides the one
everlasting theme! I feel that I shall be betraying my-
self some day.
“ You remember the silver altar-ring engraved with
runic letters, the ring that he entrusted to my secret
keeping on the morning of his arrest? After his trial I
handed the relic to his wife, but scarcely knowing why,
I made a copy of the runic inscription. This copy hap-
pened to be among my papers on board the Nemesis,
and, believe me, when leaving the sinking yacht, Marville
betrayed more concern over this wretched piece of writ-
ing than over anything else on board.
“ It seems that he has been studying my transcript
during the past year, trying to extract some meaning
from it: and though failing hitherto, he still perseveres.
“ He talks oddly at times, and I am beginning to be-
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The Viking's Skull
“ The Yacht Idris, Trondheim,
oth September, 1876.
“I verily believe that Marville is mad! He pretends
that he has deciphered the runic inscription. It relates
to the buried treasure of an old Norse Viking - which
treasure, he avers, still exists in the spot where it was
hidden, a thousand years ago, the site being some point
on the eastern coast of England. A short run across the
North Sea will bring us to the place. He is bent on
finding it. Is it not clear that he is mad ?
“ Hitherto I have taken charge of the yacht. Now he
has assumed the command, heedless of my mild pro-
tests. The crew do not like this change of masters.
His seamanship is of the wildest character. He de-
lights to sport with reefs and eddies, with winds and
storms. Thank heaven! we are going no farther north,
or he would take a diabolical pleasure in steering us all
into the Maëlstrom in order to demonstrate how cleverly
he could get us out again. This may be all very well for
him, who is in love with death, but for my part I prefer
to live.
“He has exchanged his former melancholy mood for
one of reckless mirth. He drinks : talks loudly: laughs :
and promises to divide his imaginary treasure among the
crew. To obtain it,' he says, we shall have to pene-
trate to the chamber of the dead, for its hiding-place is
the tomb. But the ancient curse must be fulfilled ; and
you,' he added, turning to me,' shall be our Protesilaus.'
“My classics have grown rusty. Who the devil was
Protesilaus ?"
“ The Yacht Idris, Bergen,
7th October, 1876.
“I have discovered who Protesilaus was — a Greek
hero who sacrificed his life to procure the safety of his
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The Viking's Skull
freedom of will and action, and to have fallen completely
under the spell of some weird being from another world.
I feel that ere long he will draw the secret from me.
“When I behold my reflection in the glass I cannot
refrain from the thought, Can that be the once brilliant
and handsome Rochefort ?' I look ten years older —
grey, haggard. I should be quite safe in returning to
France, for no one would recognize me now.
“ If there be a tribunal above to which one is responsi-
ble for the deeds done on earth, I trust that the remorse
I have suffered of late will be taken into account."
“ The Yacht Idris. In Ormsby Roads,
13th October, 1876, 7 p.m.
“ We are anchored off the English coast in front of a
little town called Ormsby-on-Sea. To the right of the
town and about a mile from the shore rise the towers of
some old castle, embowered in a woodland vale, and
forming a pretty feature in the landscape. Marville
seems to take a great interest in this edifice; all this
morning he has been studying it through the telescope.
“• Haven't seen the place for ten years,' he muttered.
wonder if he is still alive.'
“I asked him the name of the place. A scowl was
my only answer. He hasn't improved in amiability
since we left Bergen. In the dictatorial spirit assumed
by him of late he will not permit any of us to land. He
himself is going ashore for some purpose which he re-
fuses to disclose. He will not return to the yacht till to-
morrow. I am dispatching this letter to the post by the
sailor who is to row Marville ashore – a sailor whom I
can trust. - Farewell !”
“ The last letter we ever received from him,” mur-
mured Lorelie, laying down the missive.
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The tone of the final letters conveyed an impression
terrible in its suggestiveness to her mind now that by
means of her hypnotic experiment she had become aware
of the tragedy that had taken place within the interior
of Ormfell.
“ The Idris went down on the evening of October
1 3th,” she murmured, “and late that same night Olave
Ravengar returned to Ravenhall after an absence of ten
years. Is this a coincidence, or is the present earl the
same person as Eric Marville? Did my father go down
with the yacht, or did he escape the sea only to fall
within the interior of Ormfell by the hand of the man
whom he had wronged ? "
263


CHAPTER XVI
LORELIE AT RAVENHALL
ORD WALDEN was reading a newspaper one
afternoon in the quietude of his own room at
Ravenhall, when the step of some person enter-
ing the chamber unannounced caused him to look up,
and he found Lorelie standing before him.
“ Hul-lo !” he muttered, throwing down the news-
paper, and startled beyond measure at seeing his wife so
near his father's presence. “What brings you here?”
“To claim my rights," she answered quietly. “Why
should the wife occupy a modest villa while the husband
lives in castled state?”.
She took off her toque and mantle, threw them upon
the table, and, with the air of one who had come to stay,
sat down in an armchair opposite him.
For some moments Ivar frowned darkly at his fair
young wife, and was obviously dismayed by her de-
termination.
When the earl, a few weeks previously, had urged
upon him the necessity for marrying Beatrice, Ivar had
lacked the courage to confess that he had a wife already,
knowing that the statement would be certain to evoke
his father's anger, and Ivar stood in considerable awe of
his father.
Accordingly, he had made a pretence of submission,
and had gone so far as to delude the earl with the fiction
that he was paying successful court to Beatrice. This
contemptible subterfuge was not one that could be long
continued in any circumstances ; but Lorelie's sudden
264


Lorelie at Ravenhall
resolve for recognition threatened to bring matters to a
climax that very day.
“You have come here to create a vulgar scene before
all the servants, I see,” scowled Ivar.
“I have come here to redeem my name," she answered
indignantly. “Do you know that at the flower-show
yesterday ladies turned aside to avoid me, and that I
caught the half-whispered words, · Lord Walden's mis-
tress'? Do you wish me to return to The Cedars to live
there under such a name? I will keep silent no longer.
To day all Ormsby shall know that I am Viscountess
Walden."
Vainly did Ivar try to temporize, to persuade, to cajole,
to threaten. Lorelie continued inflexible.
“ Take me to your father,” she said. “My maiden
name will compel him to acknowledge me.”
“What is there in the name of Rivière to charm him ?”
asked Ivar, in surprise.
"Nothing, but much in the name of Rochefort," she
answered, rising to her feet. “Will you go with me,
or shall I go alone to inform him that I have mar-
ried a craven who lacks the spirit and courage to tell the
truth ?”
Ivar saw the necessity of yielding. Looking with a
very ill grace at his wife he touched a hand-bell on the
table.
“Where is the earl ?” he asked of the footman, who
appeared in answer to the summons.
“ His lordship is taking the air on the western terrace,”
was the reply.
The viscount rose and moved off in the direction of the
said terrace accompanied by his wife, while the footman
stared curiously after them.
Lorelie had come to Ravenhall for the purpose of
verifying, if possible, the strange suspicion she had of
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The Viking's Skull
late begun to entertain that the present Earl of Ormsby
was none other than Eric Marville. If this surmise were
correct, it behoved her to make known to him the truth
concerning the murder of Duchesne. But of what avail
was it to clear the character of Eric Marville from the
guilt of the long-past crime, if her other suspicion should
prove true that he was the slayer of her father? She was
precluded from denouncing him for this latter deed by
reason of her position as his daughter-in-law, and by the
thought that Captain Rochefort, in falling by the hand of
the man whom he had wronged, had met with a justly
merited doom.
If the earl were really Eric Marville, it followed that
Idris, as his elder son, was being unjustly deprived of his
rights by the younger half-brother Ivar.
Ignorant of the causes that had contributed to render
Idris an object of aversion to the earl, Lorelie, neverthe-
less, determined to compel the earl to acknowledge
him. Thus much justice should at least be done. And
in coming to this resolve Lorelie tried to persuade
herself that she was actuated simply by the desire for
justice, whereas her heart more truly told her that secret
love for Idris was her controlling motive.
On reaching the western terrace they found the earl
standing at one end of it with his back towards them.
He had just come from the library after a long spell of
study, and was now refreshing his tired eyes by a con-
templation of the lawns and the woods that surrounded
his castellated mansion.
On hearing footsteps he turned, and his cold grey eyes
lighted upon Lorelie : not, however, for the first time,
since her pew in St. Oswald's Church faced his own; but
beyond the fact that she was called Mademoiselle Rivière
he knew nothing whatever respecting her, and, it may be
added, had no desire to know more.
hismplation was more from
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Lorelie at Ravenhall
He supposed that Ivar had been showing her over his
historic mansion, portions of which were open to the
public on certain days. But this western terrace was
private ground, reserved for the family. What did Ivar
mean by bringing this young lady to him, who had no
desire for an introduction ? With something like a frown
upon his face he awaited their approach.
Could this cold and dignified peer of the realm, thought
Lorelie, be the man who, twenty-three years before, had
escaped from a felon's cell in Brittany? Was this really
the father of Idris ? It seemed too strange to be true.
Was his the face that Beatrice in her hypnotic trance had
seen peering into the Viking's tomb? A chilling sen-
sation seized her as Ivar escorted her towards the presence
of the man whom she believed to be her father's mur-
derer.
Lord Ormsby was the first to speak.
“ Mademoiselle Rivière, I believe,” he said, bowing
stiffly.
“ Not so, my lord.”
“No?” queried the earl.
“No!" she replied with a smile that annoyed him. As
if it mattered to him who she was !
“Hum, some mistake. What name, then, may I
ask - ?"
“ Viscountess Walden, my lord,” she replied, with an
air as stately as his own.
For a few moments the earl's surprise was too great for
words. He sank upon a stone seat, and stared from one
to the other.
“You hear what this woman says,” he remarked in a
harsh voice, turning to his son. “Is it true ?"
“We are married — yes," returned Ivar, sullenly.
“ You have given me to understand,” continued the
earl, “ that you were paying your addresses to Beatrice.”
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The Viking's Skull
" Father, listen to me," muttered Ivar. “I was already
married at the time when you pressed Beatrice's name
upon me, and seeing how earnestly you were set upon
the match I—I lacked the courage to - to state the
truth."
Lorelie heard her husband's words with secret con-
tempt. The craven was almost apologizing for marrying
her! With an effort she controlled her feelings, and re-
mained silent.
Casting a contemptuous glance at his son the earl
turned, and with a coldly critical eye surveyed his new
daughter-in-law. Yes, she was undeniably beautiful, with
an exquisite taste in dress; and bore herself with the air
and dignity of a princess; clearly an ornament to Raven-
hall, provided only that her antecedents were above the
criticism of Society.
“And who and whence is the lady that now bears
Viscount Walden's name ?” he asked.
“ My name is Lorelie, née Rochefort.”
“ Rochefort ? ” repeated the earl, with a sharp intona-
tion on the word.
“I am the daughter of Captain Noel Rochefort, of
Nantes."
The earl's sudden start did not escape her attentive
eyes. It seemed to give confirmation to her suspicion.
“ Your lordship has perhaps heard of him? His is a
notable name.”
“ No. Yes. That is to say,” replied the earl in some
confusion, “ unless my memory is at fault, some one of
that name figured prominently in the French newspapers
about twenty-three years ago. Did your father aid in
the escape of a certain prisoner from Valàgenêt?”.
“ Your lordship has an excellent memory.”
“I was in Brittany at the time of the escape, and the
story was in everybody's mouth. The name of the
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The Viking's Skull
But he did not press for her meaning; Lorelie marked
that. And there was an interval of silence ere he re-
sumed his catechism.
“Your father, Captain Rochefort — was he drowned ?”
“I have reasons — very strong reasons — for believing
that he escaped the fury of the sea, only to be murdered.”
While speaking she kept her gaze fixed upon the earl's
face to mark the effect of her words. Unless she was
mistaken there was in his eyes something very like the
light of fear.
“ Murdered?” he said. “What leads you to this
strange belief ?”
"With your lordship's permission I will reserve my
reasons for another time. — You have not yet said," she
added quietly, “ whether you acknowledge me.”
“ You are my son's wife, and, therefore, my daughter.
Welcome to Ravenhall !”
Rising from his seat he approached and kissed her.
And at this seal of recognition Ivar heaved a sigh of
relief. The trying ordeal was over, and it had not ended,
as he had fancied that it might, in his enforced retirement
from Ravenhall.
When the earl touched Lorelie's cheek with his lips he
found her skin as cold as marble. She had submitted to
the act, not knowing how to repulse it; but — kissed by
her father's murderer! To receive such a kiss seemed to
her mind like a condonation of the crime - a purchase
of her position at the price of her father's blood.
She grew faint. Why was she placing herself in a
position where day by day she would encounter the pres-
ence of this terrible earl? for to her he was terrible. A
great longing came upon her to go back to The Cedars;
but the thought of Idris calmed her. For his sake she
would stay. Her belief that he was the rightful heir of
Ravenhall was, after all, a matter of conjecture, not of
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The Viking's Skull
The viscount tugged the ends of his light moustache
with a shamefacedness very unusual in him.
“Hum! ah! well! I suppose I had better speak the
truth. The fact is I've had to forestall my future herit-
age by appropriating some pieces of the family plate."
“ Appropriating! That is a good word, Ivar.”
“ Call it what you like. It was necessitated by the ex-
pense of keeping a wife. Your tastes are costly. Pic-
tures, works of art, rare furniture, rich dresses are the
breath of life to you. Deny it if you can. I was obliged
to resort to some expedient in order to satisfy your ex-
travagance. That vase was one of my — er — appropri-
ations. I gave it to you to convert into cash, but you
seem to prefer keeping it.”
"And so the money you have given me during the
past few months has come from the sale of this plate?”
Ivar nodded assent.
“Was this plate contained in the jewel-room through
which the earl has just taken us?"
“O, dear no! The store I refer to is far too valuable
and tempting to be exposed to the eyes of even the old-
est and most trusted of our family servants — at least,
that's the governor's opinion. He is somewhat eccentric,
you know. So he keeps this treasure to himself in a
secret place.”
Lorelie did not ask Ivar to name this secret place: she
had her own opinion as to the locality, and would not
have believed Ivar if he had declared it to be elsewhere.
“ Your father inspects these treasures occasionally, I
presume ?”
“Of course — with the joy of an old miser.”
“ And he keeps a catalogue of them?”.
“ You bet he does !”
“ Then how have you contrived to keep your appropri-
ations undiscovered ?”
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Lorelie at Ravenhall
A look of low conceit and cunning overspread the
face of the viscount.
“Ah! that's my secret. The governor thinks he still
possesses the missing plate. It's there before his eyes,
and yet it isn't there. He sees it, and yet he doesn't see
it. He's an artful fellow, the old boy! But for once he's
been outwitted. You don't understand. Some day I'll
explain my meaning. Meantime, remember, mum's the
word on this business.”
And here Ivar went off to inspect a new hunter that
had just arrived, while Lorelie turned away with a look
of unspeakable horror in her eyes.
“ So the Viking's treasure found its way to Ravenhall,”
she murmured. “And by whose hand it is clear. The
price of my father's blood! My God! to think that I
have been living on money derived from such a source !”
That same evening at sunset Lorelie sat alone on the
grand terrace overlooking the undulating landscape that
surrounded Ravenhall. Behind her rose the ivied man-
sion with its fine halls and treasures of art. Roses, glow-
ing in sculptured vases along the terrace, filled the air
with their sweetness. Marble fountains flashed aloft their
silvery spray. Below, in front of her, green lawns and
woodlands stretched away to the margin of a shimmer-
ing lake — all bathed in the dusky golden glow of
sunset.
This day should have been one of the proudest of her
life. She had received recognition from the earl, and
was now an acknowledged wife, a peeress, and the des-
tined queen of the county-side.
While living at The Cedars she had been slighted by
some of the society of Ormsby, and had been cruelly tra-
duced by others; how great, then, would be the mortifica-
tion of her enemies to learn that the person whom they
had contemned held the proud rank of Viscountess
18
273


The Viking's Skull
Walden! They would be but too willing now to efface
the past and do her homage; for, to be on visiting terms
at Ravenhall was the ambition of all the élite of Ormsby.
What a triumph for her! Youth and beauty, rank and
wealth — all were hers !
That was one side of the medal; how different the re-
verse!
Her father was a murderer; her father-in-law was a
murderer; her husband was, in his own language, an
“ appropriator," or, in other words, a thief: and she her-
self was but a spy at Ravenhall, seeking for proofs to de-
prive him of his prospective wealth and title! Even now
he manifested indifference to her: what would be his feel-
ings if, through her instrumentality, Idris Breakspear
should succeed to the coronet of the Ravengars?
Whether she spoke out, or whether she remained mute,
a melancholy future lay before her. On the one hand
splendour purchased at the price of injustice to Idris : on
the other the lifelong hatred of her husband for prefer-
ring the interests of Idris to his own.
The voice of Ivar jarred upon her meditations. He
was lounging along the terrace smoking the inevitable
cigarette.
“ My lady doesn't seem very happy now that she
dwells • in marble halls, with vassals and serfs by her side.'
Look around you," he continued, with a sweep of his
arm that took in the whole landscape. “ As far as you
can see, north, east, south, and west, all is ours. Isn't
the prospect fair enough for you?"
“As fair as the Dead Sea fruit - all ashes to the
taste.”
She lifted her head, and he saw that her face was pale,
that her eyes were suffused with tears, that her expression
was one of unutterable melancholy.
“Why the devil did you come here, if you don't like
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Lorelie at Ravenhall
it? Upon my word you are hard to please! Is this
your gratitude to the pater for his gracious reception of
you!”
“ To be called " Viscountess Walden,' and · Your lady-
ship,” she murmured to herself, “ knowing all the time
that I am listening to a lie!”
Ivar started, but made no reply. He lounged off to
the end of the terrace, where he stood watching his wife
with a dark expression on his face.
“Got a fit of the blues on!” he muttered. “ Think-
ing of Breakspear, and how hard it is he should be kept
from his own, and so forth. By God! supposing she lets
her craze for that fellow carry her to the extreme of de-
claring the truth! She loves him, and a woman in love
will commit any folly. She's not to be trusted."
While he was occupied with these uneasy reflections a
footman appeared, carrying on a silver salver a letter ad-
dressed to the viscount.
Ivar gave a start when he perceived the handwriting
on the envelope, and ere opening it cast a glance at the
distant Lorelie.
The note was a sweet-scented one, signed “Lilias
Winter,” and contained a request for a subscription to a
local charity, at least so the simple-minded would have
read it, but to Ivar it conveyed a very different meaning.
Interpreted by a prearranged code the note signified that
on the part of the sender circumstances were favourable
that night for receiving a visit from the viscount. For
Ivar, with a perversity of taste, not uncommon in the
immoral, found more pleasure in carrying on an intrigue
with a widow of forty than in cultivating the society of
his fair young wife.
A few days previously, when ignorant of the existence
of Idris, the viscount would have laughed in Lorelie's
face had she reproached him with this amour.
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The Viking's Skull
- Now he suddenly became conscious that this intrigue
was no laughing matter.
His succession to the title and estates depended on his
wife's good will. Any act on his part tending to pro-
voke her might end in his ruin. When the handsome
widow, who had entertained hopes herself of one day be-
coming Viscountess Walden, should learn of Ivar's mar-
riage, disappointment and jealousy might prompt her to
reveal this amour to Lorelie. And then ? Ill usage
from her husband Lorelie might tolerate, but infidelity,
never! Goaded by such an outrage she would fling his
interests to the winds, and make it known that Idris was
the rightful heir of Ravenhall.
“No help for it," muttered Ivar. “I must tell the
governor at once, and tell him all without disguise; that
Idris Marville is not only alive, but dwelling here to-day
at Ormsby; that Lorelie suspects who he is, and that
Lilias will have to be bribed into silence, otherwise she
will create a scandal of which Lorelie will avail herself to
our confusion and ruin. Breakspear at present is igno-
rant of his lineage; something must be done to prevent
him from ever learning it - but what?"
The lights in the library at Ravenhall burned till a late
hour that night, or rather they were continued till far into
the morning
The sleep of the new viscountess in her distant bed-
chamber was fitful and troubled, but there would have
been no sleep at all for her could she have known the
character of the conversation taking place in the library
between the Ravengars, father and son.
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The Viking's Skull
sudden impulse, he had told her how he had followed
Ivar to the crypt and what had happened there, not
omitting Lord Walden's utterance that it was done on
Lorelie's account. The story was a complete revelation
to her, and, while thanking Godfrey for his communica-
tion, she determined to discover the meaning of the
strange affair with which Ivar had associated her name.
A favourable opportunity seemed now to present itself,
and she resolved to essay a bold stroke.
“We shall have to choose some one to supply Lan-
franc's place,” said the earl, turning to his son.
“ Permit me to offer myself,” suggested Lorelie.
Lord Ormsby raised his eyebrows in manifest sur-
prise.
“ Ladies have never been admitted to that vault,” he
replied. “In that respect it resembles the Baptist's
Chapel in the Genoese Cathedral.”
“ But that chapel is open to ladies on one day in the
year,” replied Lorelie. “ Therefore, your parallel will
not hold.”
“ Are you really serious in making this suggestion ? "
asked the earl.
“ Perfectly."
“ What is your reason?"
Lorelie shrugged her shoulders.
“ You don't require reason from a woman,” she re-
plied. “ It would be hard for me to give my reason.
Curiosity, mainly: the desire of seeing what no other
woman has seen, or ever will see.”
“ The initiated have to swear an oath to keep the
secret,” said Ivar.
“ That gives quite a romantic charm to the adventure,”
Lorelie replied.
The earl sat silent for a moment as if weighing the
matter, and then cast at his son a look which seemed to
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The Secret of the Funeral Crypt
convey a silent suggestion, a suggestion that appeared to
meer with a comprar
meet with tacit acceptance from the other.
There is really no reason why we should not admit
you to the vault,” he remarked. “Better one of the fam-
ily than an outsider. And you are one of us now," he
added with a sigh, as though the fact were much to be re-
gretted. “You shall be one of the privileged four, if you
desire it. When would you like to pay your first visit ?"
“Why not now?” she asked impulsively, rising from
her seat as she spoke.
“ Humph!" replied the earl, thoughtfully. “ Suppose
we say to-night. The late hour will enable us the better
to escape the prying eyes of the servants. You consent?
Good! Then we will meet in this dining-hall a little be-
fore twelve to-night. But — not a whisper of this to any
one. Let the matter be kept secret."
Lorelie rose and sought the retirement of her own
room, not without wonder that the earl should accept her
strange proposal almost as soon as he heard it. Then,
as she recalled the curious look he had cast at Ivar, to-
gether with his injunction to observe secrecy respecting
the intended visit, there swept over her a sudden wave
of cold feeling induced by a thought so dreadful that she
could scarcely bring herself to entertain it. But the idea
would persist in stamping itself in letters of fire upon her
mind.
" I know he hates me!” she gasped. “I saw that in
his eyes when he first heard my name. I know he hates
me, but — my God! to such an extent as that! Is he
afraid that the daughter will seek to avenge her father ?
And will he get Ivar to consent ?"
While she was occupied with these terrible misgivings
her husband came slouching in. He seated himself on
a chair and regarded her for a moment with a strange
expression that set her trembling.
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The Viking's Skull
" So you've quite made up your mind to visit the
vault?”
She assented with a nod, not daring to trust herself to
speak. Her heart was beating like a steam-hammer ;
faint murmurs were ringing in her ears; she seemed to
see Ivar as through a mist.
“ Bah! you lack the courage. You will be crying off
from the venture before the night comes.”
His sneer roused her spirit, and she spoke in a low
tone, striving to control the tremors of her voice.
“ I will not cry off: no,” she added, emphasizing her
words, as if to fix his attention,“ not if it should end in
my death."
Ivar started and glanced suspiciously at her.
Suddenly Lorelie rose, and walking to an oak-press
produced a small piece of faded black velvet fringed on
one edge with silver lace. Sitting down with needle and
thread she proceeded with deft fingers to manipulate this
velvet into a sort of ornamental bow, without cutting the
fabric or in any way diminishing its original size.
Her husband moodily watched her, wondering why
she should form a dress-ornament from such faded stuff
and why she should select this particular juncture for
making it.
“What's that thing you are making ?” he asked in a
sullen voice.
"Merely a bow,” she answered, extending the half-fin-
ished article towards him. “Of what do you suppose
this velvet once formed part?".
“ It might have been cut from a pall by the look
of it.”
“I commend your discernment. You are not far
wrong."
“ Perhaps you will enlighten me,” he asked, scowling,
as he noticed her air of satisfaction at his perplexity.
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The Secret of the Funeral Crypt
“ It is not the first time you have seen this velvet and
its parent fabric,” said Lorelie.
Approaching a mirror she held the bow against the
neck-band of her dress.
“I shall wear this bow to-night. True, it does not look
very pretty, yet it may serve as a talisman, and -
- ".
But on looking up she found that Ivar was gone. The
velvet dropped to the carpet, and she clasped her hands.
« They mean it,” she murmured. “I can read it in
Ivar's guilty manner — half-resolve, half-fear : letting • I
dare not' wait upon · I would. My God! But I will
go through with it. I will put their base courage to the
test.”
Her first fears had vanished, leaving her hard and firm
as steel. The spirit that loves danger for its own sake,
the spirit derived from her Corsican ancestors, began to
reawake in the breast of their nineteenth-century de-
scendant.
At six in the evening Lorelie, who had spent the after-
noon in arranging her plan of action, stole quietly to her
bedroom, having told the butler she would not come
down to dinner.
“I must sleep,” she murmured, “ that my faculties may
be fresh and unimpaired for to-night's work.”
Her first care was to lock and bolt the door that opened
upon the corridor, and next that communicating with
Ivar's bedroom. She paid considerable attention to these
doors, as well as to the fastenings of the windows. A
traveller putting up for the night at some lonely and
suspicious hostelry could not have shown more caution.
Thus secured from intrusion she laid herself down, dressed
as she was, upon the bed. But fully two hours elapsed
ere she succeeded in falling asleep.
When she awoke she found herself shivering with cold
and in total darkness. For a few moments she lay
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The Secret of the Funeral Crypt
The expedition was so strange, so unlike anything she
had ever known before, that Lorelie began to wonder
whether the whole scene was not a dream. It was diffi-
cult to believe that the earl, so smiling and courteous,
could really entertain the black design of which she
suspected him.
At the end of the Picture Gallery they reached that
little lumber-room which Godfrey Rothwell had so long
hesitated to enter on that memorable night when track-
ing Ivar to the vault. Making his way to the hearth the
earl stood in the wide space beneath the mantel, and lift-
ing his hand within the chimney he touched what Lorelie
judged was a hidden spring, for his action was immedi-
ately followed by a faint creaking of pulleys and ropes,
and then the perpendicular slab forming one side of the
fireplace began slowly to descend, revealing behind it an
empty space.
“ The secret way to our crypt,” remarked the earl.
He passed through the entrance. Ivar, who had not
spoken one word since leaving the dining-hall, followed.
Lorelie went last.
She looked about her. The light carried by Ivar faintly
illumined the place. She was standing in a narrow pas-
sage, paved, walled, and roofed, with stone. Its length
could not be ascertained by the eye, for it stretched away
indefinitely in the gloom.
The earl began to manipulate the machinery, and the
stone slab slowly ascended till its lower end rested upon
the hearth again. Lorelie, attentive to his action, grasped
with quick eye the principle of the mechanism. Such
knowledge would be useful in the event of her having to
return alone.
All communication with the outer world was now cut
off. She was completely at the mercy of the two men,
and though this was only what she had foreseen, yet none
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The Viking's Skull
the less the sudden realization of the fact caused a certain
chilling of her high courage.
The order of their march was now changed: they
walked abreast: Lorelie in the centre, the earl on her
right, Ivar, still silent, on her left.
Though apparently staring about with interest and
curiosity Lorelie in reality never took her eyes from the
earl. It might have been simply the effect of the flicker-
ing light, but in her opinion his face had an exultant and
sinister expression. She became more than ever on her
guard, and any sudden movement on his part caused her
right hand to seek her dress pocket in which a loaded re-
volver lay concealed.
, A steep descent of stone steps now yawned in front of
them. With her left hand Lorelie drew her dainty skirts
around her, and glanced in disgust at the black slimy ooze
and the patches of fungous growth.
“ These stairs look slippery,” she murmured.
“ A former lord of Ormsby broke his neck down these
very steps,” remarked the earl.
“I have no wish to imitate his feat,” said Lorelie, draw-
ing back a little. “Do you go first. If I slip I shall be
but a light weight, whereas if you should fall upon me,”
she added, with a shrug of her shoulders, “ there is no
knowing what might happen."
The earl gave her a suspicious look as if detecting a
hidden meaning in her words : then, compliant with her
wish, he led the way down the steps. Lorelie came last,
feeling more at ease in being at the rear.
The stairs terminated in the flagged flooring of another
long passage, at the end of which was the crypt.
As Lorelie entered she could not repress a shiver, the
atmosphere of the place striking her senses with a damp
chilling effect.
Ivar, by aid of the light he had carried, proceeded to
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The Viking's Skull
With steady motion Lorelie lifted the glass, taking a
longer time over the action than was necessary, as if even
the foretaste of drinking were a pleasure not to be
curtailed. Ivar was watching her with an expression the
like of which she had never before seen on his face.
Her lips touched the edge of the glass, and there
rested a moment: and then, without having tasted the
wine, she raised the glass and held it between her half-
closed eyes and the lamp above, an action that displayed
to the full the beauty of her rounded arm and bust.
“How bright and clear it is !” she murmured, in a
softly modulated voice. “By the way,” she added,
suddenly opening her eyes wide, “what wine do you
call this ?”
“ A choice vintage. Malvazia, one of the rarest of the
Madeiras,” replied the earl.
Lorelie lowered the glass quickly, in real or feigned
disappointment.
“O-oh !” she murmured, pouting. “A pity — that!
I cannot bear Malvazia : it always gives me the headache.
I must refrain from drinking.–And yet,” she added,
inhaling the fragrance, “ the bouquet is tempting."
She toyed a moment or two with the glass, as if about
to drink, but finally set it down upon the table, glancing
at the two men with a silvery laugh. Her radiant air
contrasted strangely with the sombre spirit which seemed
to enwrap both of them.
“This is a very pretty chamber,” she said, poising her
head upon her hands, and affecting to survey the crypt
with interest. “Nothing very terrible about it, after
all. I might have spared myself the letter to Dr. Roth-
well.”
“What is that ? ” said the earl, with a quick nervous
start.
“ Peccavi! I have done very wrong, I admit,” said
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The Viking's Skull
known to others — was being hinted at in the presence
of his father, the very person from whom he most desired
to conceal it. How much did Lorelie know? What
would she be saying next ? Words, perhaps, that would
bring him to ruin.
“ Ivar, I see, is persuaded of the truth of my statement.
You are more sceptical, my lord, but you shall be con-
vinced.”
She detached the velvet bow from her neckband and
fung it lightly beside Godfrey's note.
“ Cut the threads of that; unfold the velvet, and you
will find that its shape corresponds exactly with the
little rent at the foot of that curtain. It was Dr. Roth-
well who cut off this piece of velvet, bringing it away
with him to prove - if proof should ever be required —
that he has stood in the secret crypt of the Ravengars.
Do you still doubt me, my lord, or do you require further
proof ?”
On the contrary he was so certain of the truth of her
words that he did not attempt to verify them, but stood,
fingering the velvet bow with a dark expression of coun-
tenance.
Looking upon Lorelie as an enemy to be silenced at
all costs he had brought her to this vault intending that
she should never leave it. Ivar was a reluctant accom-
plice, his reluctance arising not from any conscientious
scruples, but from the dangerous consequences attending
the commission of such a deed. The disappearance of
the new viscountess on the second day of her coming to
Ravenhall would be an event that could not fail to bring
suspicion and inquiry in its train.
Lorelie had divined their plot, and having taken steps
for its frustration, had fearlessly accompanied them to the
destined scene of her death. And here she was, a slender,
fragile woman, in a lonely situation, with no one to hear
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The Secret of the Funeral Crypt
her cry for help, in the presence of two men desirous of
her death, and yet, thanks to her forethought, as safe as
if attended by an armed escort.
Her calm air, her radiant beauty, added fuel to the
earl's secret rage. If he had followed his first impulse he
would have seized her in his arms and twining his fingers
around her throat have silenced her forever. But pru-
dence compelled him to refrain from violence. The
thought of having to face on the morrow the stern in-
quiring eyes of Godfrey acted as a potent check.
Fortunately for himself he had not proceeded to the
length of openly avowing his awful purpose: he was
therefore free to deny it, if she had any suspicion, as he
was strongly disposed to believe that she had. Besides,
what mattered her suspicion? She had no real proof to
offer the world. Opposed to her single testimony was
the joint testimony of himself and her husband.
He began to breathe freely again. The matter might
yet end well as regarded his own safety — the only con-
sideration that troubled him.
Lorelie, knowing the cause of his mortification, sat at
ease in her chair, secretly enjoying her triumph.
At last, feigning to be angry, she exclaimed :-
“ How silent you are! Are you going to let me de-
part from this vault without enlightening me as to its
mysteries ? Come, Ivar, play the part of cicerone. Draw
aside the curtain from each alcove, and give me the names
and biographies of the coffined dead. I am in an his-
toric genealogic mood.”
Ivar, not knowing whether to obey, glanced irreso-
lutely at his father.
“ Gratify the curious fool,” the earl muttered moodily.
With an ill grace at having to obey the wife whom he
hated, and troubled by a secret foreboding that his guilty
secret was about to transpire, Ivar approached the alcove
19
289


The Viking's Skull
nearest the door, and, lifting the velvet drapery, disclosed
a deep recess, the walls of which were pierced with niches
containing coffins.
“ This,” he remarked sullenly, touching one,“ is the
coffin of Lancelot Ravengar, the first earl of Ormsby.”
And so he proceeded from one alcove to another,
giving the names of the dead peers, his amiability not
improved by the caustic remarks made by Lorelie.
“A dull catalogue of nonentities, unknown to fame,”
she said, when Ivar had finished his recital. “ But I
observed that you entirely passed over the fourth alcove.
Why? Raise the curtain and let me see what it con-
tains."
With manifest reluctance the viscount liſted the drapery,
revealing in the alcove a coffin on trestles.
“ This is the coffin of Urien Ravengar, my grand-
father.”
"In saying that, you of course mean simply that that is
the name on the plate.”
“ That coffin,” broke in the earl in a harsh voice, “con-
tains the body of my father, Urien Ravengar."
“ I do not think so," replied Lorelie quietly.
In a blaze of wrath the earl turned suddenly upon
Ivar.
“Fool! what have you been telling this woman ? "
"I? Nothing !” replied the viscount, shrinking back.
And seeing disbelief expressed on his father's face, he
added, “ Ask her : if she speak truth she will tell you that
nothing relating to this coffin has passed my lips.”
“Then how – how?” began the earl: then, breaking
off abruptly, he turned to Lorelie with the question :
“Tell me, then, what this coffin does contain ?”
“That is what I wish to learn," she replied coolly. “ It
is my chief reason for visiting this vault.”
“ You will remain in ignorance."
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The Viking's Skull
her, Lorelie stood with parted lips and dilated eyes, spell-
bound by the glittering array of wealth. Her knowledge
of art taught her that the antiquity and workmanship of
the ornaments far exceeded the intrinsic value of the
materials composing them. There was a crucifix, formed
from one entire piece of amber, the plunder of some
Saxon monastery: an ivory drinking-horn, engraved
with runic letters, that spoke of the old Norseland: a
golden lamp, inscribed with a verse from the Koran,
a relic of Moorish rule in Spain: rare coins, that had
found their way from the Byzantine treasury. Every
part of mediæval Europe had apparently contributed
some memorial to this store.
But, as previously stated, the quantity of plate was
small in comparison with the gems. It was these that
riveted Lorelie's attention. Never in any collection of
crown-jewels had she seen the equal of these stones for
variety and size, for brilliance and beauty. The richest
caliph of the East might have envied the possessor of
such a store. It suggested a dream of the “ Arabian
Nights."
"Ah! you may well gaze!” cried the earl to Lorelie,
in a fierce exultant tone. “ Find me the man in Britain
who owns such wealth as this! Take every object out
of the coffin," he continued, addressing Ivar. “ Lay
each and all upon the table. Let Lady Walden handle
them that she may realize the wealthy match she has
made.”
Lorelie quite understood the earl's motive in making
this display. Since he could not get rid of her, his only
other policy was to conciliate her. She smiled disdain-
fully to herself. It was not to her interest, however, to
quarrel with him at present: she must simulate friendly
relations till the purpose for which she had come to
Ravenhall should be accomplished.
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The Secret of the Funeral Crypt
“ Yes, let me see everything,” she said in seeming
eagerness.
Drawing the table to the entrance of the alcove Ivar
proceeded to empty the coffin of its contents. During
this operation Lorelie's surprise rose almost to fever-heat
at sight of some of the objects drawn forth.
When the coffin had been emptied, the earl produced
a pocketbook containing a list of the treasures.
"• Article 1,'” he read out. "Ancient Norse funereal
urn, of pure gold, set with opals.'”.
The viscount handed a vase to his father.
“ Safe, I see," said the earl. “I have been unjust to
you in thought, Ivar," he continued, apologetically.
“ When your wife spoke of a golden vase given her by
you, my thoughts associated themselves with this. I ac-
knowledge my error.”
Ivar cast an anxious look at Lorelie, dreading lest her
words should lead to the betrayal of his secret. But
Lorelie said nothing, though in a state of extreme
amazement and perplexity : for the jewelled vessel now
in the earl's hands seemed to be the very vase given to
her by Ivar some weeks previously — the vase that had
played so important a part in her hypnotic experiment
with Beatrice.
On coming to Ravenhall Lorelie had left it behind her
at The Cedars: how came it to be here in the vault of
the Ravengars? Was it a replica ? If so, it was cer-
tainly a marvellous initation of the original, since she
could detect no points of difference.
“Observe the lustre of the opals,” said the earl, his
eyes gleaming with pleasure; and Lorelie perceived that
his love of study, great though it might be, had not
quenched in him the passion of avarice. “An interest-
ing and precious relic of Norse antiquity, this !” con-
tinued the earl, tapping the urn affectionately. “It
293


The Viking's Skull
contains the ashes of Draco the Golden, the founder of
our family. From the grey dust within this urn all we
Ravengars have sprung.'
The vase at The Cedars also held the remains of the
same Viking, if the story told by Beatrice in her hypnotic
trance was to be relied upon. The supposition that the
ashes of Orm had been divided between two urns seemed
absurd: and yet how otherwise was this mystery to be
explained, unless indeed Ivar, unknown to her, had paid
a visit to The Cedars, and having obtained the vase, had
restored it to the place whence he had originally taken
it. Unlikely as this last hypothesis might be, it seemed
the only one capable of meeting the requirements of the
case.
The earl, having carefully deposited the urn in one
corner of the coffin, referred again to his catalogue.
"• Article 2. Norse altar-ring of pure silver, inscribed
with runic characters. Yes, this is it,” he continued, re-
ceiving the article from Ivar's hand. “The ring of Odin,
that figures in our armorial shield. Many a legend of
blood clings to this relic. What a history it could unfold,
were it but endowed with speech !”
The golden vase had puzzled Lorelie, but this silver
relic puzzled her still more. She did not doubt that the
object before her was the identical ring, the non-produc-
tion of which at the trial of Eric Marville, was one of the
points that had told against him. She knew the story of
its theft from Mrs. Breakspear, and, like Idris, knew not
whither it had vanished. Now, after all these years, it
thus reappeared! By what circuitous route, through
how many bloodstained hands, had it passed before re-
gaining its ancient abode ?
Mechanically she took the ring from the earl's hand.
If this were indeed the very relic, there should be a black
mark upon the inner perimeter of the ring. Upon ex-
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The Secret of the Funeral Crypt
amining it, however, she could discover no stain at all :
the metal band was bright and unsullied.
Was this ring, like the vase, a replica : or was there
truth in the ancient legend that the bloodstain would
vanish when some one should meet with a violent end as
an atonement for the slaying of the Norse herald? Cer-
tain it was that a death had occurred in connection with
the finding of the treasure.
With a bewildered air she handed back the ring to the
earl, who placed it within the coffin beside the vase, and
turned again to his list.
« Article 3. A sapphire drinking-cup. Weight'-
ah! look at this !” he cried, breaking off from his read-
ing in an ecstasy of delight. “Look at it! Handle it !
Admire it! Can the Dresden Gallery produce its like?"
A low and prolonged cry of admiration flowed from
Lorelie's lips. The object handed to her by the earl was
a miniature goblet, the tiny bowl, stem, and stand being
delicately sculptured from one entire sapphire. It was a
work of art, as well as a splendid gem. With the de-
light of a child over a new toy Lorelie raised the gleam-
ing brilliant aloft, placing it between her eye and the
light in order to mark its lovely azure transparency. Its
beauty was such as almost to reconcile her to her lot
with Ivar. To think if she chose, she might in time to
come be the joint-possessor of such a gem!
“ A million of money would not buy that cup,” cried
the earl, watching her look of admiration. “It belonged
originally to the great Caliph, Abderahman the Second,
and was taken by Draco and his Vikings at the sacking
of the Moorish palace at Seville. It vanished from hu-
man ken, and has lain hidden in a night of ten centuries.
The lapidaries of the present age scoff at its description
in history, believing the gem to be the creation of Ara-
bian fancy: but here it is, existing to-day, to confute
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The Viking's Skull
“ Drink, my lord,” she said smiling, and recalling his
own words, "• 'Tis of a choice vintage, one of the rarest
of the Madeiras.'”
But from that cup the earl recoiled as from the sum-
mons of Death himself.
“Why, you start as though 'twere poison," laughed
Lorelie. “Will you not drink, Ivar ?" she added, turn-
ing to the viscount and offering him the cup. “What!
and do you, too, shrink from a few drops of innocent
Malvazia ? refuse the honour of drinking from the great
Abderahman's cup? the caliph's own, veritable, genuine,
historic cup! you understand?".
He did — fully. Stepping forward, she said in a fierce
thrilling whisper:-
“How much is your life worth, if I let your father
know that this cup is but a piece of coloured glass ? "
It was not in Lorelie's nature to take pleasure in
another's pain; yet on the present occasion the despair
and fear expressed in Ivar's eyes was a luxury to her, al-
most compensating for his attempt on her life.
“ It was for your sake I did it,” he muttered with white
lips.
Contemptuously turning away from him, she said :-
“Well, then, if neither will drink, I, too, shall refuse.
I will imitate those excellent examples, my husband and
father. Let us be classical and pour out a libation.
Here's to the great Archfiend himself, the author and
giver of the treasure, for Heaven, I am convinced, has
had little to do with it.”
She inverted the cup: but, either by accident or de-
sign, the greater part of the liquid fell in splashes upon
her dress, very few drops reaching the floor.
On reaching her bedroom Lorelie's first care was to
lock the door: her next, to cut from her dress every por-
298


CHAPTER XVIII
A CRANIOLOGICAL EXPERIMENT
IDRIS BREAKSPEAR strolled slowly to and fro
beneath the lime-trees in the garden of Wave Crest,
reading for the twentieth time a letter received by
him the previous evening.
Accompanying the letter was a note worded thus :-
“ The enclosed speaks for itself. Can you ever forgive
me for my seven years' silence ?- LORELIE ROCHEFORT."
The missive forwarded to Idris was her mother's con-
fession relative to the murder of M. Duchesne, a confes-
sion which, it need scarcely be said, overwhelmed Idris
with amazement.
The hope entertained by him during so many long
years was at last realized : it was now within his power
to clear his father's memory; but the knowledge brought
with it as much pain as pleasure, for to establish his
father's innocence was to bring ignominy upon the name
of the woman he loved.
A soft footfall attracted his attention, and raising his
eyes from the letter he saw Lady Walden herself. Sadly
and timidly she stood, obviously in doubt as to the sort
of reception she would meet with. To face the reproach-
ful eyes of Idris was a more trying ordeal than that of
accompanying the earl to the terrible vault.
She was the first to speak.
“You are reading my mother's letter, I perceive. You
know now that it was my father and not yours that mur-
dered Duchesne. I have come," she faltered, “ I have
come to ask, yet scarcely daring to ask, whether you can
reading my
father at the falter
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A Craniological Experiment
forgive me for maintaining silence hitherto. I have
longed to tell you the truth, but have been afraid. Do
not,” she added, breathlessly,“ do not reproach me. You
cannot reproach me more than my own conscience
has.”
The look of sorrow in her eyes instantly effaced from
Idris' mind all resentment for his father's wrongs. The
oath sworn to his mother in childhood's days became for-
gotten.
“ Lady Walden,” he replied, “ if there be anything on
my part to forgive, I freely forgive. I cannot blame you
for seeking to shield your father's name.”
The look of gratitude that came over her face thrilled
Idris, who would gladly have forgiven her ten times as
much for such a glance as she now gave him.
She had expected to be treated with coldness, if not
with anger by Idris, instead of which she received from
him the same tender respect as heretofore. She trembled
with secret pleasure to think that she still held a place
in his regard.
“ And now you know the truth, you will publish it to
the world,” she said.
“I think not,” he replied, speaking slowly and thought-
fully. “No, I am sure I shall not.”
“ You will not redeem your father's memory from
guilt?” said Lorelie, with a little gasp of surprise. «Why
not ?"
“ Because the fair name of Lady Walden must not be
darkened by the shadow of the past.”.
Her eyes drooped. She had no need to ask why he
was desirous of shielding her name from reproach, know-
ing full well that it was from love of her.
“ But this - this is not just,” she said in a low voice.
"To proclaim the truth would injure the living," he
replied, “ without in any way benefiting the dead.”
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A Craniological Experiment
"I do not think you will esteem it much of an honour
when you hear what I have to say. But, first, will you
not read these letters ?”.
Idris, though much surprised by her words, made no
further comment, but turned to the correspondence of
Captain Rochefort.
Lorelie had arranged the letters in chronological order,
and Idris began his perusal, becoming more interested
with each successive missive. When he had finished
reading he looked extremely grave, and said:-
“ The final letters, interpreted by what we know to
have taken place within Ormfell, would almost seem to
suggest — how shall I say it? — that your father was
killed by mine!”
“ That at first was my belief, but I know now it cannot
have been.”
“I trust that you are right. But why cannot it have
been ? "
“ Beatrice in her hypnotic trance recognized the face
of the assassin. But she has never seen either your father
or mine. Therefore we cannot impute the murder to
either of these."
“True!” replied Idris, with a sudden feeling of relief.
“But tell me, Lady Walden, what face did she see, for I
am convinced that you know.”
"If,” she replied evasively, “ if we can discover the
present possessor of the Viking's treasure, we shall obtain
a strong clue to the assassin ?"
“ Undoubtedly.”
“Well, then, the Viking's treasure is at Ravenhall,
concealed in the secret vault.”
And she proceeded to intensify Idris' surprise by re-
lating the incident of her visit to the crypt, saying noth-
ing, however, as to the earl's purpose in taking her
thither.
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The Viking's Skull
“We know the author of the deed, it seems,” he mur-
mured, “ but the identity of the victim still remains a
mystery. Who was he?".
“ That is a problem I am trying to solve.”
“And you say the Viking's treasure is in the crypt of
Ravenhall? What is Lord Ormsby's object in keeping
it concealed ?”
“I can but guess. Treasure-trove, as you know, is
the property of the Crown: therefore the earl, on finding
it, was compelled to act circumspectly. The sudden
acquisition of a vast quantity of plate and jewels might
have given rise to awkward questions on the part of the
steward, and especially on the part of Lanfranc, the Raven-
hall solicitor, a man somewhat given to suspicion. The
earl was therefore obliged to secrete his ill-acquired
wealth : and this he did by placing it within one of the
coffins in the crypt, gratifying his avarice by occasional
visits of inspection. That is my theory, but of course I
may be wrong.”
“ Mortifying that he should have to secrete it,” re-
marked Idris, “ when if the story of the runic ring be
true, the wealth is his by hereditary right, as the eldest
lineal descendant of Orm the Viking."
" Mr. Breakspear, your right to that treasure is greater
than the earl's."
Idris was disposed to think so, too, in virtue of the
long years he had spent in his attempts to decipher the
runic ring. But this was not what Lorelie meant.
“ Did you not notice what my father says in one of
these letters, that Eric Marville claimed to be heir to a
peerage ?"
“It did not escape me. A surprising statement, if true.”
“ And the interest taken by your father in the runic
ring, the heirloom of the Ravengars, proves his peerage
to have been the Earldom of Ormsby."
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The Viking's Skull
“I am glad,” he continued,“ to have this opportunity
of saying good-bye, Lady Walden, for I leave England
soon, probably forever.”
Lorelie received this news with dismay. Whether the
feeling of pleasure derivable from Idris' friendship was a
right or a wrong feeling she had never stopped to in-
quire, but it was a pleasure, and a sense of desolation
fell upon her on hearing that she was to enjoy it no
longer.
“ A friend of mine has received a secret commission
from the Indian Government to explore Tibet, the tour
to include the forbidden city of Lassa. I have agreed to
accompany him.”
Lorelie was not ignorant of the perils attending such
an enterprise.
“ You will never return,” she cried.
“So much the better,” he answered quietly.
She glanced at him for a moment, and then her eyes
fell, for she understood him. Involuntarily her mind was
led to contrast the husband, who had sought to take her
life, with Idris, so anxious to keep her name fair before
the world : Idris, whose love was such that he was will-
ing to sacrifice everything — even his life — for her sake!
She could not hide the tears glistening beneath her
lashes. The situation was a trying one for both, but
fortunately at this moment a third person appeared on
the scene.
Beatrice emerged from the garden-porch, and Lorelie,
averting her head, essayed to remove the traces of tears
from her eyes.
Beatrice gave her visitor a glad greeting, but there was
a subdued air about her, due, as Lorelie knew, to sorrow
at the thought of Idris' departure.
“Has Mr. Breakspear told you that he is going to
leave us ? ” she asked, and receiving an affirmative, she
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A Craniological Experiment
continued mournfully :—“As this is perhaps the last
time we shall be together you must stay with us as long
as you can. We are just about to have luncheon. Will
you not join us ?"
Lorelie readily assented, and went up-stairs with Bea-
trice to remove her hat and mantle.
“ You are not looking very well, Lady Walden.”
“No, Beatrice. And I shall never be well again.”
Something in her tone went to Beatrice's heart: she
guessed that Lorelie's unhappiness arose from Ivar's ill-
treatment of her.
The beautiful face was suffused by an expression so
miserable that Beatrice, the maiden of eighteen, in-
voluntarily drew the married woman of twenty-three
within her arms and kissed her consolingly, as though
the viscountess were a little child. And Lorelie, glad of
such sympathy, clung to Beatrice's embrace.
“ Beatrice," she said presently, “if you should hear
that I have slipped from a battlement on the roof of
Ravenhall and dislocated my neck, or that I have lost
my life by falling into the lake in the park, remember
that this event will not have happened by accident.”
“ What do you mean?" gasped Beatrice, thinking that
Lorelie was contemplating suicide.
“Let your brother say whether I am wrong. Did he
analyze the contents of the phial that I sent him ?”
“ He said that the water contained — I forget how
many grains of strychnine,” replied Beatrice, inno-
cently.
“ Then I was right,” said Lorelie, with a face as white
as death. “O, Beatrice, the earl and Ivar tried to poison
me!”
“Lady Walden, how dare you say that?” said Bea-
trice, with a burst of indignation.
It was against Ravengars that Lorelie's charge was
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The Viking's Skull
made, and Beatrice suddenly remembered that she her-
self was a Ravengar. Bad as Ivar might be she could
not believe him capable of murder : and as for the earl,
had he not always treated her with kindness ?
But when Lorelie began to relate the incident of her
visit to the crypt, Beatrice's scepticism slowly vanished,
and she listened with a growing horror upon her face.
And when the story was ended, she sat cold and trem-
bling, unable at first to speak.
“ Are they aware that you suspected their design ?"
she asked.
“I do not think so. I continue to speak and act as if
I have every confidence in them.”
“ How can you bear to live with them? What they
have attempted once they may attempt again. How can
you trust yourself at the same table with them ?”
“ By eating of the dishes of which they eat; they are
not likely to poison themselves. I must remain at
Ravenhall till I have accomplished my task.”
“ And what is that?”
“To obtain proofs of Mr. Breakspear's right to the
earldom : for, Beatrice, I have reasons for believing that
he is the rightful Earl of Ormsby."
And Lorelie proceeded to repeat the arguments she
had addressed to Idris, with some others in addition.
“Have you told Mr. Breakspear this ?” said Beatrice,
breathless with excitement.
“ Yes, and he refuses to move in the matter.”
“But we will make him,” cried Beatrice, impulsively.
“ We will persuade him to give up this mad journey to
Tibet. Lady Walden -
“ Do not recall my unhappiness by using that name:
besides it is not justly mine. Call me Lorelie.”
“ Lorelie, then. I will come to Ravenhall and live
there with you."
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A Craniological Experiment
Lorelie's smile was like sunlight sweeping over a dark
landscape.
“ If anything could make me happy it would be your
daily companionship, dearest Beatrice.”
“ It is not safe for you to live alone at Ravenhall,”
continued Beatrice. "I will return with you to keep
watch and ward over you. Together we will work and
make what discoveries we can. If Idris really be the
owner of Ravenhall we will do our best to establish him
in his rights.”
The light of justice shone from Beatrice's eyes. There
should be a righting of the wrong. Since the earl and
Ivar had not hesitated at murder, let them suffer the
punishment due to their guilt by losing their rank and
estates.
“ And when that is done,” said Lorelie," it will be for
me to retire to a convent, and for Idris to place a coronet
on these tresses,” she added, touching Beatrice's hair.
“Ah, no!” replied Beatrice, sadly. “He will not
marry me. Idris never loved any one but you. It is
impossible for him to have you, yet he will never love
any one else.”
Lorelie was touched to the quick by Beatrice's look of
distress. She felt that if she herself had not appeared
upon the scene, Beatrice might now be happy in the love
of Idris.
“Beatrice, believe me, I would gladly die if my death
would enable you to gain his love."
Beatrice did not doubt the sincerity of this assurance.
Brave-hearted and generous the little maiden harboured
no resentment against her rival.
“ He will come to you some day," said Lorelie, kissing
the other tenderly. “He has been with you long enough
to know your worth. He will find a want of something
in his life when he is away from you. He will begin to
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The Viking's Skull
“ Amativeness,” said the doctor, placing his finger-tips
beneath Idris' ears, while Beatrice laughingly wrote the
word.
“ You begin alphabetically, do you?” remarked Idris.
“ Amativeness: that, being interpreted, meaneth love -
of — of the ladies generally. That organ is very large,
of course ?"
"No. Fairly large."
“O, come, you must be making a mistake. Feel
again! It's a libel to limit my amatory sentiment to
• fairly large' only.”
“ I put it down as seven,” replied Godfrey.
“What's the highest figure to which you ascend?”
“ Nine — in my system.”
“ And I do not attain the top figure? Can't you make
it eight, or at least seven and three-quarters ?".
“ The pupil must not dictate to the master,” said
Beatrice.
“Combativeness,” Godfrey went on, his fingers ascend-
ing slightly.
"Combativeness,” repeated Idris : “readiness to fight
for for the ladies. Don't say that isn't large.”
" It is. Very large indeed.”
“Good! There may be some truth in phrenology
after all. Put combativeness' down as nine, Miss
Ravengar. Go on, Godfrey! Next item, please!”
So amid Idris' badinage Godfrey proceeded with his
statements, all of which Beatrice laughingly wrote down.
Presently a grave expression stole over Godfrey's face,
and before he had ended his task the expression had be-
come one of doubt and perplexity. Both Lorelie and
Beatrice noticed it. Idris, however, was precluded by
his position from seeing Godfrey's look.
“Well, now, this is very pleasant reading," said Idris
banteringly, receiving his pocketbook from Beatrice, and
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A Craniological Experiment
He was quite right in his opinion that the Viking's tomb
would contain a clue towards solving his father's fate, for
it is my firm belief that the skull in that cabinet is none
other than the skull of Eric Marville !”
317


CHAPTER XIX
THE VENGEANCE OF THE SKULL
| ISCOUNT WALDEN'S twenty-first birthday
was drawing near, and Ravenhall was making
grand preparations for the occasion. Invitations
were issued to the local magnates and their families —
invitations eagerly accepted, for everybody was curious
to see both the earl, who had so long secluded himself
from society, and the new viscountess, whose secret mar-
riage had invested her with a romantic interest. Enter-
tainment of various kinds was provided, for the earl's
guests, as well as for the tenantry of his estates, the day
to terminate in a grand ball, preceded by the performance
of a poetic drama, written by Lady Walden, and entitled
The Fatal Skull, a drama in which the authoress herself
was to take the leading role. The other dramatis persona
were drawn from a select circle of Ormsby society, and
their frequent rehearsals filled Ravenhall with a mirth
and a gaiety not known in that gloomy mansion for
many years. Lorelie took upon herself the office of
stage-directress, and flung herself heart and soul into the
work. She was ably seconded by Beatrice Ravengar,
who, to the surprise of everybody in Ormsby, had left
her brother Godfrey in order to be the companion of the
new viscountess. A number of carpenters and scene-
shifters from London had transformed the great hall of
the castle into a suitable stage and auditorium. Scenic
artists were busy at the canvas. Money was freely lav-
ished upon the appropriate theatrical costumes. A lead-
ing society-paper had asked for, and had obtained, the
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The Viking's Skull
she cast a significant glance at Beatrice, who was seldom
absent from her side that day. To those who noted the
smile it recurred with peculiar force upon the morrow.
• With the coming of twilight Beatrice stole away from
the company to a private portion of the park, taking her
course towards a little gateway in the western wall.
Near this gate was a wooden bench, and seating herself
upon it she drew forth a telegram and glanced at the
message it contained, which was singularly brief :-
“ Will be at the place appointed by seven o'clock.”
The sender of this telegram was punctual to the
minute. St. Oswald's Church clock was chiming the hour
when there came a knocking at the wicket-gate. In-
stantly unlocking it Beatrice threw it open, and stood face
to face with Idris Breakspear.
She greeted him with an air which Idris intuitively felt
to be a foreboding of grave things.
“On the point of sailing for India,” he observed, “ I
received a letter from Miss Ravengar bidding me return
at once to Ormsby. Such a message cannot be ignored,
and therefore I am here. And the question is, · Why am
I here?'"
"I have not sent for you without cause. It is your
duty to follow me, to ask no questions, but to await de-
velopments.”
“And where are you taking me?” he asked, as she
locked the gate.
“ There!” exclaimed Beatrice, appealing to an imagi-
nary audience. “His first utterance is a defiance of my
orders. However, I will answer that question. You are
coming with me to Ravenhall.”
Impressed by the oddity of her manner Idris made
no demur but offered his arm and accepted her
guidance.
Their way led by a private path amid dense shrubbery:
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The Vengeance of the Skull
now and again through a long-drawn vista in the trees
Idris caught a glimpse of the more distant portions of the
park.
The dusk of a lovely summer's eve was descending
upon the lordly terraces and verdant lawns of Ravenhall.
Mellowed by the distance the music of a regimental band
floated on the air. Al fresco dancing was taking place
beside the margin of a grey-gleaming lake. Above was
a sky of darkest blue: below, the myriad lanterns shining
amid the dark foliage made the park appear like a scene
from fairyland.
Idris contemplated the picture with mixed feelings.
If — and it was a very great “ if,” he admitted — Lorelie
was right in asserting that he himself was the true Earl of
Ormsby, then all this fair estate was really his. Well, he
had resigned his claim in favour of Lorelie, and would
not go from his word. But not till this moment did he
fully realize the extent of the sacrifice.
"It is a gala day, I perceive,” he remarked. “I
learned on my way from the station that Lord Walden
has attained his majority. He has a splendid estate in
futuro. He ought to be a proud man to-day.”
“He is proud, ignorant that, like Agamemnon, he is
treading on purple to his doom."
Idris was surprised at these words, surprised still more
by the bitterness with which Beatrice emphasized them.
What did this speech portend ?
“You have been living at Ravenhall for the past two
months, I understand ?” he remarked, for want of some-
thing better to say.
“Yes, as Lorelie's companion. This is our last day
here. Lorelie and I take our departure to-night.”
Idris was more mystified than ever. Beatrice smiled
as if enjoying his perplexity.
They had now reached the western wing of the man-
21
321


The Vengeance of the Skull
on an elevated balcony that projected into, and looked
down upon, a grand Gothic hall, brilliantly illuminated
with electric light.
Under the manipulation of carpenters and upholsterers
the place had assumed a somewhat theatre-like aspect.
The southern end of the hall was appropriated to the
stage, which for the time being was hidden from view by
the folds of a heavy curtain. The pavement of the body
of the hall was covered with velvet carpeting. Fauteuils,
lounges, seats of every description, were disposed here
and there : and these were now becoming occupied by a
number of fashionably-dressed ladies and gentlemen, the
time fixed for the beginning of the performance being
close at hand.
" I daresay,” said Beatrice,“ you are wondering whether
it is reasonable on the part of Lorelie and myself to stop
your voyage and to summon you here merely to witness
a play? The sequel will show. It is something more
than a play that you are asked to witness : it is an ex-
periment. If Lorelie were to choose a motto for her
drama it would be the words of Hamlet :-
«• The play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.'”
“I am altogether in the dark,” said her companion,
lugubriously.
“ Be patient, Cousin Idris, and you shall have light
anon.”
“ Cousin Idris again! Come, if we really are cousins,
I shall exercise a cousin's privilege.”
So saying he stole his arm around her, and turned her
pretty face upward to his own. And Beatrice, unable to
escape, submitted her lips to his, laughing, yet feeling
more disposed to cry, knowing full well that there was
another whom he would much rather have kissed.
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The Vengeance of the Skull
With a half-smile upon her lip Rosamond listened
while her father Cunimund briefly explained the purpose
for which she had been summoned. Then, standing
erect with girlish grace Rosamond pleaded, in sweet and
maidenly language, not to be given up to the will of a
king well known for his savage character. There was
something so pathetic and touching in her appeal as she
stood alone facing the rough warriors, that tears rose to
the eyes of many ladies in the audience. It seemed not
to be acting, but nature itself.
Tumultuous shouts from the Gepid warriors applauded
Rosamond's decision, and the curtain descended upon an
exciting tableau — the running to and fro of men, the
buckling on of armour, and the giving of orders for the
coming fray.
On turning to ascertain Idris' opinion of the first act
Beatrice found him with a look of perplexity on his
face.
“ The earl! The earl !” he murmured. “Am I
dreaming, or have I seen him before? His attitude in
raising his hand to his brow recalls a gesture on the part
of some one I have known in far-off times. In his voice,
too, there is something familiar : it is like the echo of
one heard in my childhood.”
Beatrice gave a faint cry of surprise.
“ Lorelie was right, then, in her conjecture," she said.
“ Yes : Cousin Idris, you have seen the earl before under
very different circumstances from the present. Patience!
you shall learn where ere long.”
Quickly the curtain rose upon the second act.
The scene represented the interior of a church by
night. Lamps gleaming from lofty columns shed a sol-
emn light around.
Rosamond was present with her maidens and a few
armed attendants. Their words showed that the Gepid
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The Viking's Skull
Gothic hall in which the audience sat formed the wings
and rear of the stage scenery, thus producing an effect
more realistic than could have been attained by painted
canvas. A spacious and splendid arched casement facing
the audience made a part of this refectory; the scene had
been purposely timed with regard to the moon's course,
and it was no mock planet, but the real silver orb of
night that shone through the panes of stained glass from
a sky of darkest blue. The moonlight without con-
trasted curiously with the glow cast by the lamps pendent
from the vaulted roof of the supposed banqueting hall.
A feast was taking place, given by King Alboin to
celebrate his victory over Cunimund. Historically speak-
ing, the memorable and fatal banquet with which the
name of Rosamond is associated, happened several years
after the defeat of the Gepid king, but for the sake of
dramatic effect Lorelie had represented it as the immedi-
ate consequence of that defeat.
Robed in purple, and with a jewelled diadem upon his
head, sat Alboin, and beside him, and now his chief
counsellor, the traitor-bishop Paulinus, whose episcopal
attire was stiff with brocade and gems. Disposed along
the board with picturesque effect were the Lombard chiefs
and warriors, all arrayed in gleaming mail.
The royal table glittered with a profusion of plate.
The shelves of a carved oaken sideboard were filled with
a variety of golden and silver vessels. The stage twin-
kled with so many dazzling points of light that it became
hurtful to gaze too long upon it. All the Ravengar
heirlooms were being paraded in this banqueting-scene,
probably to impress the visitors with the extent of the
Ravengar wealth.
“ Are those jewels, and is that plate real ?" muttered
Idris, examining them through a lorgnette.
“ All genuine, and not stage-property. I was once
330



ζυγό
(


The Vengeance of the Skull
stage, the lights, the audience, all were gone. He found
himself again in that quiet twilight chamber at Quilaix ;
again he saw the sad eyes, the pale face of the woman
from whom he had taken the ring : again her solemn ut-
terance sounded in his ears :-“If it should bring upon
you the curse which it has brought upon me and mine,
you will live to rue this day.”
The voice of Lorelie speaking again, roused him from
his reverie.
“ By this hoarded treasure, gained at the price of blood,
I adjure you, speak!. Whose skull is this ? "
Mechanically his eyes wandered over the festal-board
with its array of plate and jewels. The splendid parade
of wealth made his present position only the more
ghastly. Like a spectre from the tomb Nemesis arose
to mock him amid the very riches which his guilt had
purchased.
A silence had fallen both upon actors and audience.
They had begun to catch a glimpse of the true meaning
of this strange tableau. As motionless as statues they
sat : they scarcely breathed : it would have required an
earthquake or the conflagration of the hall itself to have
moved them.
In silent despair the earl looked around upon the array
of still faces set with earnest attention upon him, and
then he turned again to the skull. All lifeless as it was,
it was victor over him to-day. It seemed to be grinning
at him in conscious mockery. Powerless itself to speak
it had found a mouthpiece, an avenger, in the person of
Lorelie.
Why had he allowed this woman to leave the secret
vault, where her life had been in his hands? He might
have known that she would never rest till she had
avenged herself upon him.
He looked into the depth of her dark blue eyes —
22
337


The Viking's Skull
Mit taken the runic ring from his wife. He threatened
u sert his claim to the earldom, and so I struck him
own with a stiletto hair-pin, the only weapon I had
un ne it the time."
now jiu vou dispose of the body?”.
Let I. covered with quicklime, in Ormfell, so that,
l e discovered, it might be taken for the remains of
SIT cat vartior."
ur rutier have any children?".
L'.
TYS course, the rightful earl of Ormsby. By
***
I me sis son known?”
reauer."
**ut tenere questions. She had discovered
Light had been cast on dark places
the invecer. She had made her atonement to
um V iaudcant glance at the balcony where
the swee and, and at that signal the curtain
reducience tad time to exchange re-
: 1
un beard, proceeding from
L
il
tuo
•
.
N
via S i r?" e cried, in wild staccato
e sinyeit... of mur-
ce -and yours ...
Gentemen, I am not
7 ml termes - - - This
ze szpactzer . . .
no Y . Tale ce say ...
LX -- Fav no beed to
V
vai
on .
in
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i
t
wegeing, fol-
IR MURIT E
TWEIT LIS aspeared


The Vengeance of the Skull
at the side of the stage-curtain and beckoned to Godfrey,
who, his part having ceased with the first act, had taken
his place amongst the audience. The surgeon passed
behind the curtain, then quickly reappeared.
“Get the company away as quickly as can be man-
aged,” he whispered to the steward of Ravenhall, “ the
earl is dead!”
343


The Vengeance of the Skull
at the side of the stage-curtain and beckoned to Godfrey,
who, his part having ceased with the first act, had taken
his place amongst the audience. The surgeon passed
behind the curtain, then quickly reappeared.
“Get the company away as quickly as can be man-
aged,” he whispered to the steward of Ravenhall, “ the
earl is dead !”
343


CHAPTER XX
FINALE
\HE earl dead!” murmured Beatrice in a tone
of awe. “Death! That was no part of Lore-
lie's design.” And, after a brief pause, she
added, “ It is the judgment of God.”
Awe-struck by the terrible ending of the play the
whispering guests began a hurried departure. Idris,
however, at Godfrey's suggestion, remained behind.
The body of Olave Ravengar, un-lawful Earl of
Ormsby, was carried to the chamber usually assigned to
the lying-in-state of the dead lords of Ravenhall.
Having attended to this duty Ivar, passing through
the entrance-hall, suddenly caught sight of Idris in con-
versation with Godfrey.
For a moment he stared superciliously at his rival.
“Impostor!” he muttered, with affected indignation.
“ John! Roger!” he continued, addressing two tall
footmen who stood near, “put this fellow outside the
park gates.”
“ Perhaps," said Godfrey, quietly, “ as your title is at
present in question, it will be well to wait till it be legally
ascertained whether you have the right to give orders
here.”
Ivar scowled, first at the speaker, then at the throng
of mute and immovable servants, who showed little dis-
position to acknowledge his authority.
"His mind reverted to Lorelie, the author of this, his
downfall: had she chosen to keep his secret he might
have retained his usurped rank. She should suffer for
344


Finale
this: she at least was his, if Ravenhall were not, and he
would exercise his authority by applying a horsewhip to
her shoulders. It would be a pleasure to hear her
screams! Yes: he would do it, though his father were
lying dead in the house. There was an additional pleas-
ure in the thought that by subjecting Lorelie to indignity
and humiliation he would be mortifying Idris.
“Where is Lady Walden ?” he demanded, turning
upon one of the servants. “I must,” he continued,
with an ugly smile at Idris, “I must have a word with
her."
“Your wife — she repudiates the title of Lady Walden
- is now at Wave Crest,” replied Godfrey. “I am de-
sired by her to state that you will never see her again.”
“ Indeed ? " sneered Ivar, haughtily. “She shall re-
turn. A wife's place is by her husband's side.”
“That sentiment comes with an ill grace from an
adulterer who once offered his wife poison to drink,” re-
sponded Godfrey.
Ivar grew white to the very lips.
“What do you mean?” he muttered. “O, I see !
Some wild accusation of Lorelie's. Honourable gentle-
men, ye are!” he continued, with an assumption of dig-
nity that sat somewhat awkwardly upon him. “Honour-
able gentlemen, to corrupt a wife, and use her as a tool
against her husband! This stage-play of to-night, this
hypnotizing of my father's mind, this forcing him to utter
whatever you wish, has been very finely arranged on the
part of you all. It is a plot to deprive me of my rights.
You shall hear what my solicitor has to say on the matter.
It is one thing to claim an estate, and another to make
good the claim.”
" Quite so," replied Godfrey, who acted as spokesman
for Idris, since the latter was too much bewildered by
the novelty and strangeness of his position to say any-
345


A Stirring Tale of the Plains
THE RAINBOW CHASERS
By JOHN H. WHITSON
Author of "Barbara, A Woman of the West,” etc.
Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50
Full of the atmosphere of the West, with a cowboy,
land speculator, and lover for its hero, Mr. Whitson's new
novel, without being in the least a copy, has many of the
attractions of Mr. Wister's hero, “The Virginian."
“The Rainbow Chasers " is a virile American novel and
treats of the elemental forces of Western life and the re-
sults of the great fever of speculation in land. The prairies
and forests of the West are the scenes which the author
has chosen for a novel which is full of interest and strength.
The characters of the story are vigorous men, men with
red blood in their veins, men of action who build up new
communities.
A New Romance by the Author of "The Shadow of the Czar”
THE VIKING’S SKULL
By JOHN R. CARLING, author of "The Shadow of the Czar,"
etc. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50
Mr. Carling has written a spirited story of love and
adventure, with an ingeniously constructed plot, which
tells how Idris Marville, true Earl of Ormsby, recovered a
treasure hidden by one of his progenitors,- a Viking of
the Ninth Century,- and how he cleared the memory of
his father, who had been wrongfully convicted of murder.
There are many powerful scenes in the book and abundant
love interest. The whole story is exceptionally strong,
dramatic, vivid, and interest-compelling.
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS
BOSTON, MASS.


The Story of an American Woman's Summer Abroad
A WOMAN'S WILL
By ANNE WARNER. Illustrated 12mo. $1.50
A brilliant and entertaining love-story is this, narrated
almost wholly in dialogue, the hero being a German of
rank, and a famous violin player and composer, and the
heroine, an American widow, whose marriage had been an
unhappy one. The charm of the story is in the skilfully
drawn characters, the bright dialogue, and the realistic
painting of the scenes in which the events take place,
Munich, Zurich, and Lucerne.
A Tale of Norway in the Tenth Century
THE NORTH STAR
By M. E. HENRY-RUFFIN. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50
This Viking romance is a tale of love and adventure
with King Olaf Tryggveson for the hero. The story opens
with a scene at a fair in Ireland, where Olaf meets a beau-
tiful Irish princess, and later changes to Norway, where
Olaf returns to be received as King. Such history and
legend as have come to us of that time furnish fertile imag-
ination a frame for stirring incident and rapid action.
By the Author of “The God of Things"
THE EFFENDI
By FLORENCE BROOKS WHITEHOUSE. With
illustrations 12mo. $1.50
The Prologue of this engrossing romance of the Soudan
deals with the siege of Khartoum and the death of the
hero, Gordon, and the Epilogue with the retribution which
England exacted from the Arab hordes. Between the two
is placed a dramatic story of love and adventure.
LITTLE, BROWN, E CO., PUBLISHERS
BOSTON, MASS.